Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  It was impossible not to take in conversations as she passed: complaints about Zebedee, greedy boy, who had once again finished the milk; the pleading to Annemarie, who was going to make them late fussing with her hair; irritated shouting about a missing button; a frantic search for coins enough for the horse car. There was no such thing as privacy in the tenements.

  Outside the Greene Street Boulangerie a line of women shuffled forward while they talked, heads bent together in twos and threes. They came to fetch their daily bread: long baguettes, dense pain de campagne, the skinny ficelle that Elise especially liked for its crust, Alsatian dark bread with caraway seeds. Even after Mrs. Lee’s substantial breakfast the smells were too familiar, too tied to her childhood and her mother’s kitchen; saliva filled her mouth and her belly gave the slightest hint of a growl.

  She climbed the stairs to the apartment that the master baker shared with his sister and now her grandson. Elise supposed Lucie Bellegarde’s son must live here when he was not at sea, and that not so long ago, her daughter-in-law as well. There was a mourning wreath on the door to announce to the world that she was gone, and her child was a half orphan.

  Madame Bellegarde opened to Elise’s knock and broke into a smile so broad and sincere that she was glad she had come.

  “I knew you would keep your promise,” she said. “I knew it. Come in, please, come in and see how well our ’tit Denis is doing.”

  It made Sophie smile to hear Lucie Bellegarde call her grandson petit Denis, as she must have once referred to her son, his father: Little Denis. Madame Bellegarde was without doubt comme Québécois de souche francophone, old-stock Quebec. If asked she would be proud to recite her lineage back to New France. She would be a strict taskmaster and tolerate no insolence, but ’tit Denis would never doubt where he belonged or how dearly he was loved.

  There was a young woman settled onto a low chair near the window, introduced to Elise as a distant cousin and the wife of one of Denis Bellegarde’s shipmates. Alphee Janvier could be no more than seventeen but she looked to be in excellent health and most importantly, she held the Bellegarde infant to a round breast turgid with milk. Best of all was her expression as she looked down at the small face, cheeks working so busily. She showered the boy with unapologetic adoration.

  “Alphee’s little one came sleeping to the world and would not wake,” Lucie Bellegarde said quietly. “We say a rosary for him every day.”

  Elise felt at home in this kitchen and was oddly thankful for the nightmare that had made her rearrange her plans. If her nightmare should come again, she would have the memory of this kitchen to counter it.

  While they drank milky sweet coffee out of small bowls Elise asked questions and was satisfied with what she heard: the boy nursed with enthusiasm, he cried when something failed him but was quickly soothed, his bowels and kidneys did their work, he slept but not more than was right for a child of his age. His skin was not yellow in tone, there were no rashes or swellings, his heartbeat was steady and true, and his lungs were clear.

  Lucie answered Elise’s questions thoughtfully, but what made her happiest was to talk about the boy’s personality and what she believed to be true.

  “He watches my face when I talk to him,” she told Elise. “I tell him stories about his maman and he listens, he listens so closely. He is getting ready to smile.”

  Elise went on her way feeling far more settled, and ready to take on the world.

  30

  SOPHIE, WHO HAD thought she would dedicate her life to medicine and thus never considered what it meant to be mistress of her own household, now found herself in that position. Though she didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, it was a fussy and complicated affair, keeping a household in running order, and challenging in ways she hadn’t considered.

  Most daunting was the fact that she would shortly have four people dependent on her for their livelihood. In addition to Sam Reason and Noah Hunter, Lena Tolliver would be starting very soon, helping Laura Lee with the house and taking on the laundry and ironing. Mrs. Lee had recommended Mrs. Tolliver, who was friendly, careful, and hardworking: the highest praise the fastidious Mrs. Lee could confer. Another point in her favor was that she had a family and would go home to them in the evenings.

  It was at this point that it had occurred to Sophie that Laura Lee had yet to take a day off.

  “You will run yourself ragged,” she said. “I should have realized from the beginning. Sundays and one afternoon a week free, I think. Some flexibility on the weekday would be useful, if possible. And you know if there is something pressing that you need to do, you only need to let me know.”

  Laura Lee raised an eyebrow at this announcement, a sure sign that she was uneasy.

