She lifted her eyes and aligned them with mine. “You are Mrs. Freeman?”
She had expected someone else—everyone did. “Yes. I am.”
At this, her judgment and alarm vanished. “Please, please come, come in.” She opened the door and without delay pointed to a man face up on a mattress in the front corner of the room. Two more mattresses were rolled up and tied against an adjacent wall. The apartment had a little stove and a kitchen area to the right, with a worn table and two chairs. There were no rooms other than the main one, and all their clothing and other belongings must have been stuffed into two unfinished wooden trunks. The walls melted with water stains.
I walked over to the man but struggled to kneel. My corset and layered petticoats made the task difficult. I nearly collapsed on top of him but managed to lean over instead. From his frame, I could tell that he had once been a strong man but had withered and become frail.
He opened his eyes. “Miss? Are you in the right place?”
“Oh.” I’d thought he was asleep. “Good day Mr. Hughmen. I’m Mrs. Freeman.”
He chuckled. “Is that so?” Droplets of moisture collected in his greasy hair and full beard. His dark complexion and black hair suggested he was Italian, but he lacked the accent. Perhaps his family had immigrated a few generations back. “Call me Larry and my wife there is Ethel. You’ll have to forgive my manners.” He began twitching and rubbing his hands back and forth all over his body. He sweated profusely but also shivered, clutching a blanket. “Haven’t got the stomach for ’em—manners.”
“He hasn’t eaten in days, and he’s grown so weak,” Ethel said, the sound of pleading in her voice. She stood only a foot or so away, hands clenched.
Hadn’t eaten in days—my heart jumped—like Father.
“She exaggerates.” Larry sniggered, wet and raspy. “She’s just frilly.”
I smiled.
“You don’t laugh?” Larry asked.
“I do.”
“Then you can stay.”
He wore only a nightshirt, and I was nervous about examining a man’s exposed body. The men I had examined were always fully clothed and not in such poor condition.
I reached toward his arms but then pulled back. “May I?”
“If you can.” He tried to quell his tremors, without success. “I’m a bit of a fighter.”
I had to pry away his hands to see his chest and belly.
“Don’t forget I’m a married man.” He snickered.
His flesh had torn in places where he had rubbed and clawed too much.
“Forgive me.” I tried not to appear embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine Miss McKenzie embarrassed. I examined his skin closely but found no rash, and I combed through his hair and beard but found no lice. I felt his head, hot and moist. “How long has he had a fever?”
“Not long.” Ethel’s hands were clenched at her bosom.
“Get some cool rags. We’ll try and bring it down.”
“There’s more.” Ethel walked over and flung off the blanket that covered everything below his waist.
“Oh.” I turned my head away. The lower limbs were considered an extremely private area so much so people avoided saying the word “leg” out loud.
“Now, woman, let the girl get to know me first.” Larry chuckled and started to hack.
“Look. Look.” She gestured.
I cautiously peeked back to see Larry’s swollen legs.
Larry tried to sit up to see. “Like hairy white sausages, eh?”
I tried to think. I tried to put together the symptoms, but this was completely unfamiliar.
Ethel placed a moist cloth on her husband’s head. I rose and she followed. I was surprised to spot a small boy in a corner. I hadn’t noticed him before. He was perhaps seven. He stared at me, and I stared back.
Ethel stepped forward. “He’s Jacob.”
I regained my focus. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But, you—you know medicine.”
“I know some things, but—”
I stepped away from Larry and lowered my voice. “I don’t know what’s happening to him. And it’s serious. I can’t—he needs a physician.”
“You don’t have to go off and hide just to flatter me,” Larry called out and laughed again.
I looked over my shoulder then looked back. “Did you give him spirits?”
“He doesn’t drink. That’s just Larry.” She made a face. “We can’t pay for a doctor.”
“I know, but you have no choice.”
“No one will come without money.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
Her eyes darted back and forth.
