‘Even the best plans can seem foolish to begin with,’ Mrs Whitman said.
‘What did Thomas tell you?’
‘He mentioned something about university. And he said not to tell your mother.’
Evie laughed. ‘That about sums it up. Remember I told you I wanted to continue at college but my parents disagreed?’
Mrs Whitman nodded.
‘I didn’t know then what I wanted to study. But now I want to see what might be involved in studying medicine.’ As soon as Evie said it, she wanted to take it back. It sounded shocking when said aloud in her girlish voice.
But Mrs Whitman didn’t flinch or look disgusted. ‘It’s a fine idea.’
‘After seeing Rose – the woman at the river – with the baby … I thought perhaps I could become …’ Evie’s voice faltered on the final, ridiculous phrase. She looked down at her gloves, at the white fabric covering her hands as if they were something appalling to behold without the gloss of silk. ‘I thought about becoming a doctor who helps women give birth.’
‘An obstetrician.’
It sounded simple when Mrs Whitman said it. Still, Evie felt she had to mock her own absurd ambition. ‘It’s like saying I want to be a lady of the night. Unthinkable. More than unthinkable. Most people, my mother included, would never speak to me again.’ She paused before continuing, encouraged by Mrs Whitman’s expression. ‘But I thought if I found out what I’d have to do, I could go to Papa and show him that some universities allow women to study medicine and then he might reconsider. I mightn’t mention the obstetrician part for now, though.’
Mrs Whitman laughed. ‘That’s probably a good idea. One hurdle at a time. You should try the College of Physicians and Surgeons. It’s now a part of Columbia University. They have the best reputation.’
Evie recalled Thomas’s letter. He’d also referred to Columbia. ‘I will. And I’m glad you don’t think I’m being outrageous.’
‘It’s outrageous that only male doctors or midwives help women with birthing, especially now that so many women are going to hospitals to have their babies. Now there’ll be fewer midwives and more men involved in giving birth, which makes no sense to me. If young women like you try to become obstetricians and scientists or even the mayor of a city, then more people will start to believe women can do such things.’
‘You make it sound as if it’s possible.’
‘I hope it is.’ Mrs Whitman smiled at Evie. ‘Have you said anything to Charles?’
Evie sighed. What if Mrs Whitman was only helping her because of Charlie’s attachment to her? Should she mention to Mrs Whitman her doubts about marrying Charlie? It was hardly honest of her to be silent. But she also needed Mrs Whitman’s help more than she’d ever needed anything. So she prevaricated. ‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘It’s hard enough saying it to myself.’
Mrs Whitman nodded and surprised Evie by saying, ‘Some advice: it’s much easier to be dissuaded from something when you don’t yet have it all worked out in your head. Don’t tell Charles about your idea until you’re ready.’
Through the window of Evie’s bedroom at the Whitmans’ the next morning, Central Park sparkled with dew like a Tiffany diamond. Evie’s feet itched to go outside. Both New York and the Whitmans’ Upper East Side mansion were like a dive into cold water; a visceral and brilliant shock that made her whole body and mind feel alive and exhilarated. She wolfed down some waffles for breakfast and left for an adventure. It was only when she began to walk down Fifth Avenue that she realised she was unsuitably attired for adventure. The young women on the street wore vivid shades of teal, red and emerald. The waistlines of their dresses had been relocated to their hips and their sleeves draped like wings from the shoulder to the wrist. Evie wore a pale grey suit that made her feel invisible and not up to the task she’d set herself for the day. She needed armour, something to both protect her from and give her strength to handle the meeting she’d organised with the tutor Thomas had recommended. If she dressed like Evie Lockhart, medical school explorer, then perhaps she’d feel less like Evelyn Lockhart, the girl from Concord who’d never had a real adventure in her life. She quickly found Saks & Co., where a stunning array of shoes greeted her – silk, satin, brocade, velvet, lace. The perfect pair caught her eye in the same way as the dew of Central Park had, beckoning with a similar air of promise.
