A White Room (29 page)

“That isn’t very fair.” I reached for my tea.

“It doesn’t matter. If they think the food, conversation, servants or anything isn’t perfect, they will think of it as a reflection of what could go wrong professionally.”

I brought down the cup and let the bittersweet taste sit on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. “That’s silly.” I put my tea down.

“Emeline?” He reached out and touched my arm. “Trust me.”

I looked at his hand. “All right.”

“That means nothing like what happened at the Ripprings.”

I stiffened. “That was an accident.”

“Everything has to be perfect.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and wondered if he noticed I wasn’t acknowledging these little gestures of affection. I wondered if it bothered him. I hoped he longed for me to touch him back just as I had. I hoped every time I didn’t, it made him crave it even more.

“Oh. Did you move that bottle of scotch we got for a wedding present? I’d like to offer it to the men before the dinner, but I didn’t see it in the liquor cabinet.”

I inhaled, remembering the bottle slipping from Mr. Turner’s drunken grip and pouring onto the basement floor. “I thought it wasn’t good.”

“I don’t care for it myself, but it’s a very fine bottle.”

My heart raced. “I’ll search for it in the morning.”

The missing scotch was an omen—this dinner could go bad quickly because John’s professional image relied on dutiful service of the wife, not him, and I was faking it. I could fool John, but a houseful of Labellum’s finest scrutinizers? The house had been hungry for something to hold against me, and this would be a prime occasion. It made me wonder how long I could survive beyond the white.

A sharp twinge of pain shot through my finger. “Ouch.” I had pricked myself with the needle. I observed the spot of blood and then looked up at John, who hadn’t noticed. I quietly put my finger in my mouth. The shadows danced faster and shook.

Twenty-Five

August 1901

E
thel Hughmen sighed in relief when I told her I could embellish her pay and cover the doctor’s fee if she served at our dinner party. Dr. Benedict Bradbridge required a deposit to make a first-time appointment, but the bank had refused Ethel a loan. Her mistress had agreed to provide her an advance but at an interest rate Ethel could never repay. First-time appointments had to be scheduled at least a week in advance, so I gave her enough medicine to ease her husband’s pain and itching until the doctor could provide something stronger.

When I returned to the surrey, Lottie handed me a piece of paper with instructions on it and said a woman had requested I visit her alone. While I was visiting the Hughmens, Lottie had gone to speak with a couple of the people who gave her information when someone needed my assistance. We had Mr. Buck take us to the butcher, where Lottie went in to continue our errands, but I slipped away to find the house, which was nearby. I didn’t have to walk far, but when I arrived at the middle-class home, I stopped to double-check the instructions, written in Lottie’s curly hand. It said I was at the right place. It didn’t make sense. The numbers matched. I was feeling invincible at that moment and decided to approach and ask if anyone had called for a Mrs. Freeman. I scaled the small steps and rapped on the door. I waited a minute or so until it opened.

Mrs. Josephine Doyle, a woman from the committee, opened the door. “Mrs. Dorr?”

I stiffened and my breath caught in my throat. “Uh, good day, Mrs. Doyle.” I didn’t know what to do next. I almost certainly had come to the wrong house and couldn’t ask if she had requested a Mrs. Freeman. I’d had no idea that she was accepting calls on this day and had no excuse for standing there, stiff and strange, on her doorstep.

She scratched her left arm through her long-sleeve dress. “How can I help you, Mrs. Dorr?”

“I’m sorry. I—” Half of my body wanted to run. “I—did you call—um…”

“Pardon?” She reached under her high collar to scratch the back of her neck. Her face was flushed, her mouth open and her eyes fluttering.

“I’m not sure if today is…” I watched her hand jump to her hip to scratch and realized that her eyes were pink. “Mrs. Doyle, are you all right?”

Her cheeks grew a deep red, and her lips trembled into a frown. “I—I don’t know. I’m—I—” A tear streamed down her cheek.

“May I come in?”

She moved aside so I could step in and shut the door behind me.

She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. I took her into a tight embrace. I could feel her tears moisten my shoulder. “Mrs. Doyle, what has happened?”

She pulled away and scratched all over rapidly. “I’m having…a problem.” Her face scrunched up and her frown deepened as she uttered a deep frustrated cry. “I don’t know.”

I couldn’t reveal myself, not yet, not when it was a women this close to the committee. This could still have been some kind of amazing coincidence. “Why haven’t you called a physician?” I held out my hands as if to catch her.

She shrank to the floor and landed in a kneeling position. “I’ve been itching and itching, and I can’t stop it. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

I crouched down. “I should call Dr. Bradbridge.”

“No!”

“Why?”

She panted. “I—I—” She started hyperventilating.

“Mrs. Doyle?” I forced eye contact. “I want you to take a deep breath, as big as you can.”

She inhaled deeply and then choked and coughed, her dark chocolate-colored hair unfurling.

“Again.”

She struggled to fill her lungs and wheezed. It wasn’t working.

“Mrs. Doyle, forgive me, we need to remove your corset. Are your servants at home?”

She shook her head. Her face puffed up and grew bright red. She wasn’t suffocating, but she was certainly panicking.

“Your husband?”

She shook her head. Like me, she was recently married and without children.

