A White Room

by Stephanie Carroll

  Understanding Lottie’s dilemma and having seen Annie’s less than a week ago, I didn’t want to tell a poor woman she was pregnant. I couldn’t imagine the news being anything other than bad, as the woman would either already have too many mouths to feed or be so thin and unhealthy that pregnancy would likely be a death sentence. Death was a risk with pregnancy even with the healthiest of women. Even upper-class women with the finest physicians were at risk of dying during childbirth.

  “Come in,” a male voice responded. The husband?

  Inside, I could tell that whoever lived there wasn’t of high standing but was still aware of the finer things in life and had attempted to acquire some of them. She had furnishings, poor-quality and well-worn but furniture at least. She had a grandfather clock, a writing desk, and a china cabinet, although it was empty. Maybe that meant the couple would do fine with a child. I didn’t see any other children. We stood there waiting for someone to greet us.

  “Anyone there?” Lottie called out.

  “Yes,” a man’s voice said, and he appeared from an adjoining room. It was a young man in a fine suit. It was Dr. Walter Bradbridge.

  “Walter?”

  “Emeline?”

  Silence. Stunned silence.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I, uh, must ask you the same,” I said.

  “I—no,” he fumbled, taken aback. He refocused. “Why are you here?” He eyed Lottie and then my bag.

  I feared my inability to answer would prove my guilt. “I—I—uh…”

  “It’s my fault, sir,” Lottie said. “I recommended a friend to serve at Mrs. Dorr’s dinner party, and I coulda swore this was her house. Forgive us for intrudin’ on whatever business you have here.” She said it in an odd way, with a suggestive tone.

  “Oh.” I gasped a little and covered my mouth as if assuming a scandal. “We should leave.” We turned toward the door.

  “No, no.” He reached out and took a step forward.

  We halted and slowly turned around.

  “This is Mrs. Crawford’s home. She let me borrow it for the day.”

  “Oh,” Lottie said.

  “Forgive me—um—Mrs. Dorr, I can explain.”

  We stared at him.

  “We’ve become aware of a colored woman practicing illegal medicine for the poor and others around town.”

  “No!” Lottie slapped her hand to her chest, overacting.

  I cleared my throat.

  Walter continued. “Mrs. Crawford lent me her home so I might lure this practitioner here. We really weren’t sure it would work. All we had was someone who claimed to have known someone who knew a relative who used her. We sent a distress call through that line.”

  “Oh my.” I could hardly feign shock, on account of my rapidly pounding heart and fear of his seeing it. “Well, we really should leave you in case this woman shows up.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right.” He opened the door for us. “I’ll make sure to let Mrs. Crawford know you stopped by, Miss…?”

  Lottie waved a hand. “No need, got my houses mixed up is all.”

  “Forgive me again for the confusion.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  As soon as the door shut behind us, Lottie and I exhaled and looked at each other.

  “Do you know Mrs. Crawford?”

  “Conniving rat of a woman,” she said.

  “Was that excuse due to another award-winning detective novel?”

  She grinned. “That was all me.”

  “Your knack for intrigue is extraordinary.”

  “It comes to me naturally.”

  After we walked away from the house, I realized something. “Wait.”

  She halted. “What?”

  “They know about me.”

  Lottie shook her head. “They don’t know it’s you.”

  “But they’re trying to find me. If I coincidently show up at another fake call, they’re going to figure it out. And if they realize you’re involved at all…”

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know. We need to be extremely careful. He said, ‘We know of a person.’”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Probably his ma and pa.”

  “We don’t know that. It could be something to do with Mr. Coddington’s practice. It could be Mr. Rippring or my husband.”

  She brought her hand to her chin. “I ain’t got a clue.”

  I didn’t know either. I tried to think. How could I find out who had put Walter up to this? “Well, someone else has to be involved. Dr. Bradbridge has to return to that person at some point to report what happened. He will probably go right after he has given up here.”

  “What? No,” Lottie squeaked. “We jus’ barely got away.”

