A White Room (35 page)

“Indeed.”

“I’ll give you a full tour tomorrow.”

“Splendid.”

We scaled the narrow stairway like cattle herded through a death hall.

“Does this thing end?” James chuckled.

John hooted and Carmine attempted a polite laugh but produced an uncomfortable squeak. I held my breath.

We reached the top. “All right. We have four spare rooms,” John said. “Our chamber is there at the end. You choose whichever you like.”

James went to the first room on the left, the room where I had seen the young woman staring at her hands. “This will do.”

At least he hadn’t chosen the room with the beast, but why didn’t he want to be close to our room?

John and James took the luggage inside and Carmine followed them. She stopped to examine herself in the mirror.

“This really is furnished for a single person. Carmine, perhaps you would be more comfortable in the room across the hall, or next door.”

James responded for her. “We’ll be fine. Don’t forget we’re newlyweds.”

“Oh, yes. It doesn’t seem possible”—I faked a smile and looked away—“as I’ve only just met her.”

“Thank you again. Forgive us. I think we will go right to sleep.”

“Of course.” John said. “We should as well.”

James shut the door.

John placed his hand on the small of my back and I jumped, but for once my jolt didn’t frighten him away. “You must be so happy they are here.”

I feigned delight.

We started down the hall, and a faint giggle sounded from their room.

Thirty-Four

October 1901

T
he next day was hectic with cooking and cleaning. I had no opportunity to speak with James. I didn’t want to hold a conversation with him anyway. Nor did I want to endure another one of John’s tours. I felt bitter every time I stomped by the parlor and overheard them chattering. But I didn’t have much time to dwell on it before guests were upon us.

Olivia was the last to arrive. I greeted her, and we both pretended nothing had happened between us, as if she had never stomped out of this house while I lay helpless, bedridden, begging her not to leave me. Then she and Walter introduced themselves as if having never met. Now I knew I had reason for suspicion. If she had been a patient, they wouldn’t hide it. Or would they hide such a thing because Margaret disliked her so much?

After Olivia’s arrival, everyone filed from the parlor to the dining room. John and I sat at opposite ends of the table, but John occasionally glanced up at me, a glimmer in his dark eyes. As we settled and continued conversations from the parlor, Lottie and Ethel entered to pour water and wine.

“How have you been, Olivia?” Margaret tilted her head.

Olivia lifted her gaze, raised her chin. “Splendid. Yourself?” Her words had an indistinct tone only a woman could detect.

“Very well—very well indeed.”

Olivia lifted one of our emerald-like goblets. “Tell me, Margaret, are you still ruin—ahem—running the church committee?”

Margaret’s simper fell. “Actually, I’ve taken a step back.”

Olivia raised her glass toward Francis sitting at the middle of the table. “Oh my, yes. Mrs. Ella Grace took the position of president, didn’t she?”

Ella had not attended that evening. Francis appeared to be a little taken back but smiled graciously. “My mother is very honored.”

“How odd, Margaret. You say you decided to step away? I heard you were relieved.”

Margaret’s lips pressed into a hard smile, but her eyes scowled.

“That is too bad.”

“I never saw you there,
Mrs
. Urswick.”

Olivia ignored the jab at her unmarried status. “Margaret, we’ve been acquainted for years. You use my last name in polite company as if I’m royalty.”

“Forgive me,
Olivia
, you know it’s just so difficult to remember your…situation.”

Walter’s eyes darted back and forth between his mother, perched next to him, and Olivia, sitting across from him. Dr. Benedict Bradbridge rambled on in his own conversation, unaware of the covert acts of war taking place next to him. Other people in the room, however, had fallen silent as their nerves tingled in the direction of tension. Even John broke eye contact with Benedict to glance over. My eyes shot to Mr. Herbert Hawtrey and his tall, lean wife, Irene—the guests of honor who were sitting on either side of John. Herbert was a thin fellow with a large nose and long face. He was somehow involved with the Gynecological and Obstetrical Society, an organization critical to the Coddington firm. They couldn’t have been as familiar with the battle as the guests who knew these women, but they had both started glancing away from Benedict’s conversation and toward Olivia and Margaret.

At this time Lottie began placing bowls of tomato bisque in front of each of us, and I wondered if one of the two women would scald the other with hot soup. I had to stop them, but I felt like a lion tamer planning to force starving carnivores to use utensils.

“Olivia”—Margaret snapped her head toward her—“tell us, how is your family?”

Olivia’s cheek twitched.

“How is your daughter?”

“I wasn’t aware you had a daughter.” John forced a pause into his conversation with Benedict. Then Benedict couldn’t help but give his attention.

Had John really forgotten the conversation that had preceded the disaster at Ida Rippring’s? Thank goodness the Ripprings hadn’t attended. Ida and Margaret would have turned Olivia into the second course.

Margaret nodded gleefully. “Yes. Olivia has a grown daughter and grandchildren. They live far, far away. It’s too bad they never visit.”

Silence seeped in like a snake as everyone remembered that Olivia was a spinster. The sound of sipping and spoons scooping bisque filled the room.

Finally, Olivia turned to John. “Yes, I have a daughter.”

“Um, uh,” I stuttered, desperately seeking to change the subject but speaking before I had thought of something to say.

“Margaret, I heard you have an idea for a new benefit,” Francis said.

“Oh, do tell us.” Martha Coddington beamed.

Margaret’s body shifted, and her eyes twinkled with delight. “Well, I had this idea for…”

Olivia rolled her eyes and drank her wine as Margaret went into the details of her plans.

I tipped my head gratefully at Francis.

