“Emeline, wait.” He followed.
Forty-One
October 1901
“Emeline, stop!”
I no longer cared. I rushed down the stairs and through the hall. I scanned the library and the parlor for Oliver as John called out behind me, but I ignored him. I ran to the front door and ripped it open. I saw the back of Oliver’s head, his scraggly peppered hair.
He turned around, revealing heavy eyes and a frown on his weather-worn face. “Forgive me. I had to come.”
John appeared behind me.
“Is she all right?” I intentionally took up all the space in the doorway, forcing John to stay behind me.
“No.” Oliver’s expression grew uncertain and worried as John bobbed about behind me.
I spun around to collect my kit, but John stood in my way.
“Emeline, you can’t.”
I circumvented him and went to the sitting room, where I had stashed supplies. They were in a brown satchel, but I didn’t need everything, so I dumped the contents onto the floor and began repacking the satchel, since John had thrown my normal bag into the forest. John stood at the door watching me scatter and pack what he would surely term incriminating evidence.
“Emeline, you have to stop!”
“What’s going on?” I heard James ask.
“Emeline!”
I weaved around the pink sofa and the little tables and shoved past him into the hallway, where James stood.
John followed me out, sidestepped me, and grabbed my arm.
Oliver and James watched in bewilderment.
“Let me pass, John.”
“Emma, what’s happened?” James asked.
“No. I won’t let you do this.” John’s grip caused pain to shoot through my bones.
“What’s happening? Are you leaving him?” James shouted, and I felt a rock in my stomach.
John’s face dropped, and he looked at me with hurt and questioning eyes that tore into me.
I knew what I needed to do to have a perfect marriage, the marriage I was beginning to truly want. I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I tried to wrench my arm away. “John, I mean it. Move!”
He grasped tighter. “No. I won’t budge, Emeline. I won’t.”
“Please.”
“John.” James rushed to us. “Let her go and we can talk this over.”
“I won’t move. I won’t let you do this.”
“John, if you don’t let me go, Mr. Schwab will have to take her to the Bradbridges and everyone will know what I did.”
John jerked his head back.
Oliver’s mouth fell open.
James’ eyes bobbed back and forth, his hands raised. “What did you do?”
John looked over his shoulder at Oliver, who gave a confirming nod. Finally, he loosened his grip and hesitantly stepped out of the way. I hustled out the door, with James trailing behind. “Emeline? What are you—”
“James, stay here. I’ll explain later.”
“But—”
Oliver kept pace as we flew past Carmine, who stood near James’ rented buggy and watched agape as we marched into the forest.
We trekked through the darkness, Oliver leading the way through branches and brush. I heard footsteps behind us.
“Emeline, stop.”
“Oliver, keep going,” I shouted.
John trailed us. “Stop. Emeline, I’m begging you. Do you have any idea what will happen to you when you’re caught?”
I saw a little lit square in the darkness, the shanty’s window.
John ran up and stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “Emeline, I’ll lose you, too.”
I hesitated. “If you don’t want to lose me, then stop trying to get in my way.” I walked around him.
Oliver and I entered the poorly lit shanty, and John followed. He stopped ranting, and I had to look over my shoulder to see if he was still there. He observed the one-room shack filled with children, cowering and crying, the baby squealing in Lucy’s arms, and Lottie wailing in the corner. I went straight to her. When John’s eyes finally took in her state, he stopped in the middle of the room. She had only a sheet over her, stained between her legs with blood. Bloody smears and footprints of various sizes surrounded her. Her undone hair was stuck to her face with sweat, and her skin had gone clammy. She was curled up and clutching her stomach.
“Emeline, what have you done?” John said.
“Hold this up.” I gave Oliver one of the blood-smeared sheets so that the children couldn’t see what was happening.
“Hold this.” I held up the sheet, prompting John.
He didn’t move. He just stared at her with a dazed look.
“John!”
He shook his head and blinked rapidly.
“Hold this.”
He swayed forward and took the corner, still staring at Lottie.
I peeled the sopping nightgown up and removed the sodden cotton. A gush of blood and tissue followed. I found the catheter and removed it.