‘I’d like to try these on, please.’ Evie pointed to the shoes in a way that she hoped suggested she frequented Saks regularly. In fact, she had only ever been shopping before in the company of Viola and her mother, on their twice-yearly expeditions to Boston for reclothing.
As soon as she slipped the shoes onto her feet she knew they were going to be lifelong friends. She paid for them with money given to her by her father and stuffed her old shoes in a rubbish bin. It was reckless, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to keep anything that made her feel as young and unworldly as she probably was. In the clothing department she found a dress to match, plus another for evening, and then stared at the rouge and lipstick in the toiletries department for at least ten minutes before she worked up the courage to buy some. Afterwards, she quickly hid the packages in her purse, even though she’d already noticed that many women in Manhattan wore cosmetics. Here, going outside without rouge seemed almost as unthinkable as going outside without a hat, whereas in Concord to be seen wearing makeup was to declare yourself a harlot.
Evie sailed outside and heard ‘The New York Glide’ swirl onto the sidewalk from one of the nearby restaurants. She hummed along to the words – Just grab your partner, ’round the waist, hook her lightly in her place. Her shoes were dancing shoes, covered in tiny silver beads and clear glass crystals, with a rhinestone button on the sides to secure the strap. They were out of place on a city street at noon but she didn’t care. They made her feel brave. She could imagine them sparkling in a jazz club after the sun went down – a side of the city Evie desperately wanted to see. She’d have to show her smile to Charlie tonight when he arrived from Harvard for the weekend, in the hopes that he’d take her out. He was her only chance to see the city at night; she knew nobody else in Manhattan.
Just lay back and do the shimaree; Buzz up to your baby like a bumblebee, the song continued. Perhaps in New York, things would be different. Charlie would judge women with scientific aspirations less harshly. His behaviour by the river would prove to be an aberration. She reminded herself that they’d been great friends forever. And who knew what might happen between them, locked in a foxtrot on a dance floor somewhere?
Evie grinned and checked her wristwatch. She had to hurry. She was due at Mr Childers’ rooms in Greenwich Village in half an hour. Enough time to stroll along Bleecker Street, where her body loosened, shifted into the shape required to wear the dress she’d purchased. Her legs seemed to lengthen, her gait unbuttoned itself and she strolled like the other young women on the street: freely, unconstrained by a corset of mothers.
She was so busy looking around that she kept bumping into people and apologising. Unlike Concord, with its street after street of wooden houses in shades of lemon, salmon and cream, standing far away from one another as if to get too close would be presumptuous, here everyone lived on top of each other, in row houses with windows lined up precisely, the only sign of discipline Evie could see. Otherwise it was a jumble of coffee houses, tearooms, fish shops and grocers draped in sagging awnings declaring the name – usually Italian – of the proprietor and what goods one might find through the doors, everything from Pizza! to headache powders. And in the midst of it all were wonderful buildings like the Jefferson Market Courthouse, a Victorian Gothic confection whose spired tower rose above the Village like a fairytale palace that had taken a wrong turn but was having too much fun in bohemia to return to its royal duties.
Evie could have kept walking forever, but she didn’t want to be late so she backtracked to Carmine Street, found the right building and knocked on the door.
‘Miss Lockhart?’ The man who opened
the door was younger than Evie had expected, only a little older than Thomas. ‘I’m William Childers,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He indicated that she should sit down in the front room. Evie carefully picked her way past teetering stacks of books and towers of paper that fluttered in the wake of her new dress.
She sat and took a deep breath. ‘Thomas Whitman was concerned there might be gaps in my schooling that would prevent me from being offered a place at university. I’m considering studying medicine at Columbia.’
She paused, waiting for him to snigger at the thought. But either Thomas had already explained the situation to him or he had excellent composure because he only said, ‘You’ve been to Radcliffe or Vassar?’
‘I took literature at Radcliffe. I was top of my class. But discussing the merits of a Petrarchan sonnet is fine for dinner conversation and not much else.’
