by Amanda Cabot
“This won’t.”
Jason could only hope she was right.
9
Elizabeth wasn’t certain what to expect when she went to the bordello. When she’d thought about it, she’d envisioned a building painted flamboyant colors. At the very least, she’d thought it would be tawdry. But had she not seen the discreet sign next to the front door, she would have walked by the two-story brick building with the lace- and velvet-covered windows. There was nothing distinctive about it other than its size. While it wasn’t as large or as ornate as the cattle barons’ mansions that lined Ferguson and the streets near the Cheyenne Club, it was more than average sized. It had to be to accommodate a dozen women and half a dozen servants. Although unpretentious, all it needed was a wide front porch, and it would have appeared to be home to a large family.
As Elizabeth climbed the steps to the small stoop by the front door, she reflected that the absence of a porch was deliberate. While she had waited for her cast to dry, Phoebe had spoken of the building she called home, saying she hadn’t bothered with an architect but had had it built to her specifications. Undoubtedly Phoebe had realized that no one would use a porch. She had told Elizabeth that, unlike some madams, she chose not to put her girls on display. Furthermore, it was unlikely visitors would want to advertise their presence by sitting on the porch. According to Gwen, Phoebe catered to the most influential members of Cheyenne’s society. Perhaps that was why she referred to it as a bordello rather than a whorehouse. The term wasn’t important. What was was that the building housed the majority of Elizabeth’s patients.
Gripping her bag, she tried not to frown. No matter what Jason had said, treating Phoebe’s girls was the right thing to do. They needed medical care, and they deserved to be treated with respect, regardless of how they earned their living. The frown she’d tried to repress settled on her face as she remembered Jason’s expression the day she’d told him she would be treating these women. Just when she thought she understood him, he did something unexpected.
While she hadn’t believed he would be overjoyed by the idea, Elizabeth hadn’t realized he’d be so adamant about her treating Phoebe’s girls. Had it been another man, she might have believed that he was one of Phoebe’s customers and feared she’d discover that, but Elizabeth was convinced Jason did not frequent Phoebe’s or any of what Mama referred to as houses of ill repute. Elizabeth couldn’t explain how she knew, but she was certain Jason would not pay for a woman’s favors. It wasn’t simply that as a minister’s son he would have heard numerous sermons about the evils of fornication. Those sermons might have influenced him, but they weren’t the only reason he wouldn’t visit Phoebe. Though he and Elizabeth disagreed on some things, fundamentally, Jason was a man of honor, and that honor would not allow him to demean a woman.
That thought—no, Elizabeth corrected herself, that knowledge—chased away her frown. Jason had disagreed with her decision to treat Phoebe’s girls, but the reason had nothing to do with him. It was because he feared Elizabeth would hurt her chances for acceptance as a physician, and he’d wanted to protect her. How sweet!
Her smile as wide as the Wyoming prairie, Elizabeth knocked on the door. A few seconds later, she was escorted into what would have been called a parlor in another house. Elizabeth wasn’t certain what term applied here. Like an ordinary parlor, it was furnished with comfortable seating, a few small tables and lamps. Like an ordinary parlor, it boasted a thick carpet. Unlike an ordinary parlor, it had a second door to the outside, perhaps so that patrons could enter without attracting attention, and unlike an ordinary parlor, the paintings that hung on the walls brought a blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks. Portraits of women wearing only scraps of cloth artfully draped over their bodies looked down from each of the walls.
“I see I’ve shocked you,” Phoebe said as she made her way into the room.
Grateful to have something less controversial to look at, Elizabeth focused her attention on the woman who’d invited her here. Though she was dressed in the unrelieved black that she’d worn the day she broke her ankle, today her hair was gathered into a simple chignon rather than the elaborate coiffure she’d sported that day. What held Elizabeth’s attention was her awkwardness with the crutch. It had been almost a week since Elizabeth had prescribed it for her. By now she should have become accustomed to it.
“I’d say I was startled rather than shocked. The truth is, I’m more concerned about your ankle than your artwork.” Elizabeth pointed toward the crutch. “You’re still having trouble with it.”