As the courses continued, I listened to James talk about various lawyer issues with John, Benedict’s ramblings about politics, and a wonderfully dull floral-arrangement discussion between Carmine and Martha. I had begun to believe the worst was over until I overheard a part of a conversation at the other end of the table when Herbert Hawtrey said, “…sin of the natural world!” I tried to hear more, but Margaret practically barked about her objections to the fact that the church committee was continuing quilt sales, as they had been her idea. Further, Martha and Carmine were kicking up a fuss over the hideous goggles required for riding in motor cars. I noticed Francis listening to Herbert with a hurt expression dressed up as a blank stare.

When Lottie and Ethel brought out the roast, John and I stood to help carve and serve while Lottie and Ethel assisted us. I quickly heaped large servings of boiled yellow squash and carrots on James’ and Carmine’s plates in order to make my way closer to the opposite end of the table so I could hear the discussion. I strained to listen and caught Olivia’s addition. “No one’s debating that it’s wrong at a certain point,” she said. “People are debating if there is a point where it should be acceptable—before quickening.”

How did I know the word
quickening
?

I reached Walter just as he began to say, “There have been studies—”

Benedict’s voice boomed across the table, “Dr. Johnson of the OGS called this a crusade against abortion, but it should have been a crusade against midwives.”

I froze with my arm outstretched holding the serving spoon full of vegetables.

“These women know the laws, but they are immoral.” He held a closed fist on the table. Why was he yelling?

“It’s not just the midwives, though. Physicians are performing these operations, too,” Walter said just before taking a bite of food, unfazed by his father’s outburst. His calm reaction seemed to persuade everyone to settle back into their seats.

I too unfroze and dumped the mound of food onto Irene’s plate. As I continued, John stared at me as he carved the meat, his eyes screaming for me to make it stop.

I sped up, maneuvering around Lottie as she dished out boiled potatoes. I scooped and served as quickly as I could while also thinking up a way to redirect the conversation. “Herbert, what do you think of Mr. Roosevelt taking the office?” The president had been assassinated at the beginning of the month, and the vice president, Theodore Roosevelt, was about to take the oath.

Herbert acted as if he had not heard me. “And those doctors are ruining the good name of the professionals.”

“That is, obviously, why prosecution is just as important against the doctors,” John’s employer, Lewis Coddington said.

“I disagree.” Herbert bit off a mouthful of bread but continued. “The physicians performing these surgeries are practically forced by the midwives.” He stopped talking to chew but grunted to inform us he had more to say. He swallowed. “If the physician doesn’t do it, the midwife might murder a woman trying. Some of these poor ones try to do it themselves with coat hangers and such.”

I dropped the serving spoon, and it clacked onto the table before I scrambled to retrieve it. No one seemed to notice except for John.

Herbert continued, “What choice does that give a doctor?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Walter said.

“I couldn’t disagree more,” Benedict said before gulping his brandy.

Olivia held up her glass to drink. “I certainly don’t agree with coat hangers, but I think midwives are well trained. They’ve handled these situations for centuries. Most of us here were brought into this world by a midwife.”

“You actually approve of abortion?” Margaret swirled her wine.

“What’s the latest fashion in St. Louis?” I tried.

“You must have misheard me, Margaret. I said
midwives
. I approve of midwifery.”

Margaret rolled her eyes.

Having been ignored once again, I finished serving and slipped back to my seat.

“There might be a few midwives who know what they are doing,” Walter said to Olivia, “but without proper licensing and standards, how does a woman know who she can trust?”

Olivia responded to Walter without the same inflection she had used with his mother. “In my day, midwives focused on bringing life into this world, not taking it away.”

“Well, things were obviously different in your day, weren’t they?” Margaret said.

Walter glared at his mother for a moment and then answered Olivia. “It’s hard to say what has and hasn’t gone on behind closed doors or in the past, but this is a new century, and we are progressing toward an era of enlightenment, where the people who practice medicine are held accountable for the well-being of their patients.”

Margaret’s eyes darted back and forth between Walter and Olivia.

“Forgive me,” interrupted Richard Williams, Francis’ husband. He cleaned his hands on his napkin. “I am not as familiar with this topic. Did someone say these women are killing people?”

Francis shot a worried glance at me.

“These midwives and illegal nurses have no formal training, no licenses,” Walter said. “Without any accountability, there’s no guarantee they know what they are doing, and even though their intentions are usually good, they can kill people. We know of at least one woman operating in Labellum right now.”

I gulped my sherry.

Then Benedict barked, “It’s the abortionists that are out there causing sepsis, perforating the uterus!”

Sin to Moses! This was bad. John glared at me as he abandoned the meat and returned to his seat, but I pretended not to see him. I observed James, who sat wide-eyed, and then I regarded the rest of our guests, most of whom appeared to be intrigued rather than offended.

“These women just need to be reminded of their moral obligation,” Martha said before taking a bite.

“That’s why it’s important to rid rural areas of midwives and abortionists and the women who encourage them,” Lewis added.

“I can’t understand what kind of woman would let herself befall such a circumstance in the first place,” Irene said.

“I’d guess women of low class, prostitutes. Am I right?” Richard asked.

Francis closed her eyes and held her breath.

“Anyone attend a symphony recently?” I asked desperately. “The ballet?”

“The midwives are the ones more like prostitutes,” Lewis said while studying one of our peculiar spoons with repugnance. “They are the ones being paid to sell their souls.”

I felt nauseated.

“What happens to them?” Francis asked.

I turned toward her, surprised to hear her elegant voice.

“I know the midwife and accomplices are arrested,” she said, “but what happens to the women who have the procedure?”