‘Thomas is probably right. Most women are disqualified because they were taught to bake a pie rather than understand it’s also a number.’
‘I know what pi is,’ Evie snapped.
‘And did you know that a collegiate course of four years is considered the most desirable preparation for studies in medicine at Columbia?’
‘Four years! But I’ve only studied at Radcliffe for two.’ Evie’s flash of anger vanished like champagne in the hands of a flapper.
They regarded one another for a moment. Mr Childers wore a look of resignation on his face, as if he had better things to do than bother with a silly girl who had too much time on her hands and not enough knowledge to understand she hadn’t the schooling required to study medicine. Her dress no longer felt like armour. Instead the modishness of it and the deep violet fabric seemed to underscore his clear belief that she ought to be serving pie to her husband rather than sitting in his office.
Evie hesitated. She ran a hand over her dress. She tried to claw back some of her earlier exultation.
‘Did Thomas speak to you about me? she asked.
‘He did,’ Mr Childers replied.
‘Then if you know Thomas, you know he’s not inclined to hyperbole. If he thinks I’m worth tutoring, perhaps I am.’ Evie kept her eyes fixed on Mr Childers as she spoke, needing him to listen to her, to believe that she spoke the truth, even if she hardly believed it herself.
Mr Childers sighed. ‘I said four years was the most desirable. However, the college also states their minimum requirement, which is two academic years – a minimum of seven months per year – at an acceptable college of arts and sciences. Radcliffe is deemed acceptable.’
So Evie had one thing in her favour. ‘But is literature?’
‘Ordinarily, no. You need to have taken one year of physics.’
‘I’ve taken none.’ This was worse than Evie had anticipated. Of course you would need physics. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would know that. Her plan was being shown up as worse than foolish.
‘If you read the college catalogue, you’ll see that one year of physics is the equivalent of eight semester hours,’ Mr Childers went on resignedly. ‘It’s the same with inorganic chemistry. You need to have completed one year, but that’s an aggregate of six to ten semester hours.’
Evie needed to be certain of what she was hearing. ‘One year of physics is only eight hours per semester?’
‘That’s correct. And your literature degree means you meet the requirements for English, and for French.’
‘So literature has helped me with something other than analysing the finer points of Mr Fitzgerald’s fictional kisses? But I don’t think the chemical reactions in those novels are quite what the College of Physicians and Surgeons has in mind.’
Mr Childers surprised her by laughing. ‘You’re not what I expected. When I opened the door and saw you –’
‘You thought I was a bored society lady wanting to fool around with science in between organising tea parties? It’s my own fault, I suppose,’ Evie continued. ‘I bought the dress for courage without considering that bright purple might somehow magnify my intellectual failings.’
Mr Childers laughed again, a warm laugh, with an edge of friendliness to it. ‘Perhaps the college could do with someone like you.’
Evie used the moment of apparent conviviality to find out a little more about him. ‘Thomas said that you used to tutor Charles?’
‘Yes. Through the winter break. Charles was close to failing. So Thomas dragged him down here every morning and sat with him while he worked. He thought that if he left his brother to his own devices, Charles would most likely find something else more entertaining to do.’
‘And did it work?’
‘He’s still at Harvard.’
Evie relaxed. Despite the pi comment, she liked Mr Childers. He’d helped Charlie stay at Harvard, which was no small feat, he was forthright and he knew what she needed to do to make her idea a reality. Another thought struck her. ‘Even if one year’s worth of chemistry and physics is only thirty-odd hours, I’m not enrolled in a university to take those classes.’
‘The college has a summer school from early July to mid-August. Registration is this week. You’ll be able to take all the classes you need to meet the minimum requirements for entry into medical school in September. But you’ll need someone to tutor you as well. The catalogue also states that meeting the admission requirements does not guarantee admission, and that …’ Mr Childers opened a handbook and read aloud, ‘“The entire premedical record of each student is carefully examined by the Committee of Admissions in order that those who are adjudged most capable of meeting the exacting demands of the course and of the profession of medicine may be selected.” Your grades have to be the highest possible. You want to be sure the admissions board can’t overlook you because …’
‘I’m a woman,’ Evie cut in.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you tutor me?’