John turned pallid and looked away. Oliver stared blankly.
One of Lottie’s children, a young boy, maybe five, tugged on John’s trousers. “You ganna make her stop hurtin’?”
“Go sit back down,” Oliver ordered.
Lottie’s head felt hot. I pulled some things from my satchel for the fever and the pain.
“Emeline, you have to take her to a physician,” John said.
“You know what will happen if we do.”
John lowered his eyes.
“Walter,” I said.
“What?”
“He won’t turn us in.” I returned my medicines to my satchel, and that was when I noticed the blood all over me, the brightest shade of red on my white dress.
“But—”
“He helped us with Mr. Hughmen. He might help again.”
“No. He reports people like you.” He and Oliver still held up the sheet.
“We have no choice. Besides, I know something that may sway his decision.”
“What?”
I stood. “Put the sheet over her and pick her up.”
John hovered.
“Come on.”
The two men draped the sheet over her waist and lifted. She moaned, and her face twisted. Oliver swung one of her arms behind his head and heaved her into his arms.
I noticed the baby’s squealing again and the other children weeping. Blood dripped from the sheet.
“It’ll be all right,” Oliver grunted to his children as he carried her to the door.
“We’ll take her to our house,” John said.
Oliver ordered Lucy to watch the children, and we rushed into the woods.
Halfway, Oliver slowed down, and John offered to carry Lottie the rest of the way. As Oliver transferred Lottie into his arms, blood smeared John’s white shirt, his forearms, and his rolled-up sleeves. He swept her up. He had offered to take her. He had offered to bear her weight and be stained with her blood despite his class and his disapproval of what was happening. Had something changed in him? I remembered when I’d first entered Lottie’s home. I had felt overwhelmed by guilt for the way I and every person of my stature thought about her and people like her, taking them for granted. After that, I changed. Had John changed, too?
We saw dots of light in the bedroom and parlor windows of the house. We sped up a little when we cleared the woods. John scaled the steps with Lottie in his arms, and I passed him to open the door. John took Lottie into the hall. Our fumbling and shouted directions were louder than they had been in the woods.
James ran to us. “What’s happened?”
Carmine appeared. “Dear Lord.” She covered her mouth.
I saw my hands and dress slathered in slick scarlet. Blood was smeared all over John’s and Oliver’s clothes, too. Everything below Lottie’s waist was sopping. The door, the hallway, the parlor door and some of the parlor furniture bore red streaks and handprints in a matter of moments.
John h
anded a pillow embroidered with a creeping design to Oliver to put under Lottie’s head. I braced myself, expecting the parlor to respond. It sat dead, lifeless, just wood, porcelain, and stitching.
“I’m going to get Walter.” John marched out of the parlor.
I ran after him and stepped between him and the door. “No. I need to go.”
“You won’t be able to explain this.”
“I will. Trust me. I have to go.”
His eyes moved back and forth. “I can’t let you—”
“John!”
We locked eyes.
“Trust me. I know how to convince him.”
“Fine. Come on.” He started again.
“Wait.”
He whirled back. “What?”
“James will take me.”
“No. You need me there.”
“No. I know how to convince him, but I can’t have you there.”
His eyes widened.
“Stay here and help Lottie.”
He tilted his head.
“Please.”
He turned without responding and went to the parlor, his fists clenched.
“Emeline.” James stepped forward, Carmine grasping his arm. “What is happening? What have you done?”
“James, I have to get Walter. I need you to take me.”
“Who? What?”
“A doctor.”
“Oh, thank God.” He put a hand on his head.
“I have to convince him to help us illegally.”
“What?”
Carmine stood unblinking.
“James, please, just take me or I’ll kill myself trying to get there on my own.” I moved for the door.
James slipped out from under Carmine and thrust an arm across my chest. “You can’t let anyone see you like that.”
I looked down at the blood on my dress. I took John’s black thigh-length jacket from the hanger. “Carmine.”
Finally, she blinked and jolted out of her incredulous stare.
“Help them.” I motioned to Lottie and Oliver.
“Um…all right.”
We barreled down the road in James’ rented buggy, bouncing and jolting with every rock and bump.
