For the first time since starting work a week earlier, Elizabeth got a full night’s sleep. And this was to be her day off. A note that had been slipped under her door asked her to meet for dinner with Dr. Morganstein and Mrs. Josephson, her benefactress from the hotel where she and her mother had stayed two years before and would again when her six weeks with the Alfred Morganstein Hospital for Women was up.
Elizabeth washed and dressed, wishing for her tub at home where she could soak up to her neck with fragrant bath salts and bubbles to float down her arm, which of course would mean she had time for such luxuries. At least the water felt cool on her skin, and she no longer wore freckles of dried blood.
I must be grateful for the smallest mercies, she reminded herself while fixing her hair in front of the mirror. Today, a mercy is that I do not have to wear that triangular kerchief on my head. She fluffed her fringe and then the rest of her hair, running her fingers through the weight of it and flipping it in the air. The motion tingled her scalp and let a breath of coolness blow in. But before leaving the room, she knotted it into a bun set high on the top of her head, keeping her neck free to absorb any cool air that strayed her way.
On the way down to the dining hall, she swung by the office to see if she had any mail. Two envelopes lay on the desk, one with her name penned in her mother’s handwriting. Seeing the Northfield stamp, she felt a slight stab of guilt. She’d not written home other than that brief note to say she’d arrived. She slit open the envelope and removed a sheet with her mother’s name printed at the top.
July 2, 1895
Dearest daughter,
I know you are working so hard and long that you have no time to write, but I have wonderful news for you, at least in your estimation. You have been accepted at Northern Medical School in Minneapolis. It makes me happy for you to have a dream come true, and for the rest of us, happy that you will be closer to home than Pennsylvania. I have enclosed their letter so that you may write back your acceptance. I’ve also included the address for the school on the East Coast so you can send your regrets.
Everything is going along well here. Thorliff has moved into the Stromme place to help out with Henry’s care until school starts, and then surely there will be another young man who needs a place to stay and earn his room and board.
Cook says to tell you that she will have your favorite things ready for you when you come home, which to all of us, cannot be any too soon. I am looking forward to our Chicago shopping expedition like we did last year. I covet our times together.
Your father sends his love. Oh, and remember the family whose boy died of the croup? She had another baby. He’s healthy and it was an easy birth. Dr. Gaskin was pleased.
Another piece of news—I keep running on here. Your father and I made the final decision to change churches. We are now members of the Congregational Church. Pastor Johnson is such a good friend and a fine example of a humble man of God. So opposite from Pastor Mueller. I know this news will please you.
If you cannot find time to write, you can always call on the telephone, and we will gladly pay the charges. We can get some use out of the thing besides calls from here to the office.
Always remember that I love you.
Your mother
You are not to feel guilty for not marrying. You are not to feel guilty for not marrying. Elizabeth repeated the words as she opened the next letter, which was from Thorliff, of all people. She stared off into space, thinking of her mother’s inferences and her own certainty that marriage was impossible.
But why is it impossible? The little voice sounded so reasonable. Male doctors are married.
But Dr. Morganstein isn’t. The inner discussion picked up the tempo.
Perhaps she never met a man she wanted to marry. You haven’t.
She glanced at the envelope in her hand. Her mother’s words teased their way past her defenses. Marrying a good friend is a good basis for— Elizabeth cut off further thoughts and ignored the slight feeling of warmth. Surely it was due to the weather and not any thoughts of Mr. Bjorklund, as if not using his Christian name would keep him at arm’s length. As if he’d ever been any closer than arm’s length, which was absolutely proper. She almost stamped her foot for emphasis.
Whatever is the matter with you today? When there was no answer, she began reading.
July 3, 1895
Dear Elizabeth,
I hope all is going as you wished at the hospital. I have to admit that the office and your home are strangely silent with you gone. Your father mentioned the other night after supper how he misses your playing the piano. Dr. Gaskin has been asking after you when he calls on Mr. Stromme. I have moved into his house to help for now. He has regained some of his speech and spends most of his day on the front porch, where half the town calls on him. One almost never sees him sitting by himself. I help him down there before I leave for work, and he holds court all day. I have been practicing my croquet. Your father and I play a match most evenings after supper when I eat there instead of with Mr. Stromme. I know we hear a lot of the local news at the paper, but Henry gleans it all. One just has to listen a bit more carefully than before the stroke. Dr. Gaskin is most pleased with his progress.
I had a letter from home, and Astrid is hoping and praying they can come visit me this summer. I end up feeling so guilty that I do not go home, not like I have had any time to do that. Things are so much busier at the paper with all the new printing contracts. The new press has made such a difference in the amount and quality of printing we can do, as you well know. Your mother has suggested that we put a line of cards and stationery into production. You must admit that poses intriguing possibilities. I read that Mark Twain is lecturing in Chicago. I hope you can find time to go and then tell me all about it.
Oh, and congratulations on your acceptance in Minneapolis. I know you will turn a staid place like that upside down.
