“Vera,” Mrs. Van Giesen says gently. “Miss Latigue has brought them with her to help us out. They work for the Council.” She gives Vera a warning look.
“I don’t care if they work for J. P. Morgan,” Vera says. “One is a cripple and the other one looks like a gypsy.” She kicks Viking’s side and the horse advances on us. He places his feet as carefully as a ballet dancer. I shrink back. Dorchy stands still. Before Viking takes another step, Tom runs over and grabs the bridle. He speaks quietly and Viking flicks his ears. Then Tom looks up at Vera.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to lash him with the whip. Instead she laughs. “You have a way with the boys and my horse and an eye for the girls. Well, well.”
Tom strokes Viking’s nose.
“Hire whomever you like to work in the house, Mother,” Vera says. “But keep them well clear of the campers.”
Dorchy steps forward. “Miss Van, where is that boy Ratty who was taken away from the dock and put in a truck?”
Vera keeps her erect posture, but her face freezes. Then she says in a calm, friendly tone, “The doctor tells me he was exposed to influenza, so he’s been quarantined for the good of all. We’ll be monitoring everyone who was on the train with him, because if he does have it, all of you are at risk.” She slides off Viking and hands the reins to Tom.
“While Tom takes Viking to the stable, we’ll have lunch here,” Vera says, “served by our new helpers.” She snaps her fingers. “Their names, Miss Latigue.”
Miss Latigue says loudly, “Dorchy Miller and Rowan Collier.”
Mrs. Van Giesen lets out a cry and covers her mouth with her hand.
Chapter 30
Mrs. Van Giesen collects herself and says, “Which one of you is Rowan?”
Dorchy pokes me.
“I am.”
“Rowan.” Mrs. Van Giesen reaches out her hand. I take it. She squeezes it between both of hers, and the sapphire digs into my skin. “I’m so very pleased to see you.” She looks at my crutch. “We heard you had died.”
Died? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Do call me Cecily.” Her hand trembles and she lets go of mine. “I know your father—or used to know him, I should say.” She takes a deep breath. “He traveled so much during the war, and afterward too, I’m told. I’m sure you hear from him, but…”
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t. Not once in five years.”
She nods. “Well, I’m sorry, but before we go further, I must vet you.”
“Vet me?”
“Establish that you are who you claim to be.” She laughs and clicks open her handbag. “Though you do bear an uncanny resemblance to Franklin.” She pulls out a leather notebook and gold pen. “Your father’s date of birth?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Father doesn’t share information about himself, but I can tell you this.” I take a breath and recite so fast the words run together, “HiramFaithJeremiahSarahGalenKatherinePeterSukeyHiramBetsyObadiahAnn—”
“Stop.” Cecily holds up her hand; her nose wrinkles. “What on earth does that mean?”
“It’s the Collier family tree. I started with the first Colliers in America, Hiram and Faith, 1634, and continued up the trunk to Father. Or I would have, if you hadn’t stopped me. He made me memorize their names in order when I was five.” Reciting the old names has an odd effect on me. I feel a surge of confidence. Father once said no to this woman, and she has no idea that I know.
Cecily beams at me. “That sounds just like Franklin. His lineage was so important to him.” Her chin juts out. “As ours is to us, of course.”
Of course.
“So now that I know you are who you say you are, I have to ask.” Her voice hardens. “Did he send you here to spy on us?”
What? I would laugh except that her eyes look as cold as her voice sounds. “I told you the truth. I haven’t heard from him for five years,” I say slowly. “He has no idea where I am.” Saying that aloud makes me feel strong. “I wouldn’t spy for him if he asked.”
“Then you will be my new assistant.” Cecily’s voice sparkles like her eyes. She is all sweetness again. “We’ll work together at the house. The other girl who came with you…what is her name again? She’ll stay here and help Nurse Blunt with the girls. I’m sure Vera didn’t mean it when she said to keep you two away from the campers. Miss Latigue will be staying at the house too.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Van Giesen.”