‘I have a test you need to take before I decide whether to take you on.’
‘I can pay you.’
‘I’m sure you can, Miss Lockhart. But you may not be worth teaching.’
Evie was speechless. It was the first time in her life anyone had ever given her the true measure of herself. At the Academy, and at Radcliffe, her piano performances, her poetry, her French accent and her deportment were always praised. She did better than her peers at most things. Based on that praise, Evie had thought she was clever. But Mr Childers was implying that her cleverness might stretch only so far as the womanly arts. What if he was right? Life had been so easy until now. She had never really had to try at anything. Except sewing. And because she found it boring and difficult, she’d given it up. Perhaps it was finally time to work hard at something, to see what she was truly capable of. She didn’t imagine Thomas had made it through Harvard Law School and up to his position as vice-president of the bank without having to work at it.
‘Can I sit the test now?’ she asked, either bravely or foolishly, she wasn’t sure which.
‘Certainly.’ Mr Childers passed her some papers and stood up. ‘I’ll be in the other room. You have one hour.’
The equations in the paper seemed to go on forever, like rows of sheep on a sleepless night. Evie remembered the gentleness of her literature examinations, predictable essays on the use of punctuation in Emily Dickinson’s poetry, and she almost despaired. But as she started to work, she began to see that mathematical and chemical equations had some similarities with the essay form: she was given the beginning paragraph and it was up to her to structure a coherent middle section and a logical conclusion. In one hour she didn’t finish all the questions. There were many she didn’t know the answer to. She understood now that schooling at a ladies’ academy, followed by two years of literature at a ladies’ college, was very different to schooling for a man.
Crestfallen, she handed the test papers back to Mr Childers. ‘I expect I’m a great deal more ignorant than I thought.’
He shook her hand enthusiastically. ‘But at least you’re aware of your limitations. For
most, that’s half the battle. I’ll telephone in two days to advise if I’ll tutor you.’
In two days it might all be over, Evie thought as she walked back along Bleecker Street. A week ago it wouldn’t have mattered. Now, because of Rose and her baby, it mattered more than anything.
When she returned to the Whitmans’, nobody was about. Evie went into the drawing room and put on a recording she’d purchased in the Village. The title of the song suited her mood: ‘Tain’t Nobody’s Biz-ness if I Do’. Daringly, she poured herself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the chiffonier, unable to stop the doubts. What if she failed Mr Childers’ test, was unable to enter university and had to return to Concord? Then she’d have no choice but to marry Charlie.
She sat down in an armchair sideways, with her legs tucked over the arm in a way she would never have done at home and in a way she probably shouldn’t do amid the grandeur of the Whitmans’ home. But somehow, despite the brilliant green cloisonné vases that writhed with colourful dragons, the magnificent Picasso harlequins painted in shades of rose, and the elegance of the frescoed ceiling, Evie felt as if she was in a room meant to be lived in, rather than one that was purely decorative. She could see herself reflected in the mirror over the fireplace. Hazel eyes flecked with gold; blue eyes would have looked better with her blonde hair, her mother always said. Slender figure – too slender, her mother’s opinion again; she needed to stop running around and learn to sit still. Pale skin and long hair that felt too heavy against her neck. It was the same skin, the same body, the same hair she’d had for twenty years. But none of it seemed familiar to her, because now it was filled with longings she might not be able to satisfy. She sipped her brandy and listened to the song, crooning to her that no matter what she did, she’d be criticised for it. The singer clearly knew Mrs Lockhart well.
She felt her eyes tear up and wiped them angrily. The old Evie Lockhart would cry and sulk. The New York Evie Lockhart wouldn’t give up. She had to square her shoulders and hope for the best. Even if she was only pretending and underneath it all she felt as scared as hell.
A Kiss From Mr Fitzgerald Page 5