  “Come on, it will be like your detective books. We have to. It’s the only way to know who is behind it, and we can come up with distractions or a patsy or something—false clues.”

  Lottie threw up her hands. “What’s the point? It won’t stop ’em.”

  “Lottie, where’s that adventurous spirit?”

  “It’s cowerin’!”

  “We have to know.”

  Her cheeks puffed up as she blew out air. “How?”

  I scanned the area. “His carriage isn’t here. He obviously walked. We can follow.”

  She sighed. “If we get caught, I’m blamin’ you.”

  I grinned.

  I told Mr. Buck to meet us at the general store because we were near Hill and North Main streets. Lottie and I crouched behind a wall of unkempt honeysuckle bushes. All the berries had fallen off and lay shriveled on the ground around our feet. There we waited for Walter to give up on the fictional Mrs. Freeman. It was late afternoon when he stepped out.

  “Look,” I whispered. “There he is.” I peered through a little opening I had made in the honeysuckle. Walter left the run-down house holding his briefcase. At the road, he looked right and then left before taking a sharp turn back in the opposite direction. He rushed along the side of the house and around to the back near our lookout. We crouched lower. I stiffened, thinking he’d see us, but he passed by.

  I felt a rush of relief and then an urge to follow, but I waited until he had walked far enough that our rustling would not be noticed. “Let’s go.” We took off in his direction. I held my heavy skirt and petticoats up but still felt the occasional snag.

  “Miss, be careful. Your dress,” Lottie said trailing behind me.

  We caught up with him. “Slow down.” I put my hand out behind me, and Lottie stopped. “We can’t let him hear us,” I whispered. I stopped behind a tree. Lottie bent over to catch her breath. We watched Walter cross from behind the houses into an alley.

  “Where’s he goin’?” Lottie whispered loudly with her hands on her knees.

  I shook my head. “A shorter route?”

  “Seems peculiar to me.”

  We peered down the alley and watched him make a right.

  “Come on.”

  We rushed into the alley and approached the turn. I peered around the corner. He hurried as if he had somewhere to be, someone to meet. “He has to be going to whoever is behind this. Why else take this sly route?” I motioned for Lottie to follow as I watched Walter round another building. “Let’s go.”

  We trotted down the path. “Why is he going through these back alleys?”

  “How should I know?” Lottie panted but kept up. I breathed heavily but felt surprisingly energized.

  We continued to follow him, turning here and there.

  Lottie snorted impatiently. “If he was fixin’ on goin’ all the way across town, why didn’t he bring a carriage?”

  At one point we were behind some businesses and I could see in between the buildings. “That’s Main Street.”

  “Huh?”

  “We are close to South Main.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ over there but a few old houses. We should get ba
ck anyway. Start dinner.”

  “Shhh.” I waved my hand. “We’ll think of something.”

  “We have some leftover roast from—”

  “There he goes,” I said over my shoulder. “Walk quickly but casually. We’re about to get back into town.”

  We skulked down the alley toward Main Street.

  “Then you can boil some of the dried squash”—she stumbled on her words as she scrambled—“and serve the last of my brown betty for dessert.”

  We were near the bend in Main Street, which became South Main. The general store, the Bradbridges, and Mr. Coddington’s office were at the other end. Where was he going?

  Lottie followed, still breathing hard. “Maybe you should boil some potatas.”

  “Focus. We are about to turn onto Main. He’s going to be right there, so be quiet or he will spot us.”

  Lottie nodded.

  I took a breath, turned the final corner, and attempted to stroll about twenty or thirty feet behind Walter until he reached a road crossing just before the houses, but then he stopped.

  We stopped.

  “Quick.” Lottie whirled around and took my hand to bring me with her. She shoved me in front of her. We weren’t the only people on the street, and maybe Walter wouldn’t notice me, with Lottie blocking the view. My heart pounded, and I wondered if Walter would recognize Lottie’s silhouette from behind and run in our direction.

  “Stop. Stop,” Lottie said. “He’s gone.”

