A Dream to Follow (24 page)

Once they were safely ensconced on the train, Elizabeth took a slender volume from her reticule and, leaning into the corner of the wall and seat, read about the latest findings in delivering infants and caring for postpartum mothers.

“What are you reading?” Annabelle fanned herself with the black silk fan she always carried in the summer. “My, but it is warm.” She patted her upper lip with a handkerchief.

Elizabeth showed her the cover, keeping her place open.

“My word, child, couldn’t you find something more . . . more . . .”

“I could have brought any number of books, Mother, but this is what I want to learn.”

“But . . . but such a topic is not proper for a young woman of your sensibilities. And to be reading it in public like this.” Annabelle looked around as if every eye might be locked on the title of her daughter’s reading material.

Elizabeth glanced around the car. Three businessmen were playing cards at one table. A mother with two small children was reading them a story. Two ladies were conversing in the seats across the aisle from her. One elderly lady looked up from her knitting to smile when she caught Elizabeth’s gaze.

As if they could read the title anyway. She was careful, however, not to let her mother see the diagrams and drawings. Now that would set her off for the entire trip. Perhaps bringing this specific book was not such a good idea after all. With a sigh she closed the offending volume and tucked it back into her reticule for later study.

“Are you happy now, Mother?” Keeping the sarcasm from her voice took a strong act of will or acting skill, she was never sure which.

“Yes, dear.” Annabelle turned back from gazing out the window. “The country surely is dry, is it not?”

Droughts do that
. But Elizabeth kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother had not been out treating farm families, had not been for a ride in the country for some time, as she felt her house and garden took too much time for much gadding about. Due to a good well and the services of the gardener they shared with the neighbors, the gardens were nearly as lovely as ever. Except for the dust on the leaves of shrubs and trees. Only a good rain would wash them clean.

Elizabeth stared out the window, her fingers itching to return to her book. Rather than offending her mother again, she took out a bound journal and pencil, writing down in outline form all she could remember having read. She included her experiences in assisting the doctor in birthings, fitting them into the information from the book. She’d helped in a breech, a stillbirth, and a dozen or so normal deliveries. In one case the mother had died due to excessive bleeding. Of all of them the stillborn was the most difficult, the second, losing the mother.

When her mother opened the basket Cook had prepared, Elizabeth ate without paying much attention, other than giving a vague smile and the requisite thank-you. She dug another book from her reticule, this one on childhood diseases, and only glanced up when her mother pointed out something for her to see.

“Next station: Chicago, Illinois.” The conductor repeated his call as he made his swaying way down the aisle.

Elizabeth closed her book to watch as they rode between three- and four-story brick buildings with washing hanging from lines on pulleys attached to the walls. Broken windows, trash in the handkerchief-sized yards, fences with missing slats, children playing on an empty lot. A woman, heavy bellied like those she’d been reading about, sat on an iron fire escape, her hair hanging in clumps, fanning herself with a folded newspaper.

Elizabeth shivered in spite of the heat. While she knew from reading that many people lived in squalor like she’d just seen, she’d not noticed it on the train to Chicago before. Was it only that because of the heat people were outside, or had she just not looked with eyes that wanted to see? She glanced at her mother. Serene, stylish, and with total absorption, she plied her needle in and out, the burgundy yarn adding to the flower petals on a needlepoint canvas. She’d made needlepoint seats for eight of the twelve chairs in the dining room. Most likely she’d finish another on this trip.

I wonder . . . Surely there are medical facilities for these people. Will that woman have someone help her when her time comes?
Midwives had been around for centuries, in fact only recently had doctors had anything to do with childbirth, believing it a natural occurrence beneath the dignity of a man trained for better things. And besides, seeing a woman in such a state was not really proper.

Elizabeth sighed. The latest information she’d read about hospital births didn’t bode well. More women died of fever there than at home. She’d noted a chapter in her book on home delivery versus hospital, but she hadn’t had time to read it yet.

By the time they arrived at their hotel, Elizabeth had caught a bad case of Columbian World’s Fair fever. No matter that her mother had drilled into her that eavesdropping was improper and unladylike, Elizabeth’s ears burned from the strain of listening in on others’ conversations.

One couple rhapsodized over the Ferris Wheel, he bragging, she simpering. “If only there hadn’t been all those people in the bucket. That fat man nearly crushed me into the corner.”

“But think of all you could see, all of Chicago laid out around us. I’d go again in a minute.”

Two men talked about Little Cairo but dropped their voices when they got to the part about the dancing girls.

Elizabeth was sure her mother would not allow a trek through such sin. Showing female skin was next to murder in her list of proprieties.

A dairy farmer from Wisconsin kept shaking his head as he told his friend about the seven-hundred-pound block of cheese in the Agriculture Building.

Elizabeth gaped at the huge posters along the streets until her mother poked her with an impatient elbow. Wishing she were a little girl again who could get away with such things, Elizabeth bit back a retort that surprised her with its audacity. One did not say to her mother, “Whyever not? There’s so much to see. I don’t care if the whole thing is gaudy or not.” At the same time her fingers ached to find a piano and try out the new music she heard coming from a hotel. Different from any of the classics she played, the music the “hootchy-kootchy” was danced to sure set her toes to tapping.

When her mother insisted they take baths and lie down for a nap before supper, Elizabeth did so, hiding her mutinous spirit with difficulty. The last thing she wanted was to waste her precious freedom on a nap.