  “Don’t you want time off?” Sophie asked her. “I can handle things on my own for short periods of time.”

  The brow remained high on her forehead, and was now joined by pursing of the mouth.

  “What do you imagine I’ll do, starve or set the house on fire?”

  Laura Lee said, “What about the others?”

  Sophie was unable to hide her irritation. “Of course the others will have the same. Work out among yourselves the issue of which afternoon for each of you. You don’t need to consult me on the details.”

  It would only get more complicated. Laura Lee and Lena Tolliver could manage the household for now, but when students took up residence they would need one or two more people to help in the household. Sophie had no qualms about spending the money, but the mechanics of the process struck her as unnecessarily complex. Mrs. Tolliver wanted to know about a uniform, the where and how and how much, to which Sophie would have said simply: No need. Dress neatly, and I’m satisfied. Then Laura Lee pointed out that this would put the burden on Mrs. Tolliver, who would have to replace her things more often.

  “What would your grandmother advise?” Sophie asked, and when Laura Lee had explained it all in detail, she held up a hand to indicate surrender. “Do it that way. I’ve been meaning to set up an account for household goods. I’ll ask Conrad how to do that.”

  The list of responsibilities she hoped to hand over to Sam Reason was growing by leaps and bounds. Pay packets, household accounts, mail. Twice a day when the mailman came she sorted into piles: condolences from Cap’s many friends, business acquaintances, and relatives, some from as far away as Hong Kong and Pretoria; notes and invitations from her own family and friends; matters having to do with the scholarship program; and the wealth of paper designed to remind her that she had a profession: medical journals, meeting announcements of various societies, advertisements for lectures by visiting physicians and researchers with new therapies and theories to share, requests for reviews and case summaries, and catalogs from suppliers.

  This Saturday morning, though, it was a long list in Laura Lee’s backward-slanting handwriting that had all her attention. On it were the names and addresses of twenty-eight merchants and businesses who would supply them with ice in the summer and coal in the winter, lamp oil, kerosene, feed for the horses, milk, butter, fish, poultry, beef, tea and coffee, fruit and vegetables, and a hundred other things Sophie never thought about. And that was just the beginning. Also on the list were a stationer, a hardware dealer, an electrician—electric lighting was in constant need of monitoring and upkeep—a glazier, a shoemaker, a bookseller, two seamstresses, a milliner, a draper, and written at the very bottom: Dry Goods. The very issue Sophie had raised, apparently just the tip of the iceberg.

  It was silly to hesitate over such a minor matter, she told herself. There were a half-dozen excellent dry goods stores within walking distance. Aunt Quinlan had traded at Stewart’s Iron Palace until it changed hands; Sophie could follow her example and take her business to Macy’s on Fourteenth Street at Sixth Avenue. There were closer stores, marble, cast-iron, and crystal behemoths with goods on display behind plate glass: Altman’s, Lord & Taylor,
and of course, Arnold Constable.

  There was nothing stopping her. She would walk the five blocks to Constable’s, a treasure chest that stretched from Broadway to Fifth on Nineteenth Street. She would walk through the front doors, past counters where clerks in immaculate shirtwaists stood ready to display the finest seal-skin gloves and Lion d’Or perfumes, embossed leather pocketbooks and lawn handkerchiefs edged in lace, silver brush sets and ivory hair combs studded with topaz and garnets. You could outfit an entire household at Constable’s with the finest rugs, double-cut velvet window dressings, porcelain china, shoe trees and washbasins and all the millions of things required.

  Eventually Sophie would come to the business office and there she would present letters of credit, her attorney’s business card, and her own. The manager would be all smiles and bows, because she was well bred and rich, tastefully and expensively dressed in mourning. Almost certainly he would recognize her name from the newspaper articles around the inquiry in Janine Campbell’s death. To him she would be the overeducated mulatto woman who had married a rich white man. But none of that would matter: to him, at least, the color of her money was more important than the color of her skin.

  When she had concluded her business she would leave his office, sail past his staff, and go to the paper goods department. There she would buy red and black inks necessary for bookkeeping and a ledger that she would bring home and open at this very desk to run her eyes down the blank columns on pale green pages.