“A loan perhaps,” I said.
She lowered her chin and brought her fingers to her lips.
“Do you have any means of getting one?” I squeezed the handle of my bag and curled my toes in my shoes.
“Maybe. I’ll try.”
“All right.” I hesitated. “Have you kept the boy away?”
Her eyes shifted to the right. “Mostly.”
“Keep them separated, and keep your distance as much as possible. Keep things clean.”
“Pardon?”
“It will keep you healthy.”
I returned to Larry. “We’re going to get you a physician. Your condition is beyond what I know. I can provide a laudanum tincture but not much else.”
“Don’t be silly, missy. I don’t need no docta. I’ll get along just fine.”
“Larry, shhh,” Ethel said.
“Mr. Hughmen, I think it’s best we just get you a physician.”
“I said call me Larry. No sense in being formal after you’ve seen the harry sausages!” He chuckled.
His wife smiled and shrugged.
I swallowed my laughter, shook my head. “Just contact me when you make the appointment. I want to be here when the physician comes.”
“Can you be here?” she asked.
I looked around. “We’ll have to find a way for me to hide.”
Twenty-Four
August 1901
“Did you have a good day?” John asked.
I focused on my work, stitching my mauve skirt. I suspected I had ripped it when I knelt next to Larry Hughmen. “Productive. Yours?”
We were sitting in the parlor. A Gustav Mahler symphony sounded lightly from the phonograph. John actually sat on the green sofa with me this evening. He had been positioning himself closer to me in the parlor each night since that day outside his office.
“Quite good. Thank you.”
The flickering flames of the lamps cast the furniture’s shadows on the walls. They danced frantically, trying to disturb me. I paid no attention. The furniture lamented its failed attempts to torment me. My power to ignore and overcome it grew stronger every day. The stairwell almost expanded when I passed through now, afraid to challenge my newfound strength. The people in the rooms were drifting into a deep slumber; I saw their penetrating eyes less and less.
The beast was still there. Although I had succeeded on many occasions in ignoring it, too, it did not grow tired of trying to disturb me. It was a repercussion that would never cease to torment. I sensed it sitting in the middle of that dark room next to mine, glaring at the wall between us. Since I had moved the curtains in there, a stream of light would hit the floor just behind where the beast sat. Sunlight and moonlight would drift across the floor, forcing the beast to flee angrily from its spot time and time again.
I saw the wolf’s glowing eyes outside my window at night. I saw bushes rustle during the day. It still paced and patrolled the house. It eyed me every time I left. I sensed no emotion from it, no anger like I did with the house and the beast, just a duty, an obligation to tend to. For some time, I thought I had the upper hand because it didn’t attack when I left the house. Yet it remained, watching, waiting to hold me accountable.
Although I wanted to, I couldn’t be ce
rtain that the house was truly buckling under my will. Was it plotting instead, waiting for the right time to strike? Would I fall? Like a dictator in some faraway country, I ruled an unsteady kingdom. A well-timed uprising could bring me down.
As I slid the needle into my hem, I wondered if I should stop wearing my corset on medical visits. It would certainly help with the stairs and bending over and so many movements. I remembered Miss McKenzie saying some nurses she knew went without corsets and petticoats for such reasons.
“… especially after I found out it was Mr. Hawtrey.”
I snapped back to attention, wondering how long John had been talking. Why was he talking? I had stopped trying to make conversation with him a while back, and I had gotten used to not paying him any attention at all, but lately he had this urge to make conversation. I could only guess at how to respond. “Indeed.”
“I’m going to be their guide to Labellum all week. I should be fine after spending so much time with them in St. Louis.”
My complacent response must have sufficed. “Oh?”
“Yes, I told Mrs. Hawtrey all about you. She’s looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
“Me as well.” I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was talking about.
“Since then, Mr. Coddington has really begun to take a liking to me.”
“Splendid.” Why was he still talking?