“Oh, please call me Cecily.”
My mind is racing. Miss Latigue never mentioned the possibility that Dorchy and I would be separated. I look for Dorchy to see if she heard, but she has her back to me, talking to Posy and the twins.
Cecily waves at Vera and says, “I want you to meet my daughter, Vera Van. She shortened her last name during the war because Van Giesen sounded too German.”
Vera strides over to us, tapping her whip against her leg. I take a step back.
Cecily says, “Vera, darling, look. This is Franklin Collier’s daughter Rowan. She has satisfied me that she is, beyond a doubt, Rowan Collier.”
Vera says impatiently, “What’s wrong with your leg? And what on earth can you do for the Council using a crutch?”
I answer the first question. “Polio paralyzed my legs five years ago. I was in Bellevue for a year, treated by Dr. Friedlander. I then spent four years with Dr. Pynchon at the Boston Home.” No one has asked me anything about myself for a long time. I consider the next words, testing them before I add, “Father went to France during the war, and I haven’t seen him since. My sister, Julia, is my guardian. They are both in Europe.”
“Julia Collier,” murmurs Cecily. “A delightful young woman. Devoted to the cause of sterilization as I recall. You know her too, Vera.”
Vera sniffs and walks away.
As Dorchy and I hand out sandwiches and cups of water to the campers, I keep thinking, If we show that we work well together, they’ll keep us together. But as soon as the campers start eating, Cecily says, “Come, Rowan. I’ll take you over to the house for a bath and some decent clothes.”
Dorchy gapes at me. “What does she mean?”
“It’s a mistake. I’ll be back here as soon as I talk to Miss Latigue.”
“Class sticks together,” Dorchy says, her face blotchy red with anger. “The carny gets pushed back.”
“It’s not like that,” I plead. “I don’t want to go, but she knew my father and…”
Dorchy turns her back on me.
Sick at heart, I say, loud enough for Dorchy to hear, “Miss Latigue promised us that Dorchy and I would work together while we’re here. And she specifically said we would wear these uniforms and our aprons.”
“No, no,” Cecily says. “You’ll work wherever I think best. And I need you in the house with me. As far as clothes, girls your age like pretty things, and while you work for me, you shall have them.”
I look back, hoping for a sign from Dorchy, but she is standing stiff-backed, staring out the wall of windows at the ocean.
I’m so sorry I got us into this, I tell her silently and promise, I’ll be back as soon as I can. It sounds like Father’s promise to me at Bellevue.
Outside, as Cecily and I walk along the gravel drive, the red house calls to me, You belong here. Maybe I did once, but now I belong where Dorchy is. On our right are the woods, as thick and green and dark as a fairy-tale forest. I feel like Gretel following the witch to the candy house. Compelled to go forward, but more suspicious with every step.
Cecily opens the heavy front door. After the noise of the gym, the big house seems very quiet. And airy. And beautiful. I suck in a deep breath of salt air pouring through the screen door at the far end of the hall on a shaft of sunlight.
“Come with me,” Cecily says. I follow her halfway down the hall—polished hardwood wit
h islands of oriental rugs—into a small office. Behind the big wooden desk, a window looks out on an overgrown garden, and beyond that, I catch a glimpse of the cliff and the bay where the ferry landed. The warm room smells of lemon oil. The desk chair is wooden, not leather like Father’s. On the wall hangs a yellow and brown poster. Under the words “Sow your family’s seed in healthy soil,” a farmer scatters seeds from a basket onto a plowed field. An Underwood typewriter is centered on a typing table next to tall, wooden file cabinets.
“This is the camp office,” Cecily says, “and here you can be of great help to me.” She points to the file cabinets. “This summer’s records are kept in the top drawer. You will confine yourself to that.” She opens the drawer and shows me the files. “The other drawers are locked, and if you ever discover one that isn’t, you must tell me immediately. I need your word on that.”