  How difficult could bookkeeping be, really? she asked herself. Sam Reason would take on this work, and all she need do was check the figures once a week. That much would be expected of her. Certainly the whole business could be no more difficult than calculating dosages, juggling grams and drams. She still had dreams, now and then, about oral exams where a faceless woman who sounded suspiciously like Anna demanded that she spit out scripts for everything from laudanum to quinine for underweight newborns, overweight ten-year-olds, consumptive pregnant women, anemic old ladies. She had survived those exams; household accounts would not bring her low. And neither would Sam Reason.

  In fact, she would leave the whole business of setting up accounts to him. When he came through the door she would tell him exactly that. She was, after all, a physician.

  She picked up the Robbins & Son Catalogue of Medical Supplies to page through it, and just then suddenly remembered her Gladstone bag, which was in need of resupplying. She could visit Patterson’s apothecary across from the New Amsterdam. She and Anna had set up accounts there as new physicians. At Patterson’s there would be a friendly face to greet her.

  She could—she should, in fact, call for the carriage, but Noah Hunter had been making improvements to the stable for the sake of the horses, and she didn’t like to interrupt him. Or, she admitted to herself, she could just get over this tinge of embarrassment that had come over her when she realized he had heard at least some part of Nicholas Lambert’s proposal. Lambert might not be the gentleman he seemed at first, but Noah Hunter’s manners were impeccable; he would no more raise the subject of mistresses than he would cut out his own tongue. And so why not ask for the carriage?

  The answer was outside her window. The weather was particularly beautiful and having a carriage didn’t mean she couldn’t walk; walking was good for her digestion and constitution and damn the carriage; she would walk if she cared to.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FIRST SURPRISE was learning that Oswald Patterson had retired and moved away; the apothecary was now a haberdashery. Sophie went in to ask the obvious questions and a clerk handed her a list that Mr. Patterson had had printed for his former customers. On it were the names and addresses of six apothecaries he would recommend and which would welcome new custom.

  She read over the names and considered. A physician depended on a skilled, experienced, responsible apothecary, but the choice was politically fraught. She would have to consult with Anna—or she could take the opportunity to call on the Jacobis, something long overdue—but in the meantime she must still refill her supplies.

  The closest apothecary on the list she had been given just happened to be Smithson’s, a name that evoked all kinds of memories. It had been one of the very first shops she had seen after coming to the city, walking there with Aunt Quinlan and Anna on a cool fall day. That idea was still in her head when she looked up to see Anna coming around the corner. Her arms were full of files and the rim of her bonnet was clasped between her teeth. She was too lost in her thoughts to notice Sophie until she reached out and poked her in the arm.

  Anna jumped and mumbled something around her hat brim.

  “Look at you.” Sophie took the bonnet and set it where it belonged, on Anna’s head.

  “Look at me?” Anna echoed, shaking her head to settle the bonnet more firmly. “Look at you. Where have you come from?”

  “Patterson’s. Or what used to be Patterson’s.”

  “What were you doing in there, buying a stovepipe hat?”

  “Oddly enough, I was looking for Mr. Patterson,” Sophie said. “But he seems to have disappeared. Hold still while I tie your ribbons, will you?”

  “He’s gone to California,” Anna said, tilting her chin up to give Sophie access. “Very adventurous of him, I thought. I’m on my way back to my office, come walk with me. Where are you off to now?”

  “I still need supplies. What apothecary are you using now that Mr. Patterson has gone away?”

  “John Mackey, across from St. Luke’s.”

  Sophie made a face. “I don’t want to go all the way uptown. I think for today I’ll just go to Smithson’s, though they are overpriced.”

  That brought Anna up short. “Really?”

  “Should I not?”

  Anna hesitated. “Come up to my office for a half hour.”

  Sophie hesitated for fear of being caught up in conversations with former colleagues, but Anna insisted and in fact they made it to her office without interruptions.

  When Anna had put her bonnet on its hook she sat on the edge of her desk and jumped right in with a question Sophie had not anticipated.

  “Did you read the multipara case-book Jack sent to Cap?”

  Sophie hesitated. She had read some of the case-book, but as was true of most things she read when Cap had begun to decline, her memory of it was unreliable.

  Anna said, “I would be surprised if you had, to be truthful. What you need to know you can read there if you still have it—”

  “I did pack it, yes.”