“I have been so focused on work and pleasing him ever since we arrived here. I’m not sure if you noticed. I should probably apologize for being quite preoccupied.”
Out of spite, I refused to respond. I poked the needle into the skirt again and pulled the long string of thread through.
“I thought we should hold a dinner for them,” he said.
I stopped. “Pardon?”
He slid closer to me on the sofa and closed his book. “A dinner…for the Hawtreys.”
I was surprised. John hadn’t shown any interest in socialization after the mess I made at the Ripprings. “For how many?”
“In addition to the Hawtreys—well, let’s see—Dr. and Mrs. Bradbridge, Walter, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Coddington, the Ripprings. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Grace.”
It was like my own personal firing squad. “I’m not sure if they’ll be able to make it.”
“Who?”
“The Williamses and Mrs. Grace.” I had decided to put off making amends permanently, no longer feeling obligated to be friendly.
“Why not?” He had to reach farther for his tea after having scooted closer to me.
“Mrs. Williams has just been busy.”
“We’ll still invite them. The Ripprings probably won’t make it either.”
Thank the Lord.
“Oh, I can’t forget Miss Urswick.” He reached again to put his tea back down.
“Hmm.” I remembered how Miss Urswick angrily abandoned me. Neither of us had attempted to speak afterward, so I suspected she wouldn’t attend either. I lifted my skirt and scrutinized the obviousness of the mend. I thought of Mr. Turner’s dark hand spliced with white thread.
“Will you be able to cook for that many people?”
Oh. I had forgotten all about the cooking. Wait, John wasn’t asking if I would fancy a night of entertainment. He was informing me I would be hosting a dinner party for ten or more guests. I felt irked for a moment but then I realized I could use this. “I’ll have to hire another servant for the evening.”
His eyes were stuck on me as if he hadn’t taken them off the entire time. “It is really important that this goes well. You let me know whatever you need to ensure it does. I know there will be extra expenses. I am finally making a good impression, and I can’t allow anything to spoil that.”
“How would your impression be ruined at a dinner party?”
“If it doesn’t go well, they might make some decisions about me professionally.”
“That isn’t very fair.” I reached for my tea.
“It doesn’t matter. If they think the food, conversation, servants or anything isn’t perfect, they will think of it as a reflection of what could go wrong professionally.”
I brought down the cup and let the bittersweet taste sit on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. “That’s silly.” I put my tea down.
“Emeline?” He reached out and touched my arm. “Trust me.”
I looked at his hand. “All right.”
“That means nothing like what happened at the Ripprings.”
I stiffened. “That was an accident.”
“Everything has to be perfect.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and wondered if he noticed I wasn’t acknowledging these little gestures of affection. I wondered if it bothered him. I hoped he longed for me to touch him back just as I had. I hoped every time I didn’t, it made him crave it even more.
“Oh. Did you move that bottle of scotch we got for a wedding present? I’d like to offer it to the men before the dinner, but I didn’t see it in the liquor cabinet.”
I inhaled, remembering the bottle slipping from Mr. Turner’s drunken grip and pouring onto the basement floor. “I thought it wasn’t good.”
“I don’t care for it myself, but it’s a very fine bottle.”
My heart raced. “I’ll search for it in the morning.”
The missing scotch was an omen—this dinner could go bad quickly because John’s professional image relied on dutiful service of the wife, not him, and I was faking it. I could fool John, but a houseful of Labellum’s finest scrutinizers? The house had been hungry for something to hold against me, and this would be a prime occasion. It made me wonder how long I could survive beyond the white.
A sharp twinge of pain shot through my finger. “Ouch.” I had pricked myself with the needle. I observed the spot of blood and then looked up at John, who hadn’t noticed. I quietly put my finger in my mouth. The shadows danced faster and shook.