“Of course, you have my word,” I say, and then, “Why are they locked?”
Cecily’s cheeks turn a deep red. “They contain notes on research projects conducted by Vera and Dr. Jellicoe.” She rests her hand on the file cabinet. “The files shouldn’t be in here. They have nothing to do with the camp.”
My heart beats faster. She’s lying about that. Why?
She turns her back on the file cabinet. “When Vera is in the house, you will work in my private office next door. Is that clear? She is very, um, picky about who may use this room.”
“Miss Latigue told us she was here to examine files,” I say. “Will she be working in this office?”
“Yes.” Cecily draws herself up taller. “I personally will select the files for her. As I told you, she will be staying here in the house.”
Cecily waits for me to leave and then closes the office door. “Now, my dear, a bath and some fresh clothes. Cook can wash the ones you traveled in. I will pick some more suitable outfits and leave them on your bed while you bathe.” She puts her hand on my arm. “I am so very pleased to meet you,” she says. “I will take good care of you while you’re here. Your father will have no complaints.”
She’s right, but for the wrong reason. Father will have no complaints because he has no interest in me.
I slip into warm water in a pink marble bathtub. A kerosene heater pulses warmth, an electric light casts a pink glow, and lavender bath salts scent the air. I used to take baths like this for granted. In two weeks I could be back home having baths like this again. Hope bubbles up like the lavender bath salts.
I rub soap on my arms and neck and head, happy to have shed my salty gingham dress. After my bath, I’ll put on different clothes.
I lie back and stretch out my left leg, the stranger. The scar from the operation I had two years ago slashes red across my thigh. The one wonderful thing Julia did for me in those years at the Boston Home was to make sure I received that operation. Her usual visits were so unsatisfactory that they could have been scripted by someone who didn’t know how sisters are supposed to speak and act.
But at the start of my second year, she tracked down Dr. Friedlander at Boston Children’s Hospital. He had left Bellevue but agreed to accept me as a patient again and perform the operation. Julia came to Boston and stayed in a hotel, visiting me daily while I was in the hospital. She promised me and Dr. Friedlander that I would see him regularly for the next three months and made all the arrangements. Thanks to her, my left leg has a real chance of being as strong as the right.
But she didn’t keep her promise to bring me home to New York after my sixteenth birthday in June.
Dr. Friedlander talked to me alone after the operation. He was very quiet when I told him about Dr. Pynchon and the Home. He told me my leg could get stronger, but only with use and the proper exercise. “In time you’ll be able to walk with a barely noticeable limp, I promise you. So now you need to start thinking about what you want to do with your life.”
“I want to go home to New York.”
He ignored that. “I told you back at Bellevue that you would make a fine nurse,” he said. He was facing the window, playing with the curtain cord. From the hall came a rattle of wheels, the lunch trays being delivered. I sat very still on the edge of my bed.
He turned and said quietly, “There is an excellent nursing school at this hospital. I can speak to your sister if you’d like. You understand the disease and have a gift for connecting with children, the essential qualification for a polio nurse. I saw how the other patients on your ward at Bellevue responded to you. You say you are as helpful as you can be to the little ones at the Home. Think about a career working with children who are terrified and alone in the hospital dealing with a crippling disease.”
“That’s your gift,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “At Bellevue, we felt better even if you only poked your head into the ward and said, ‘Good morning.’” I started to cry.
“You will make a fine nurse,” he said again. “But first”—his tone was now light and playful—“strengthen and put weight on that leg as often as you can. It will get stronger. Sadly your exercise has been neglected at the Boston Home by that woman…”
Julia arrived then and Dr. Friedlander said, “We were discussing the possibility—with your father’s permission, of course—of Rowan training to be a nurse, specifically to work with me here in the polio ward after she leaves the Home.”
Julia frowned. “But surely a cripple cannot be a nurse.”
Dr. Friedlander’s voice was icy as he said, “Her mind and hands and heart are unaffected by polio, Miss Collier, and they are what count in nursing.”
