by Lynn Morris
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Dev admitted.
“Will they go away, or is this repulsive rash a lifelong misery?”
“It will go away eventually,” Dev answered, now soberly. “Are you in very great pain?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Mrs. Carteret answered. “But I am uncomfortable. The rash is sensitive, yes, and I do have a sort of burning sensation underneath the skin.”
Dev nodded, making quick notes in the file. “That’s usual. Unfortunately many times the pain worsens at night. And I think you will find that the type of material you wear next to the skin sometimes adds to the discomfort. Do you by chance have any satin nightdresses?”
“No, it’s been many, many, many years since I wore satin to bed,” she said tartly, her faded blue eyes sparkling. “You’re a resourceful young man-about-town—perhaps you might buy me one?”
Without looking up from his scribbling and without change in expression Dev answered, “Certainly, ma’am. Scarlet, I presume?”
Cassandra Croly Carteret cackled. “If I were thirty—well, perhaps forty years younger I would have given Victoria Steen a run for her money. I would have married you just for the fun of it.”
“Most of my patients would not characterize me as fun,” Dev said, now very stern, “but from you I take it as a compliment. I’ll be back tomorrow, Mrs. Carteret. I’ve prescribed a sedative for you in case you need it to sleep. Good evening, ma’am.” He motioned for Kitty to follow him. When they were out in the hallway and Kitty had closed the door, Dev said in a low voice, “She was upset. What happened today?” Slowly they walked down the quiet ward to the nurses’ station.
Kitty sighed. “Mrs. Hambelin, Mr. Hambelin, the nursemaid, and all four of the children were here for hours this morning. I almost broke out in hives myself. I mean, it was very tiring for Mrs. Carteret, sir.”
Dev nodded. “All right, Nurse Kalm, from now on I would like for you to either make notes in her file yourself, or if Dr. Pettijohn prefers, he might make the report each day. This file is rather spotty. Because Mrs. Carteret’s family is, I believe, such a part of her symptomatology I think we should carefully note each time they are here and how the visit went so that we may see if there are any following symptoms.”
Dev sat down at the nurses’ station with his patient files and busily made notes in them as Nurse Kalm stood quietly by and filed them as he finished.
Cassandra Carteret’s only daughter, Edith Hambelin, had insisted on admitting her mother. Mrs. Hambelin and her family had moved into her widowed mother’s six-story mansion on Fifth Avenue; in fact, she lived only a block down from Victoria and Dev. But the Croly mansion was much older than Victoria’s newly built home. It had belonged to Mrs. Carteret’s first husband, John William Croly, who was a very wealthy dry goods importer-exporter. He had died after they had been married twelve years. Then Cassandra had married Edith’s father, Louis Carteret. Cassandra had miscarried two children and had finally given birth to Edith but never conceived again. Louis had died two years ago. Edith’s husband was a successful attorney in New Jersey, and Cassandra had been astonished—and horrified—when the entire family just picked up and moved to Manhattan into her home, with apparently no desire to find a house of their own.
One day Cassandra had stumbled over one of the children’s wooden toys—they littered the entire floor of the family rooms—and fell, although she merely sat heavily and awkwardly down on an armchair. Edith had made such a scene that Cassandra wearily allowed her to take her to St. Luke’s and check her in for overnight observation.
That had been three weeks ago. Two days after Cassandra had checked in, she began to evidence senility. That is, she seemed bewildered sometimes and could not recall why she was in the hospital. Sometimes she forgot simple things, as when she asked Kitty for her breakfast after she had already eaten breakfast. But the symptoms were peculiar by their very erratic nature. Most of the time Cassandra was as sharp as any needle. The entire staff and physicians strongly suspected that Mrs. Carteret was faking most, if not all, of her mental weakness. But to them it wasn’t a matter for impatience. It showed that the patient must be very unhappy at home, when she would obviously rather stay in a hospital.
Now Dev was finishing his notes in Mrs. Carteret’s file. “How has her state of mind been generally?”
Kitty answered knowingly, “Just fine until this morning. Then we had a little scene because she insisted that there was a cat under the bed.”
Dev murmured, “That’s very amateurish for Cassandra.”