Your friend,
Thorliff
Elizabeth tapped the edge of the envelope on the side of her finger as she entered the dining room. A basket of muffins sat by the coffeepot kept warm by a small fat candle burning on the stand under it. A bowl of canned peaches, a pitcher of milk, and a pan of oatmeal above another candle gave her choices to make. The quiet of the room seemed more important than the food. At the first bite she realized how hungry she was and thought back to the night before. Had she eaten supper or not? Not, she decided as she spooned in the oatmeal, alternating with bites of muffin and sips of coffee.
When nearly finished she took out the pad of paper she’d stuffed into her pocket in the office, along with a pencil, and wrote to her parents, to Thorliff, Dr. Gaskin, and to Thornton. She’d respond to the medical schools next but needed ink to write those letters.
She thought of going outside for a walk but chose instead to return to her room for a nap before dinner.
‘‘Ah, you look rested again.’’ Dr. Morganstein met her at the door to her private quarters. ‘‘I was growing concerned for you.’’
‘‘Thank you, but as Shakespeare said, sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care. Sounds like I was looking pretty raveled.’’
‘‘But not now. Ah, the resilience of youth. Come, Issy is already here and looking so forward to a good visit with you.’’
Arm in arm they entered the sitting room that looked more like a garden room with its white wicker furniture, green walls with white trim, blooming geraniums on the windowsills, and spider plants flowing over white stands. Three violets topped a chintz-covered round table, along with framed pictures of family members. A large oval picture of a little girl sitting on a bench seat, hands and ankles crossed and a bow in her hair, caught Elizabeth’s attention.
Dr. Morganstein’s gaze followed hers. ‘‘Ah, that is my sister at age five, most likely the only time she ever sat that still.’’
‘‘I thought it might be you.’’
‘‘We did look a lot alike. I am the elder and tried to keep her within bounds.’’
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br /> ‘‘At which she failed miserably.’’ Issy Josephson, eyes twinkling over her pince-nez glasses, shared a smile with Althea and joined them in front of the portrait. She reached for Elizabeth’s hand and cupped it in both of hers. ‘‘You know, ever since I saw you at the hotel, I have felt a new surge of joy for living. You are contagious, my dear, and I thank you for that.’’
Standing between the two women who’d been friends for far more years than she’d been on the earth, Elizabeth wanted to put her arms around their waists and hug them both. And so she did, surprising them as much as herself.
‘‘Dinner is served,’’ announced the smiling maid. ‘‘And Mrs. Cuvier says you should hurry so the souffle don’t fall.’’
‘‘Well, we surely don’t want a fallen soufflè.’’ Dr. Morganstein turned them in the direction of the dining room that, in lieu of the dark walls and heavy drapes of the current fashion, looked as bright and airy as the sitting room with its white walls and green trim.
Arm in arm they made their way to their chairs, Elizabeth taking in the discussion going on around her.
‘‘But how can you add another wing when there is no space left now?’’
‘‘I think we must buy the building next to us on the north. I have inquired, and the owner would be willing to sell.’’
Issy snorted. ‘‘For an exorbitant price, I am sure.’’
‘‘No, it’s really quite reasonable, considering.’’
‘‘Ah, a landlord with a heart? Now that is a novel idea.’’
‘‘Actually, he came to me. You see, someone he loves was treated here, and he feels we are doing a good job of improving the community. Personally, I think he had an encounter with our living Lord, and it changed something in him. He’s been making improvements in another building he owns down the street.’’
They sat and opened crisp white napkins to lay in their laps.
‘‘Well, I never.’’ Issy shook her head. She turned to smile at Elizabeth. ‘‘About like a leopard changing his spots, wouldn’t you say?’’
From what Elizabeth knew of landlords in neighborhoods like this one, she had to agree. ‘‘Would that it would happen to more of them.’’
‘‘Issy, will you say the grace today?’’ Dr. Morganstein asked and then bowed her head.
‘‘Holy Father, hear our prayers. Bless this food that it may give us the strength to carry out your will. In Jesus’ precious name, amen.’’
As soon as the maid set the souffle in front of Dr. Morganstein, Elizabeth leaned forward.
‘‘I have some wonderful news.’’
‘‘Good, I like to hear wonderful news.’’ Dr. Morganstein laid her hands in her lap the better to listen.
‘‘I have been accepted into the medical school in Minneapolis. I won’t have to study at the women’s school in Pennsylvania after all.’’ She stared at her two friends, wondering at the look that passed between them. ‘‘What? Are you not pleased?’’
‘‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s just that—’’
‘‘Just that we have good news too,’’ Issy interrupted her friend. ‘‘Tell her, Althea.’’
Dr. Morganstein dipped into the souffle to begin serving the meal. ‘‘I will as soon as we have our food in front of us.’’
Waiting had never been one of Elizabeth’s strong suits, but manners won out and she took a deep breath to calm herself.
‘‘Now, then. You know the building we were discussing a few minutes ago?’’ Dr. Morganstein now wore a more serious look.
Elizabeth could feel the tension run up her neck. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘One of my plans for it is to open a medical school of my own. We have room there for classrooms, including one large enough to build a cool room for the cadavers and have dissecting tables for ten specimens. That would accommodate twenty students. I have a benefactor who is willing to set up the entire laboratory, including an apothecary.’’