Florence had once calmly and carefully removed my shirtwaist and corset after I fainted from a heated moment with my mother. Florence had been extremely respectful, removing only enough to reveal my back rather than expose my entire body to the open air. I decided that the same respect would be appropriate for Mrs. Doyle. I scooted to her back and quickly undid the line of buttons from her neck down. I opened her shirtwaist, loosened her laces, and pulled open the corset from the back. As I removed the clothing from her, I spotted a sea of little red bumps, like little blisters. From my book on advanced home remedies, I recognized them as hives.

“Breathe deeply.” We sat on the floor for several minutes breathing together. When her breath returned to normal, I asked why she hadn’t sent for someone.

“I did.”

“Dr. Bradbridge?”

She shook her head and gulped.

“Why not?”

“I can’t ever call on a Bradbridge again.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

She lifted her head. She was breathing hard but no longer hyperventilating. “I quit the committee. I told Margaret to shove off, and I quit.”

“Really?”

“That woman is a slave driver.”

“Really?” I was questioning not Margaret’s character but the idea of Mrs. Doyle yelling at her.

“When she and Ida started these committees, the townswomen thought they’d be fun, but that witch screams and pushes us till our fingers bleed. Then she keeps on pushing.” She paused and then continued in a lower voice. “And all so she and her little friends can be the social queens of Labellum.”

“Did you say that to her?”

“Something to that effect.”

“What did she say?”

“She said I was a piss-poor quilter…” She still had to focus to breathe. “Humiliated me in front of the entire group and told me”—another deep breath—“if I didn’t like it to get out.”

“What did you say?”

“I stormed out. Said I quit, shove off!”

“You should have—” I stopped. I couldn’t imagine doing as much as she had.

“A few other women were nodding.” She perked up. “You know, a lot have stopped attending.”

“Really?”

“You know Mrs. Grace and Mrs. Williams? They stopped going. Plus a few others. We’re thinking about—I don’t know…”

“Yes?”

“Overthrowing her majesty.”

“How?”

“We are hoping to get the committee women to come together and call for a vote. If the majority agreed, then what could she do?”

“Margaret said something about this. I think…she might be afraid.”

“Is that so?” she wheezed and slapped her hand on the floor. “Well then, you see I can’t call on a Bradbridge after that.”

“Are you sure? Dr. Walter Bradbridge seems…” I hesitated.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t know whether to be a doctor or a Bradbridge.”

At that I realized she had pretty much fully recuperated from her fit, but I still needed to handle the rash. “Where else do you have hives?”

“You know what they are?”

“I do.”

“I thought it must be poison oak, but I had a tincture from when Mr. Doyle had it last month, and it didn’t work.” She looked down and then back up. “Have you had this before?”

“No. I’m just…” I smiled gravely. “I’m Mrs. Freeman.”

She laughed. “I thought
I
was in trouble.”

Twenty-Six

September, 1901

“H
ow did you get here?” I asked when Lottie appeared at my door on one of the days she and her husband were scheduled to work as field laborers.

“One of the gals that works with us had a friend lookin’ for Mrs. Freeman. He gave her this.” She handed me an envelope.

I started to open it.

“It had money for a driver, so I used it to get here and now I gotta get back.”

“Money?” The type of people who contacted me weren’t the type to have money to pay for a driver.

She shrugged. “Ain’t got a clue. The letter say use the money and get to the address quick. My friend say it’s about a lady ganna lose a baby.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t go. I gotta get back and I used all that money to get here.”

“No, it’s all right. Mr. Buck is in the stables. I’ll have him take you back, and I’ll visit this woman straight away. After our encounter, I’ve been reading about these things.” I ran around the house and grabbed my bag and several books with sections on the growing field of gynecology and obstetrics and then had Mr. Buck return Lottie and take me to the designated location. I told him Lottie had found a possible servant for the dinner party. The dinner was a wonderful excuse for all kinds of abnormal behavior although I could tell Mr. Buck was growing tired of my suspicious destinations.

I skimmed through the books on the way, reading the most important passages. One of the books explained that to prevent perversion physicians didn’t look while they examined a woman or assisted in childbirth. The book had a drawing of a man on one knee. He appeared to be proposing marriage, except that the woman before him had her arms crossed and glowered at him because, instead of holding out a glistening ring, he had his hand up her skirts. How could they know what they were doing if they didn’t look? I wished a midwife had written such a book, for it would have been far more useful. Midwives had once been the primary aide to childbirth, but licensed doctors had taken their place. I didn’t know much about who was better, but I did know one thing: Midwives looked.

After a bumpy ride to the outskirts of Labellum, we arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned cabin. Mr. Buck’s eyes and shoulders hinted at doubt. He had every reason to be suspicious, given that no proper lady would go to a servant for an interview. He jumped down from the driver’s seat.

“Mr. Buck?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He clasped my hand as I stepped out.

“You can wait here.”

“I should accompany you.”

“I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”

“But Mrs.—”

“Thank you, Mr. Buck.”

He halted.

I walked to the house and knocked. No answer. I knocked again and waited. Still no answer. I waited longer this time.

I went to knock a third time but stopped myself. Instead I tested the knob to see if the door was locked. The door scraped the floor as it opened. Inside, a chair lay on its side and some leaves had built up in a corner of the dark room. I stepped in and the door sneaked back, catching on the floor halfway. The little shack had a couple of windows, but the shutters were closed. Light from the half-open door streaked across the room, and I lingered there holding my bag in front of me.