Well, this summer I’ve used my leg and strengthened it in ways Dr. Friedlander never imagined. I leave the bathtub and pull the chain to empty it. Wrapped in a huge purple towel, as soft and thick as a quilt, I wipe a sponge around the tub and rinse it carefully. At the Home I learned to keep common spaces clean for the next user.
I dry off and go through a connecting door into my bedroom, a big, comfortable room at the back of the house, away from the ocean. I put on the clothes Cecily laid out on the bed—silk underwear, a white sailor blouse with a navy-blue tie, and a navy flannel skirt. The skirt is too big so I roll the waistband over and push up the sleeves. Long black stockings and beautiful black leather boots. Real clothes like these seem like a dream.
Cecily is waiting for me at the foot of the wide staircase. She clasps her hands and says, “You look much better, my dear. In those clothes even your father would recognize you.”
I consider telling her that after all this time, Father probably couldn’t recognize me even if he wanted to.
She leads the way to a sitting room at the front of the house, overlooking the ocean. We eat sugar cookies and drink tea. I’m so hungry I eat two cookies before remembering my manners. “Thank you for these, and the bath and clothes,” I say.
Cecily nods and smooths her skirt. “Do you have any questions about Loup Island, dear? Anything you need?”
I need to be with Dorchy. “Will I be eating dinner at the gymnasium tonight, Mrs…um, Cecily?”
“No, you’ll dine here with me, Vera, and Miss Latigue. Better company for you. Some of the campers’ manners can be quite rough around the edges.”
Rough around the edges?
“We are more your type than that Dorchy,” she adds.
“Dorchy is exactly my type.” My voice rises. “She is an orphan like me. And we are friends.”
“I see you feel strongly about this.” Cecily puts down her teacup. “I won’t speak of it again, except to say I know your father would expect me to open my home and my arms to you, and protect you while you are on my island.”
I bite back another comment about Father’s long absence. It’s clear that Cecily intends to keep me away from the gym and Dorchy until we leave. I am her prize possession, and she is going to “protect” me here in her castle. But protect me from what?
I’ll look for answers as soo
n as I have some time alone in the office. Thanks to Gar’s training, the locks on those file drawers don’t have a chance.
Chapter 31
The dining room table, covered with a cream damask cloth, is set with silverware, china plates, and crystal goblets. A candelabra bathes us in a warm glow. Miss Latigue and I drink water; Vera and Cecily have wine. Everything looks familiar. How many dinners did I eat in New York at a table just like this? But I feel disconnected, as if I’ve floated up and am looking down at the room.
“The Council has had troubling reports of children here dying of the flu,” Miss Latigue says, spreading her napkin on her lap. “I look forward to learning more.”
“They aren’t children!” Vera slams down her wineglass.
“Vera, please.” Cecily sounds weary.
“I’m sorry, Miss Latigue,” Vera says in an un-sorry tone, “but as you know, our campers this summer are fourteen or older, hardly ‘children.’”
“Except for the twins, Lolly and Dolly,” says Miss Latigue, patting her lips with her napkin. “They act much younger than fourteen.”
Vera helps herself to a roll from a silver basket. “Well, the twins are a special case. Technically they are research subjects, not campers. But all the other campers this summer have been at least fourteen.”
“And how many of them have died?” Miss Latigue speaks softly, but she’s like a terrier on the trail of a savory rat.
“Influenza is so unpredictable, isn’t it?” Cecily says. “I lost six healthy members of my family in the epidemic of 1918. Six. In two weeks. Some were only sick for hours before they died.” She goes on, quoting statistics about flu cases in institutions and at summer camps in New England, including a Connecticut camp where three teenagers died of flu in July.
“Those were measles cases,” says Miss Latigue. “And only two campers died. I don’t know how this false information spreads.”
“Well, here at Loup Island”—Cecily sounds nervous—“we have done what’s best for the majority of campers, and that is inoculation.”
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