Phoebe nodded her agreement. “I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I was hoping you could show me what I’m doing wrong. First, I want you to meet my girls. Girls!”
They must have assembled in the long hallway that extended from the front to the back of the house, for they entered the parlor as soon as they heard Phoebe’s command. Like the exterior of the house, they were not what Elizabeth had expected. They wore no face paint, and their hair was neatly braided. The only clues to their profession were the unnatural shade of some of the girls’ hair and the elaborately trimmed wrappers they wore. Though as modest as the wrappers Elizabeth owned, these had more ruffles and lace than she’d ever seen. Even Charlotte’s fanciest creations were plain compared to this.
As the girls filed into the room and perched on the various chairs, Phoebe inclined her head toward Elizabeth. “This is Dr. Harding. As I told you this morning, she’s going to replace Doc Worland.”
A round of cheers greeted her words and warmed Elizabeth’s heart, confirming her belief that she had made the right decision in treating these women. “Thank you. I want to assure you that I’ll do my best to keep you healthy.”
Elizabeth looked around the room, noting that several of the girls appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, while others were in their middle thirties. What they all had in common were their eyes. There was a quiet resignation in them that told Elizabeth they knew there was no hope of changing their lives. But, though her heart ached for them, Elizabeth could not set them on different paths. All she could do was tend to their medical needs.
She gave the girls a smile, hoping they’d realize she was their ally. “I also want to assure you that whatever you tell me will be kept in confidence.”
“Except from me.” Phoebe’s voice filled the room, and though no one said a word, Elizabeth saw several of them wince.
“Even from you, ma’am,” she said firmly. “What I learn will be kept confidential. That is my responsibility as a physician.”
“But Doc Worland . . .”
Though she hated to contradict Phoebe, particularly in front of her girls, Elizabeth could not back down. “I am not Dr. Worland. I can compromise on many things, but patient confidentiality is not one of them.”
For a long moment, Phoebe said nothing, merely stared at Elizabeth as if expecting her to flinch. At last, she nodded. “All right. I’ll find out sooner or later, anyway.” She gestured toward the girls. “They’ll wait for you upstairs in their rooms. You might as well start with me. This ankle’s itching something awful.”
As the girls climbed the staircase, Phoebe led the way down the hallway. Elizabeth saw a large dining room on the right, behind the parlor, but the wall on the left was unbroken except by one door at the very end. Pulling a key from her pocket, Phoebe unlocked that door.
“These are my private quarters,” she said as she led the way into a sumptuously furnished sitting room. Like the parlor, Phoebe’s boudoir had a second entrance, this one leading outside. Opposite the entrance, an open door revealed a bedchamber. There were no portraits of scantily clad women here. Instead, the walls boasted delicate watercolors of European scenes. Elizabeth recognized the Roman Colosseum and Paris’s Notre Dame Cathedral but couldn’t identify the bridge.
“It’s the Bridge of Sighs in Venice,” Phoebe said as she sank onto a horsehair settee. “I keep the pictures to remind me that there’s a world outside of this house.”
Though there was a wistfulness in her voice that made Elizabeth think Phoebe regretted her choice of profession, she would say nothing. She was here as a physician, not as a judge or even an advisor.
“I noticed that you’re left-handed,” Elizabeth said, gesturing to the hand that still held the key. “I hadn’t realized that before. It’s no wonder you’re having difficulty with the crutch.” To keep the weight off her injured ankle, Phoebe had to manipulate the crutch with her right arm and hand, and since that was her nondominant side, it was awkward. “Perhaps you should try a cane instead. I can have one delivered this afternoon.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Go ahead. It can’t be any worse.” She was silent while Elizabeth inspected her ankle, but when Elizabeth declared it was healing well and that the itching was normal, Phoebe gave Elizabeth her most persuasive smile. “Are you sure you won’t tell me what you learn from the girls?”