“Not really. Mrs. Hambelin is deathly afraid of cats. It upset her something awful every time Mrs. Carteret looked on the other side of her bed and said, ‘Kitty, kitty.’ Mrs. Hambelin would give this little jump and scream. I was having a hard time keeping quiet and dignified, like, because it’s a joke between us, you see….” Her voice faltered, then died out as Dev stopped writing and looked up at Kitty. “But there, I’m noodling on about things you couldn’t possibly be interested in, Dr. Buchanan. I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all,” he said gravely. “Mrs. Carteret is my patient, and I’m interested in everything that concerns her health, either mental or physical. What were you saying about a joke between you?”
“Well,” Kitty went on reluctantly, “we make jokes about our names. All the k sounds, you see—Kitty Kalm, Cassandra Carteret. Mrs. Carteret says we both have silly names, so sometimes she teases me by calling me Kitty-Kitty, and I call her Cassie-Cart. So when she was bending over the bed, calling Kitty-Kitty and looking up at me and winking, I had a hard time not spoiling the joke and laughing.”
“I see,” Dev said, his dark eyes twinkling and the dimples showing again. “Perhaps we might get Mrs. Carteret a cat. For Christmas. Good job, Nurse Kalm. You’re extremely good with an admittedly difficult patient.” He scribbled a little more.
Cheney joined Dev and Kitty at the nurses’ station. Worriedly Cheney said, “Dev, Mrs. de Sille still has influenza, and the ipecac did not work at all in breaking up that awful thick mucous. I’ve never known it not to have any effect at all, and I did prescribe the maximum dosage for inducing coughing. Anyway, I’m going to try that hot chocolate with cayenne pepper that we used for that poor tiny little girl in the orphanage—Olivia, that was her name. Can you think of anything that might be better?”
“No. If that doesn’t break it up, then nothing will,” Dev answered. “Listen, Cheney, Mrs. Carteret has shingles, so I’m going to isolate her and place a carbolic acid washstand by the door. Don’t let Mevrouw de Sille visit her. Mrs. de Sille doesn’t need shingles, and Mrs. Carteret doesn’t need influenza.”
“Of course,” Cheney agreed and asked innocently, “Does this isolation include Mrs. Carteret’s daughter and grandchildren?”
“Most definitely,” Dev said evenly.
“Then you’d better tell Mrs. Flagg for the morning shift, sir,” Kitty said apologetically. “I tried to suggest to Mrs. Hambelin today that Mrs. Carteret needed her rest, but Mrs. Hambelin just shooed me away and told me that she knew best how to care for her own mother. I did have my duties, sir, and I did them, but Mrs. Hambelin wouldn’t let me sit and visit with Mrs. Carteret during her lunch, as I know she likes. Mrs. Hambelin was going on and on about how expensive the daily rate on the suite was and asking Mrs. Carteret, ‘Wouldn’t you be so much happier in one of the private rooms, Mother, or perhaps even in one of the beds on the ward? They do have such nice walnut partitions, such a lovely wood, walnut,’” Kitty said in a grating high coy voice, then catching herself, lamely added, “Dr. Buchanan, sir.”
One of Dev’s eyebrows twitched up. “Thank you for the insightful information into the patient’s state of mind, Nurse Kalm.”
Thoughtfully Cheney said, “Nurse Kalm, you’ve been Mrs. Carteret’s most favored companion these weeks. What do you think of Mrs. Carteret’s attitude concerning the suite? Could you gauge her reaction to Mrs. Hambelin’s suggestions at all?”
> “Well…no, ma’am. I mean, Mrs. Carteret was first making such a fuss about the cat under her bed, but then she seemed to give up and lay back and just suffered through the rest of the visit without hardly moving or saying anything.”
Cheney said to Dev, “You know, it might not be such a bad idea, after all. I suspect she might even like it. Changing to a private room, I mean. Not the ward.”
“Oh?” Dev said with interest. “Why is that?”
“Well,” Cheney said slowly, “the private rooms are smaller. And Mrs. Carteret is proud, but it doesn’t seem to me to be the greedy grasping kind of pride that she has to have only the most expensive everything all the time. In the private rooms there’s only the straight chair, one armchair, and a hassock. So naturally there would be less room for visitors. But when you need to know something personal about the patient, ask the nurse. What do you think, Kitty?”