  We turned around. “Where did he go? Hurry.”

  We trotted as casually as possible down the street, passing strangers who eyed us curiously. “I don’t see him.” We approached another road crossing, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

  “There he is.”

  “Where?”

  Lottie pointed to an old house with blue trim and peaked layered roofs just over the canal bridge. Walter entered the house and disappeared from sight.

  I lifted my hand. “What? Who—who lives there?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Lottie?”

  “Miss Urswick,” she said.

  “Why would he go there?”

  She turned her palms up and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Are they acquainted?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  We started back in the other direction.

  “Does this mean Miss Urswick is trying to find Mrs. Freeman?”

  Lottie’s eyes moved back and forth but she didn’t respond.

  I wondered what possible reason he could have for going to Olivia Urswick. “Maybe she’s ill.”

  “That woman wouldn’t call on a doctor, let alone a Bradbridge, if she was about to die. She hates the Bradbridges.”

  “Either he is visiting a patient or someone who hired a spy. But why? Why would she care?”

  “Didn’t you say she wasn’t too pleased with you that one time.”

  “But whoever is looking doesn’t know it’s me.”

  Lottie shrugged again. “We gotta go. Your husband’s dinner will be late, then he ganna be suspicious, and I had enough of all that today.” She sighed. “All this stressin’ don’t do nothin’ kindly for me.”

  “He won’t notice.” I looked over my shoulder at Olivia Urswick’s house and wondered what she knew as we started back toward the market where Mr. Buck waited with the surrey.

  Thirty-One

  September 1901

  It had taken more than two weeks for Dr. Benedict Bradbridge to schedule a house call with Larry and Ethel Hughmen for one o’clock on a Thursday. I arrived a half-hour early. The heat grew by the hour, and the unventilated apartment felt like a hothouse. It smelled of sweat and mold. I checked on Larry, who was asleep, and Ethel went about straightening up.

  My eyes moved to the boy playing in the corner, his frail body hunched over, with clumps of hair hanging down. Jacob played an imaginary game with imaginary things. I had seen poor children substitute toys with a variety of objects such as rocks and twigs but never with nothing. He reached out into the air and stuck out his thumb and forefinger to grab what appeared to be a tiny invisible man. He moved the imaginary man around, his eyebrows furrowed. The bit of nothing between his fingers threatened something. Still holding the imaginary man in one hand, he reached out with the other and grabbed something else that wasn’t there. This time, he stuck out his thumb and forefinger in the opposite direction. He moved the imaginary man toward the other imaginary thing and then yanked it away. I believe it was supposed to be a horse or another animal, but he didn’t make any noises to go along with the movements. I had tried to talk to him once but he didn’t acknowledge me. I wasn’t even sure if he could speak. He was so slight, so easy to miss, that if Ethel hadn’t spoken of him, I might have concluded he was imaginary, too.

  I refocused on Ethel, who gestured toward an empty cupboard the way someone does when presenting a beautiful object to a person of importance. “To hide.” Ethel’s tenement consisted of the one room. There was nowhere else to go.

  “It’s small.” I stepped forward.

  “Yes. Forgive me. I should have let you know so you didn’t wear a full toilette.”

  “It’s all right. I’m supposed to be making calls. If I didn’t look presentable, someone would notice.” I sighed. “Do you have a place to hide them?”

  “I have a trunk.”

  “Can you help me?” I removed my hatpins and hat.

  “Course. I’ve served as a handmaid for many fine women.”

  As she removed my clothing, I tried to ease the tension. “How have you been handling all of this?” She undid my skirt and untied my petticoats.

  I started to undo my blouse’s buttons. It would have to come off along with my corset if I were going to curl up enough to fit in the cupboard.

  “It’s been difficult,” she said. “I’ve had opportunities to work longer hours, but I can’t find someone to look after Jacob, and without my husband’s income there are bills I can’t—” she stopped and cleared her throat. “It’s been difficult.”