Elizabeth suspected this was the reason Phoebe had asked to be first. She wanted another chance to persuade Elizabeth. “I can only tell you if it’s something that might endanger the others. I’ve heard there have been a few cases of diphtheria in the area. If one of your girls contracted it, you would need to know so that you could quarantine her.”
Phoebe’s lips thinned. “None of them have diphtheria.”
They did not. As she completed the last of her examinations three hours later, Elizabeth suspected Phoebe might have preferred diphtheria.
“Are you going to tell her?” Sheila Kerrigan asked when Elizabeth confirmed her diagnosis. The petite brunette had classic black Irish coloring, with hair so dark a brown it was almost black and deep blue eyes. In the lilting voice that betrayed her origins, she told Elizabeth she was twenty-two years old and had been in Cheyenne little more than a year. “Sure and it’s different from Ireland,” she said with a grin. “There are no soft days here.” Soft, she explained, meant a day when the rain fell as a mist. So far, Elizabeth had seen no days of rain, soft or otherwise. And what she saw now was a young woman in a difficult situation.
“I said I wouldn’t tell Phoebe, and I won’t. Of course,” she added, watching Sheila’s expression carefully, “you won’t be able to hide it forever.”
The pretty brunette clenched her fists. “She’ll want me to get rid of it. That’s what happened when Annie got caught.”
Elizabeth wasn’t surprised. As deplorable as it was, she suspected that was the normal practice when a girl “got caught,” as Sheila had phrased it. “You can probably hide your condition for another month or six weeks,” she told Sheila, “but I’d suggest you not wait. It’ll only get harder. If you’d like, I’ll go with you when you tell Phoebe.”
Her eyes widening with surprise, Sheila tipped her head to one side. “Would you?”
“Of course.” Five minutes later, Elizabeth knocked on the door to Phoebe’s sitting room and found the madam sitting with her leg propped on an ottoman. “Sheila has something she needs to tell you.”
“Something tells me I’m not going to like it.” Phoebe gestured toward the two chairs opposite the settee. “What is it, girl?”
The harsh tone made Sheila flinch, but she straightened her shoulders as she sat. “It’s good news for me. Dr. Harding confirmed that I’m going to have a baby.” The smile Sheila gave Elizabeth faded when she saw Phoebe’s eyes narrow and spots of color rise to her cheeks. Though Phoebe’s reaction was what Elizabeth had expected, she was surprised by its intensity.
“Good news?” Her face contorting with anger, Phoebe spat the words. “That’s just about the worst news you could have brought me.” She fixed her gaze on Elizabeth. “Will you help her get rid of it?”
“I can’t.” It wasn’t what Phoebe wanted to hear, but it was the only answer Elizabeth could give. “Even if Sheila wanted that, I took the Hippocratic oath, and that—”
Phoebe interrupted, glaring at the petite brunette. “You can’t want this baby. It’ll ruin everything.”
“I do want it.” Sheila’s eyes darkened. “I watched my mam bury three little ones. I’m not going to bury mine.”
“How are you going to earn a living? You won’t be able to entertain anyone when you’re as big as a horse.”
“I’ll find a way. There has to be one.”
Phoebe scoffed. “You’re fooling yourself if you think anyone will hire you. The only thing you’re fit for is working here, and the bun you’ve got in the oven is interfering with that.”
Though the blood drained from Sheila’s face and she looked at Elizabeth for support, she shook her head. “I won’t be like Annie. I won’t cry every night, wondering whether my baby was a girl or a boy. I didn’t plan this, but I can’t kill my baby. I’ll find a way.”
Elizabeth wished there were something she could do, but she knew the fallacy of believing she could solve every problem. This was between Phoebe and Sheila. She could only pray that they’d find a solution.
“I knew you were stubborn the first day I set eyes on you,” Phoebe said, her lip curling in disgust. “You haven’t changed a mite. If anything, you’re worse.” She tapped her crutch on the floor, then looked back at Sheila. “All right. Have your baby. You’ll entertain the men as long as you can, and then you can work in the kitchen and mend clothing. But as soon as that baby’s born, you’re going back to work.”