“I think you’re absolutely right, Dr. Duvall,” Kitty responded forcefully. “I should have thought of it.”
Dev nodded. “Excellent, Cheney—and Nurse Kalm. I think that it would be better if you broached the subject with her. Just don’t pressure her either way; let her make the decision. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Kitty said, glowing. “I’ll go talk to her about it right now.” She bustled off down the hall.
Cheney pulled out a new hospital file and started writing in it. “Good, then that’s settled,” she said briskly. “I’ll be able to give my patient the suite.”
Dev narrowed his eyes. “Your patient? So you’re telling me that you fiddled my patient out of the suite so that your patient could have it?”
“No, no—well, perhaps I did,” Cheney admitted with a mischievous smile. Dev didn’t smile back. He rarely did. She went on, “It’s Annabeth Forbes, Dev. She’s checking in tonight, just as soon as she can get her household in order.”
“Annabeth? Not Annalea?” Dev asked. “Is it the pregnancy?”
Annabeth Forbes was Annalea Forbes’s mother. Annalea was now seven years old. When she was four, Cheney and Shiloh had saved her from drowning at a Vanderbilt party on their clipper ship. Since then, Mason Brackett Forbes, a powerful, wealthy investment banker and a giant on the Exchange, and his wife Annabeth, had been Cheney’s staunchest patrons. Aside from the recognition the incident had brought her—many members of Manhattan’s most prominent families had witnessed it—the Forbes family had recommended Cheney to anyone who ever mentioned needing a physician.
Annabeth was now twenty-five, while Mason was forty-nine. They had been hoping for more children—they both positively doted on Annalea—but this was the first time Annabeth had conceived in the last eight years.
“Only partly, but that is, of course, the main concern,” Cheney answered. “She’s had a healthy, untroubled pregnancy until last month. Then she started to experience much discomfort. In the last trimester she quickly gained twelve pounds, and that’s a lot for Annabeth’s small frame. She’s been depressed and teary, as some women get, you know. But the real problem is that I’m afraid Annalea might have rubella.” Rubella, or German measles, as it was commonly known, could be fatal to a fetus if a pregnant woman caught the highly communicable disease.
Dev’s eyebrows went up. “Oh yes, then certainly Mrs. Forbes should check in so that we can keep an eye on her. All right, you’ve convinced me that you had noble ulterior motives in getting poor Cassandra Carteret demoted to one of the private rooms. I’m going into the administration offices to look over some things, so I’ll be here for about another fifteen or twenty minutes if anyone needs me.”
If he didn’t leave within a half-hour, he was going to be late for a lecture, and Dev hated being late. He hurried to the office and had just sat down at the desk to fill out purchase orders for some surgical supplies when there was a light knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dev called absently, still writing.
Dr. Pettijohn stuck his head in. “Do you have a few moments, Dr. Buchanan?”
“A few,” Dev answered, motioning him in. “Just give me a minute to finish this….” He scribbled his signature on the last form, then looked up. “What can I do for you, Dr. Pettijohn?”
With a peculiar sliding step and awkward hesitant movements, Pettijohn slid into the chair in front of the desk. “I have been following Rebecca Green’s case closely, and I saw the notice of surgery in her file. Tomorrow, I believe? Early?”
“That’s right. I don’t like to give them time to get too apprehensive.”
Dr. Pettijohn nodded. “Neither do I. It invariably happens if you schedule your surgery in the afternoons. At any rate I just wanted to volunteer my services,” he said brightly. “I would be honored to assist.”
“Thank you, but Dr. Duvall is assisting me. Though she will not exactly be in the role of the usual surgical assistant—I don’t have time to elaborate right now—I don’t think I shall need another assistant.”
Dr. Pettijohn looked puzzled. “But I have some experience in this procedure, both in assisting and as the primary surgeon.”
Dev waited, but the younger man simply kept staring at him with bewilderment. Finally Dev said rather shortly, “Yes? And?”
“Well, I just assumed—that is, I have more experience than Dr. Duvall, and I should think that my educational background would recommend me,” he said heavily.