Once her mother was breathing the even rhythm of sleep, Elizabeth rose, careful not to let the bed squeak, and tiptoed into the parlor, where she dressed with nary a rustle of her bustle. The mauve upper drape on her skirt of darker burgundy settled with a whisper, the cream fringe swirling into decorous place. With the fitted bodice buttoned, she pinned a wisp of a hat forward so the froth of a veil covered her eyebrows. With a matching parasol to shade her face, she left the room, pausing in the entry. She couldn’t leave without writing a note. Causing her mother undue worry would not bode well for a harmonious vacation.

“Gone for a walk. Will not be far. Back in time for supper.”

The heavy oak door closed behind her with barely a click. The thrill of adventure made her wet her lips and smile a secret smile, almost giving in to skipping down the hall. She was alone in a bustling city with myriad sights to explore, and that without even venturing near to the fair. She stopped at the concierge’s desk and smiled at the whitehaired man in the gold-trimmed burgundy suit.

“Could you tell me please how to find the Morganstein Women’s Hospital?”

“Are you ill, miss?” Ambrose McKnight’s forehead wrinkled in concern.

“No, not at all.” Her tone and gentle laughter smoothed the deeper wrinkles away and brought an answering smile in return.

“Oh, for that I am grateful.” His blue eyes twinkled, and by the fine lines radiating from the edges, she guessed a smile to be his habitual demeanor.

She leaned slightly forward. “Me too. But I am interested in medicine as a career, and this woman is doing so much to help women and the downtrodden. I read about her in a magazine, and since I am here in Chicago, I would love to call on her.” Elizabeth could hardly believe she’d told this man so much. How unlike her. But his smile and nodding head invited confidences. “You must be a wonderful grandfather.” She could already hear her mother scolding her for such audacity, but then her mother would never know of this conversation if there were anything she could do about it. At his deep chuckle, she couldn’t resist joining him.

“Ah, miss, you do not know the half of it. I love my grandbabies, and they love me. Nothing in this world is finer than little ones. God’s gift, for sure.” He drew himself back to the matter at hand with a slight straightening of his shoulders. “And now as to the Morganstein woman. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but that place of hers is not in a very good part of the city. I would not advise a young woman of your, your . . . ah, sensibilities to go there without an escort.” He shook his head, his eyes darkening like a cloud covering the sun. “No, miss, I cannot in all good conscience do that.”

Elizabeth sighed. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as Cook always said. “Do you have any suggestions for me?”
I know I can find the information other ways, but
. . . Determined thoughts took a standoff against more compliant ones that suggested returning to her room until her mother awoke and they went to supper. However, her mother would want tea brought up, and then she’d take a leisurely bath before she dressed.

Elizabeth swallowed an unladylike snort. By then the day would be gone, and she would be deciding whether to have supper at the hotel or go out to a restaurant.

“Well . . .”

Elizabeth stopped her foot in midtap and smiled her most winsome smile instead. And waited.

“We could send someone from the hotel to accompany you. I get the feeling that if I didn’t help you, you’d find a way on your own.”

“You are most perceptive, sir.” Her wren-sized trill of laughter made his smile broaden along with hers.

“Ah, then, that is what we shall do. Wait here.” He indicated a leather winged chair near the desk.

Elizabeth was tempted to take her fan from her reticule but chose instead to use the time to watch people. A silver-haired woman, wearing navy moiré that looked more fit for winter, settled her pince-nez on her rather pointed nose and studied a program laid out on a carved walnut table on which was centered a stunning arrangement of white gladioli and pink cabbage roses. Feeling herself stared at, the woman glanced up, but Elizabeth managed not to be caught gawking, as her mother would say. It was just that the woman had walked to the table as if something were wrong with her leg or hip. It was not exactly a limp, for someone like the grande dame would never limp, but rather a slight favoring. Her eyes wore the taut look of chronic pain, and deep commas bracketed her thin lips.

Now, what else would Dr. Gaskin tell me to look for? Elizabeth closed her eyes, the better to focus on her mentor’s instructions.
“The whole person, Elizabeth, always the whole person.”
With the woman back to her program, Elizabeth noted the shaking hands, a sheen of perspiration on the broad forehead, and the age-rippled upper lip. Of course, warm as it was, everyone’s face shone to a degree, but did pain bring on more?

The woman beckoned to one of the staff, and a young man with the round pillbox hat of a bellhop strode to the woman’s side.

“Ah, I have found just the right escort for you.” The concierge broke Elizabeth’s line of vision and brought her back to the matter at hand. She shook her head the slightest to dislodge the idea that the woman should go with her, that she needed to see a doctor.
But surely she has a physician of her own
, one side of her mind argued against the invasive thought.

“Oh, thank you.”

When the woman turned, the slightest flinch marked her face.

“Mr. Jones will be right with us. Ah, is there something the matter, miss?” He turned to follow her line of vision. “Ah, Mrs. Josephson.” He pronounced the
e
long. “A longtime resident of our hotel and quite a benefactress to Chicago.”

Elizabeth knew better than to ask such a question, but it escaped before she could trap it. “Has she been injured recently?”

The concierge gave her a startled look. “How did you know?”

Elizabeth felt the heat creeping up her neck. “I . . . I observed her favoring her right side.”

The concierge nodded, his mouth pursed, his eyes studying her. “And you want to go call on Dr. Morganstein? I see.”

Elizabeth felt like a bug stared at by three small boys about to poke it with a stick. “My mother is always after me for staring.”

“Methinks you have a gift, young lady, a God-given one that should be nurtured.” He thought a moment. “Would you like to meet her?”

No, I want to go to the women’s hospital. Yes, I want to meet her
. “If it wouldn’t be any bother.”

“None at all on my part. Let me go speak with her.”