Sheila’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Phoebe. You won’t regret this.”
“I already do.”
“So, tell me, Rose. What is your most favorite thing?”
Gwen tried not to stare. Elizabeth was so engrossed in reading a letter from one of her sisters that it appeared she hadn’t noticed Harrison’s unusual behavior. It had started at supper. He looked the same as ever, but he wasn’t acting the same. While they’d eaten, he’d been uncharacteristically quiet, yet his expression had been thoughtful. Gwen had caught him staring at her, his eyes filled with something that looked a bit like longing, almost as if she were a fancy pastry that he wanted to sample but couldn’t. That thought had brought a flush to her cheeks, causing her to look down at her plate, pretending to be entranced by the sight of roast beef and newly harvested carrots. Other times, she’d seen him studying Rose. Not once had his gaze moved to Elizabeth, though she’d been entertaining them with stories of her day. Now that the meal was over, he and Gwen were seated on the matching chairs in the parlor with Rose playing at their feet, while Elizabeth occupied the settee.
It was clear that something had changed, but Gwen couldn’t imagine what it was. All she knew was that Harrison was acting like a different person. The glances were unusual enough, but this . . . It was the first time Gwen could recall Harrison asking Rose anything. In the past, he would speak to her, telling her things, almost as if he were lecturing her. He never asked her opinion. In fact, he never asked Rose anything. Until tonight.
If Rose recognized there was something different about tonight, she gave no sign of it. Instead, her face lit with enthusiasm as she uttered the word Gwen expected. “Horses!” she cried, clapping her hands. “I like horses.”
Harrison chuckled, perhaps remembering that Gwen had had to restrain Rose to keep her from running into the street to join the Independence Day parade. The fascination with horses which Gwen had believed she’d outgrow had only increased, causing her daughter to plead for a horse of her own.
A smile softened Harrison’s face as he leaned toward Rose. “You know what,” he said in a conspiratorial tone so different from his normal blunt speech that Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise, “so do I.” Rose giggled, the wariness with which she normally regarded Harrison seemingly forgotten. He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Do you want to know a secret?”
Like any child, Rose could not resist that particular lure. She nodded and moved closer to him. “I like secrets,” she admitted.
Though Harrison lowered his voice, Gwen had no trouble hearing him. “This is my secret. When I get the store built, I’m going to buy a ranch and raise horses right he
re in Wyoming.”
“You are?” It was Rose who asked the question, but Gwen wanted to echo it. She’d thought that once the store was complete and Barrett and Charlotte returned to Cheyenne, Harrison would go back to his family home in Pennsylvania. That prospect had disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. Now it appeared he had other plans.
Gwen tried to quell the surge of optimism that started to flow through her veins. Just because Harrison might stay in Wyoming didn’t mean she’d see him once he bought the ranch. He might as well be in Pennsylvania. After all, he’d have a new home, many new responsibilities, and no need to take meals with her and Rose. In all likelihood, the only time she’d see him would be if they had a chance encounter in Barrett’s store.
Gwen took a deep breath, biting back her disappointment. Her ma had told her there was no point in borrowing trouble, and that’s what she was doing. What she ought to be doing was enjoying the fact that Harrison had not frightened Rose tonight.
“Yep, I sure am gonna raise horses.” Rather than his usual brusque tone, Harrison’s voice remained soft, coaxing Rose closer. If she moved another couple inches, her head would be touching his.
“More than one horse?” Rose demanded.
“Lots more. I’ll have black horses and chestnuts and grays . . .” Harrison let his voice trail off. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he asked, “Would you like to visit them?”
There was no question of Rose’s response. “Oh yes!” She clasped her hands together and looked up at Gwen. “Can I, Mama?”
The pleasure that Gwen had felt over Harrison’s new gentleness toward her daughter evaporated, replaced by annoyance that he’d even mentioned the possibility. Harrison had no children, and so he didn’t realize that Rose’s sense of time was different from his. For her, a week was a long time, a month an eternity. It would be considerably longer than a month before Harrison had a horse ranch.