Twenty-Five
August 1901
Ethel Hughmen sighed in relief when I told her I could embellish her pay and cover the doctor’s fee if she served at our dinner party. Dr. Benedict Bradbridge required a deposit to make a first-time appointment, but the bank had refused Ethel a loan. Her mistress had agreed to provide her an advance but at an interest rate Ethel could never repay. First-time appointments had to be scheduled at least a week in advance, so I gave her enough medicine to ease her husband’s pain and itching until the doctor could provide something stronger.
When I returned to the surrey, Lottie handed me a piece of paper with instructions on it and said a woman had requested I visit her alone. While I was visiting the Hughmens, Lottie had gone to speak with a couple of the people who gave her information when someone needed my assistance. We had Mr. Buck take us to the butcher, where Lottie went in to continue our errands, but I slipped away to find the house, which was nearby. I didn’t have to walk far, but when I arrived at the middle-class home, I stopped to double-check the instructions, written in Lottie’s curly hand. It said I was at the right place. It didn’t make sense. The numbers matched. I was feeling invincible at that moment and decided to approach and ask if anyone had called for a Mrs. Freeman. I scaled the small steps and rapped on the door. I waited a minute or so until it opened.
Mrs. Josephine Doyle, a woman from the committee, opened the door. “Mrs. Dorr?”
I stiffened and my breath caught in my throat. “Uh, good day, Mrs. Doyle.” I didn’t know what to do next. I almost certainly had come to the wrong house and couldn’t ask if she had requested a Mrs. Freeman. I’d had no idea that she was accepting calls on this day and had no excuse for standing there, stiff and strange, on her doorstep.
She scratched her left arm through her long-sleeve dress. “How can I help you, Mrs. Dorr?”
“I’m sorry. I—” Half of my body wanted to run. “I—did you call—um…”
“Pardon?” She reached under her high collar to scratch the back of her neck. Her face was flushed, her mouth open and her eyes fluttering.
“I’m not sure if today is…” I watched her hand jump to her hip to scratch and realized that her eyes were pink. “Mrs. Doyle, are you all right?”
Her cheeks grew a deep red, and her lips trembled into a frown. “I—I don’t know. I’m—I—” A tear streamed down her cheek.
“May I come in?”
She moved aside so I could step in and shut the door behind me.
She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. I took her into a tight embrace. I could feel her tears moisten my shoulder. “Mrs. Doyle, what has happened?”
She pulled away and scratched all over rapidly. “I’m having…a problem.” Her face scrunched up and her frown deepened as she uttered a deep frustrated cry. “I don’t know.”
I couldn’t reveal myself, not yet, not when it was a women this close to the committee. This could still have been some kind of amazing coincidence. “Why haven’t you called a physician?” I held out my hands as if to catch her.
She shrank to the floor and landed in a kneeling position. “I’ve been itching and itching, and I can’t stop it. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”
I crouched down. “I should call Dr. Bradbridge.”
“No!”
“Why?”
She panted. “I—I—” She started hyperventilating.
“Mrs. Doyle?” I forced eye contact. “I want you to take a deep breath, as big as you can.”
She inhaled deeply and then choked and coughed, her dark chocolate-colored hair unfurling.
“Again.”
She struggled to fill her lungs and wheezed. It wasn’t working.
“Mrs. Doyle, forgive me, we need to remove your corset. Are your servants at home?”
She shook her head. Her face puffed up and grew bright red. She wasn’t suffocating, but she was certainly panicking.
“Your husband?”
She shook her head. Like me, she was recently married and without children.
Florence had once calmly and carefully removed my shirtwaist and corset after I fainted from a heated moment with my mother. Florence had been extremely respectful, removing only enough to reveal my back rather than expose my entire body to the open air. I decided that the same respect would be appropriate for Mrs. Doyle. I scooted to her back and quickly undid the line of buttons from her neck down. I opened her shirtwaist, loosened her laces, and pulled open the corset from the back. As I removed the clothing from her, I spotted a sea of little red bumps, like little blisters. From my book on advanced home remedies, I recognized them as hives.
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