“So it does,” Dev answered. “But I need Dr. Duvall, particularly, on this procedure.”
“You do?” Dr. Pettijohn seemed honestly amazed. “But why? Surely a physician of your experience, your reputation, and if I may say it, international acclaim has nothing to learn from Dr. Duvall.”
Dev sat back in his chair, himself now surprised. “But you’re wrong, Dr. Pettijohn. I do need Dr. Duvall in this particular instance, and to be honest, I have found Dr. Duvall’s help invaluable many times in the past.”
“But why? How?” Pettijohn persisted.
“Because,” Dev answered quietly, “she is smarter than I.”
And you, was implied and hung in the air.
Dr. Pettijohn made an awkward little gesture with one slim effeminate hand and then rose. In a strained voice he said, “I see. Good evening, Dr. Buchanan.” He turned and marched out, his back stiff.
Dev shook his head and went back to his paperwork. They never learn, he thought. There is none so blind as those that will not see….
Eight
One Cold Dark Morning
Cheney stirred, and then her head barely appeared out from under a plump satin-covered feather comforter. Her eyes were closed, her hair a glorious riotous mess. She mumbled something that sounded like “Blegger joo.”
“Blegger joo to you too, my lady,” Shiloh said with irritating cheer as he set down the breakfast tray. Admiringly he stepped back to look at his brand-new bed that had just arrived the day before. It was so enormous that Cheney’s outline looked like a child’s form. The big oval heavy-laden breakfast tray sat in the middle of the bed, and there was plenty of room on either side for both Shiloh and Cheney to luxuriate in the sumptuous pile of warm covers while they munched, and still there was room to spread all the papers out. It was, Shiloh had to admit, an enormous piece of furniture. When it had been delivered, Shiloh had been shocked at how very small the room looked after the bed had been set up and made with the new linens he’d ordered. In fact, the master chamber did not just look smaller, it did have very little room left for the matching bombé chests. When Cheney had seen the bed when she came home from the hospital the previous night, her eyes had grown very round and she had blurted, “Oh! Oh my!”
Shiloh had seen the bed at a showroom that auctioned estate furnishings. He was not attending the auction, only passing by the converted warehouse, which was close to the docks. He had spotted the bed and immediately bought it. Only later did he find out that it was by the famous craftsman John Henry Belter. In 1856 Belter received a patent for this Rococo Revival style of bed frame, which was quite exuberant. This be
d was seven feet wide and eight feet long, the largest one known to have been made by Belter. Crafted of the finest cherrywood, it had an undulating headboard, footboard, and sides. The headboard had an elaborate carving of scrolls and flora above the molded rim. The back panel of the headboard curved down and around to form part of the sides. The side rails had carved protruding centers with tops upholstered in black velvet. The footboard was a truncated version of the headboard. Shiloh had sent the bed to a reputable furniture maker, who had copied the style to make the two bombé chests.
In spite of the fact that it dwarfed the bedroom, Shiloh loved the bed. The previous night had been the first night since he had been married that he had not awakened at least a couple of times in the night when he jostled Cheney.
Now he went to the fireplace and poked the great oak logs so that the flames rose high, spitting and roaring. Crossing to the double windows, he pulled aside the black velvet draperies with the gold tassels and looked out. Making a face at the predawn darkness, he thought better of it and shut the drapes again. Crossing to the bed, he plumped up his pillows, settled back against them—again reflecting how nice it was to be able to stretch his legs all the way out—picked up the Times, poured himself a cup of coffee, and munched a piece of bacon. Conversationally he said to Cheney’s oblivious head, “I’ve decided I’m going to live here. On this bed, I mean. Forever.”
“Mmm. Rankoo…”
“Yeah, that’s what I say.”
Shiloh scanned the front page, noting a related article he wanted to read on page eighteen. He was already dressed in his everyday wear—soft faded denims and a plain white shirt. The only difference in his uniform now and when he was poor was that his shirts were specially tailored for him so that for the first time in his life the sleeves were long enough and the shoulder yoke broad enough, and they were made of the fine linen called lawn instead of cotton in summer and linsey-woolsey in winter. Taking out his watch, he snapped it open. When Johnny comes marching home again—