Elizabeth laid a hand on her middle to keep it from leaping and dancing.
‘‘You really mean this?’’
‘‘Of course, you think I would tease you?’’ When the young woman shook her head, the doctor continued. ‘‘I have five students ready to enter; you would make six. I wanted to wait until I was more sure of the possibilities before telling you. If all goes well, we could open the doors this fall. In the meantime we could start classes here in the basement. Patrick will have to move things around, but we do have room.’’
Elizabeth sank against the back of her chair. ‘‘I believe I better write another thanks but no thanks letter this afternoon. I know my mother will be disappointed since Minneapolis is closer to home, but . . .’’ She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘‘To be able to study here with you, with cadavers too, and the hospital . . .’’ Her voice trailed off.
‘‘Before the year is out, I predict there will be others clamoring at the door. You will have to expand even before you have completed the initial plans.’’ Issy tasted the soufflè. ‘‘Ah, delightful. Now let us eat before the food is ruined and we hurt Mrs. Cuvier’s feelings.’’
While the conversation lasted into the evening, Elizabeth went to her room still bubbling with questions and excitement. To be one of the first graduates of the Alfred Morganstein Medical School would indeed be an honor.
The next morning she entered her first examination room to find Moira Flannery, the young Irish woman she’d seen the summer before.
‘‘Why, hello. It is good to see you again.’’
‘‘Ah, Doctor, and you have come back to help out again?’’
‘‘I have, but I’m not a real doctor yet, just an assistant. How can I help you today?’’
The woman patted her swelling abdomen. ‘‘Just came to make sure all is right with the bairn.’’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘‘I see. And you have how many children now?’’
‘‘Two; one was stillborn in between.’’
And what has happened with that wife-beating husband of yours? Elizabeth kept that question off her lips and from her face, nodding instead and checking for more bruises without appearing to be doing so.
‘‘Me man, he’s been back to work, so things, they are better.’’
‘‘Good.’’ After checking the heartbeat of both mother and fetus, Elizabeth studied her patient. The yellowing bruise she saw on the woman’s upper arm could have come from banging into something. ‘‘You must take good care of yourself. Drink milk and eat red meat.’’ Was she naturally pale, as were so many with red hair, or was it the heat or . . .
‘‘Thankee, mum. I think I am about seven months along.’’
‘‘That seems about right. Let us check you again in a few weeks.’’
‘‘I will.’’
As the woman left the room, Elizabeth wrote her notes on the chart. Please, God, help that man keep his temper. Let him indeed be changed like she has said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Northfield, Minnesota
‘‘Ah, there you are, Mr. Bjorklund.’’
Thorliff looked up to see Mrs. Karlotta Kingsley bearing down on him. What was there about her that made him so uncomfortable?
‘‘Good day, Mrs. Kingsley.’’ He touched the brim of his straw boater, a recent acquisition at Rudy’s For Men. He’d bought it when Phillip sent him to the store to interview the owner for a recent article on local businesses. Rudy had given him a cut rate since he was writing for the paper. That same article had earned him a free soda at Mrs. Sitze’s Ice Cream Parlor.
‘‘I just spoke with dear Phillip, and he said you were just the one to attend the social I am sponsoring to earn money for the Missionary Society. The good book says that those of us who have must share with those less fortunate. Don’t you agree?’’
He nodded but only slightly. ‘‘I . . . I need to be going. I . . .’’
Before he could make a break past her, she took his arm and turned to accompany him, the swell of her prodigious bosom brushing his upper arm
.
Struck by a hot poker, he tried to withdraw his arm and only succeeded in bringing about another contact. Heat flared up his chest to his neck and face, hot enough to lift his hat and let it sail away on the windless air, the wind he needed so desperately right now and which for a change had taken time off. Not a leaf moved in the elm trees shading the sidewalk. The thoughts he was trying to keep pure—weren’t.
At any other time there would be mothers with baby carriages, businessmen, children playing hoops, someone to whom he could apply for assistance.
No one in sight.
Every time he tried to put some distance between her and his arm, she moved with him. Lord above, help me. What am I to do?
‘‘So you will attend, then?’’ She tapped his arm with her folded fan.
‘‘I . . . ah, I suppose so.’’ How can I get out of this? Fake an illness? ‘‘When did you say this soirèe will take place?’’
‘‘Tomorrow night.’’
‘‘Are you certain Mr. and Mrs. Rogers will not be attending?’’
‘‘Oh my, yes, they will be there, but dear Phillip said that he would rather attend as a guest and not have to worry about writing it up. He said that is what he has you for.’’
Phillip Rogers, I know you are my boss, but I also thought you were my friend. He swallowed, knowing that his Adam’s apple must be beet red. Blood-beet red.
‘‘Dear Mr. Bjorklund, I have a favor to ask of you.’’ She turned, and it happened again. Was it deliberate? The thought sent another burst of heat headward.
‘‘And what is that?’’ His voice cracked on the last word.
‘‘Would you please read over some of my writing and see if it might be publishable?’’ She tapped him again with the fan that hung on a braided cord around her wrist.
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