  “—but I’ll summarize for now. There is a link of some kind between Smithson’s and the multipara homicides.”

  Without waiting for a reaction she unlocked a desk drawer and took out a heavy folder, ran her finger over the tabs along the side, and then flipped to the page she wanted.

  “Here.” She turned the file so that Sophie could read the newspaper clipping pasted on the page and an advertisement that stood out for its large size.

  TO THE REFINED, DIGNIFIED BUT DISTRAUGHT LADY departing Smithson’s near the Jefferson Market yesterday morning: I believe I can provide the assistance you require. Write for particulars to Dr. dePaul, Station A, Union Square.

  “It doesn’t seem like much,” Anna said. “But we also know that on the day Mrs. Winthrop had her operation, her driver dropped her off just across Sixth Avenue from Smithson’s at the coffee shop, and picked her up there a couple hours later. That’s just a block away from Dr. Cameron’s office, you realize.”

  Sophie took a moment to try to organize these small bits of information into some kind of symmetry with what she already knew of the multipara deaths: Jack and Oscar believed Cameron to have been the guilty party. Dr. Cameron’s office was a couple minutes’ walk from Smithson’s Apothecary. Mrs. Winthrop had had her operation somewhere in the immediate area. This newspaper advertisement seemed to indicate
that someone who performed abortions—not necessarily, but possibly, the multipara doctor—was keeping track of women who called in at Smithson’s.

  Anna was turning pages in the case-book. “And there’s this. Take a minute to read it.”

  Witness Statement

  My name is Kate Sparrow, Kate Donovan as was, widow-woman these nine years now. My husband was Jim Sparrow, fishmonger. I live in the cottage where I was born on Patchin, though it was just a dirt path and didn’t have any name in the year ’16 when I came along. In the year 1832 when I married Jim the fire lookout tower was being built, right behind his shed on the edge of the market. They finished building the fancy new courthouse where the lookout tower used to be, the same week my granddaughter Mallie was born. I still keep a market stall where I sell sundries, everything from sewing needles to buckets. So you see Jefferson Market is in my blood. Not much I don’t know about goes on in the neighborhood.

  As I remember it, Dr. Cameron moved into his offices on Tenth Street as soon as the building went up. I knew him by sight, well enough to say good morning and good evening. The Camerons were Calvinists, the strictest Methodists of all, and they didn’t mix with the rest of us.

  I never went to see him nor did any of my people for two reasons: first, the Donovans and Sparrows are all healthy as oxen, and second, because even on death’s door we couldn’t afford what he charged. Another reason I should say, because he didn’t like Catholics. He’d tell you that right to your face. Jane O’Hara tried to see him when the cancer got into her belly but he told her papists weren’t welcome.

  So I can’t tell you from my own experience what kind of doctor he was, but he saved Mr. Halsted’s arm when it was broke bad and the doctors at the hospital wanted to cut it off. And he never lost a mother while she was in labor, as far as I know. He did deliver babies for those who could afford him, but we poorer ones, we always had our old aunties and grannies or a midwife when babies came along, and they served us well. The first woman I knew who went to Dr. Cameron instead of calling a midwife was Mrs. Brown, Jenny Brown, a minister’s wife. They had a nice little house on Gay Street, and a horse and carriage and a housemaid. I don’t remember where they come from but they were new to the city. Reverend Brown sent for Dr. Cameron when Jenny’s time came and he delivered a daughter. It was right then that we heard how he handled things, that he set her to reciting Bible verses while she was in labor and shouted at her when she lost track. The Browns moved away long ago, I don’t know where to, or you could ask her yourself. My mam, she said she wasn’t about to credit such gossip, but then it happened again with Barbra Tenbrook, who was married to a gasworks manager. It was her first baby, a big child and stuck like a cork, so her Dan sent for Dr. Cameron. A week later Barbra herself sat in my mam’s kitchen, right where you’re sitting now, Detective Larkin, and said how the doctor shouted and thundered and sermonized at her like one of those revival preachers who go on about hellfire and God’s wrath. Oh, did she weep when she told the story, her tears falling on the head of the new baby at her breast. Barbra lives on Mulligan Place still, you could go ask her to say if I’ve remembered it right.