  I watched Jacob in the corner. He was only seven or eight. “I’m sorry.” The petticoats rustled as she lowered them to the ground. I lifted my arms, and Ethel lifted my corset cover off.

  “Don’t be. You’re helping us.”

  She slowly undid the hooks and eyes of my corset. Free from the binding, the flesh of my stomach and hips expanded under my chemise. I felt the air on my spongy skin, and there was a tingling just at the surface. Ethel took my clothes and shoes to a trunk. She placed them inside, pushed down on the lid, and then heaved herself on top of it to squish it shut. Then we heard knocking. “Quick.” Ethel jumped up, ran to me, and pushed me toward the kitchen cupboard.

  I hunched down into it with nothing on but my lace-and ribbon-trimmed chemise, shin-length drawers, and silk stockings. I pulled the door closed just enough so a sliver of space remained. My heart thumped and my stomach tightened. I patted my hair, fearful of cobwebs.

  An older man with white hair and a full beard stepped into the room and passed Ethel before she had the chance to welcome him. Wearing a dark suit, he stood tall with broad shoulders.

  The heat closed in on me as I sat curled into a ball in the cupboard. I tried to push the discomfort aside by quietly fanning myself with my hand. It didn’t work. I just prayed I wouldn’t sweat. Ladies do not sweat.

  Dr. Bradbridge walked to Larry, knelt on one knee, and began examining him. Ethel explained his weakness and lack of appetite, but Dr. Bradbridge hushed her with a quick flash of his palm and then swatted away Larry’s scratching hands so he could put a stethoscope on his chest. The itching had become far worse, and Larry had scabs and scratch marks all over. Larry didn’t seem as verbally inclined around the doctor as he was around me.

  I wiped moisture from my hairline. I was sweating.

  Ethel stood a few feet back from Dr. Bradbridge and occasionally glanced over at the cupboard with a distraught frown and soggy eyes
. I wished she wouldn’t look.

  Dr. Bradbridge peered into Larry’s eyes and scrutinized his skin, which had slowly become a grayish-yellow color. Larry groaned when the doctor positioned his hands below his rib cage and pressed down on both sides. Then Dr. Bradbridge lifted the sheets to scrutinize his swollen limbs even though Ethel hadn’t told him about them.

  Dr. Bradbridge sighed and started to pack up his equipment. Ethel looked toward the cupboard again. Dr. Bradbridge, still crouched next to Larry, turned to say something to her. He moved his eyes to locate what she was looking at and I stiffened, my heart pounding. Ethel removed her eyes from the cupboard. His brow furrowed, and he cocked his head. Did he see me? What if he caught me here in the cupboard of a patient’s home—naked! Dr. Bradbridge stood up, looked a moment more, and finally returned his attention to Ethel. I released the breath I had been holding, and my heart fluttered so fast I could feel it in my fingertips.

  “He is jaundiced and has a severe case of cirrhosis,” Dr. Bradbridge said to Ethel, ignoring the patient.

  “What? But—”

  “His drinking has ruined his liver, and it’s inflamed. He has fluid in his legs and stomach.”

  Ethel shook her head and held her hands up. “He doesn’t drink.”

  “Miss, I know cirrhosis when I see it.” He bent down and took his satchel in hand.

  “But he doesn’t—” She choked on her own voice.

  “There is nothing I can do. Soon he will bleed into his stomach and throat. I cannot treat.” He moved around her.

  “What? No. You’re a doctor. You must do something.” Ethel scuttled back in front of him and blocked his way.

  He rolled his eyes, and his face reverted to the emotionless mask. “There’s nothing to be done.”

  My eyes flashed toward Larry, who was awake and aware, but the news hadn’t brought fear to his face. He no longer scratched. He watched, motionless.

  Ethel’s eyes darted to and fro as if searching for a solution.

  “My regards.”

  Ethel couldn’t control herself. Her eyes had been glistening ever since Dr. Bradbridge first hushed her. Her body convulsed and tears streamed from her eyes. “Please. Please, try. I can pay. Please do something—anything. I’ll pay.”