“Emeline, what in tarnation is going on?” James yelled over the sound of the wheels.
“It’s complicated.” I gripped the seat as we jolted.
“What happened to that woman? Why are you involved?”
“I—I did it.”
“Did what?”
“You don’t know what it’s been like here for me, James. You don’t know…”
“What?”
“I’ve been helping people who are ill, like a nurse.”
He glanced at me and then looked back at the dark road.
“I’ve been treating people who are ill—people who can’t afford a physician.”
“Are you mad?”
I sighed. “I’ve been hearing that a lot.”
“What about that woman?”
“She needed a dangerous procedure. I think”—I had to yell over the roaring hooves—“I think I made a mistake.”
“Why?”
“She couldn’t afford a doctor. It was the right thing.”
“No. What’s wrong with her? What did you do?”
I gripped the seat harder.
“Emeline?”
“An abortion.”
“What?”
I yelled over the rumbling wheels. “I gave her an abortion!”
James regarded me, eyes wide, and then turned back to the road without saying another word.
When we stopped, I hopped out and James stayed. I ran to Walter’s door and knocked loudly.
Walter opened his door. His shirt and vest were wrinkled as if he had been lounging.
“Emeline? I mean Mrs. Dorr?” He looked past me at James in the buggy. “Is everything all right?”
I shook my head and opened the jacket, revealing my blood-soaked clothes.
He gasped and jerked his head back.
“I’m Mrs. Freeman, and I’ve done something terrible.” I felt like I might vomit.
His mouth hung open.
“And if you tell anyone, I’m going to tell everyone about you and Olivia.”
His eyes shot open, but he didn’t move.
I trembled. “Please. She could die.”
He hesitated a minute before finally forming words. “I’ll get my bag.” He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a black satchel. We stepped into the buggy, and James took us back to the house as I confessed everything. James drove with a horrified expression as I went into the details of the abortion.
When we returned to the house, Walter quickly walked into the parlor and didn’t reappear for fifteen minutes. We all stood in the hallway trying to listen to the mumbled voices over our thumping hearts. I was hot and had removed John’s jacket. When Walter came out, we gathered close as he whispered. “The baby is gone.”
“Did I injure her?”
Walter scowled. “What you did was damn foolish.”
I felt my cheeks flush and a twinge in the back of my throat.
“There is too much blood for me to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if you mutilated her beyond repair. I should—”
“Don’t chastise her,” John said and my breath caught in my throat. He continued. “This woman has more children than I could count. If she had one more—she feared for her life. Emeline saw no other choice.”
Walter’s brow furrowed. “That is not the point, John, and I do believe you should know that better than anyone.”
Oliver stepped forward. “Is she going to survive?”
Walter shifted. “I gave her something for the pain, but she has lost a lot of blood. I can’t guarantee anything.”
My stomach tightened into a twisted fist.
“John—” Walter stepped closer to him. “You understand the seriousness of this?”
John stood tall and lifted his chin. “Yes.”
They didn’t take their eyes off each other until Walter moved. “Excuse me.” He walked out and slammed the door behind him.
I expected John to go after him and stop him, but he didn’t move. We couldn’t just let him leave. I sprinted to the door and scrambled halfway down the steps before I stopped and saw the blockade before me.
Lewis Coddington and the Bradbridges approached the house, followed by several patrolmen in black thigh-length overcoats and flat-topped derbies. Each clung to a wooden truncheon. Walter went straight to a tall slender man in a black suit with lopsided shoulders and a massive square jaw. It was Marcellus Rippring, the investigator who had once spoken of interrogating screaming women and refusing treatment in the parlor where Lottie now lay. They greeted each other and Marcellus’ eyes shifted to me. “Mrs. Dorr, shall we go back inside?”
I stood paralyzed as Marcellus snatched my arm and escorted me back inside, where John and James still stood in the hallway.
“Marcellus!” John’s eyes bulged.
Marcellus moved me forward, allowing Lewis Coddington, Dr. Benedict Bradbridge, Margaret, Walter, and three patrolmen to file into the foyer. Marcellus and the patrolmen positioned themselves in a circle around us, standing with their hands and clubs at their sides.
Lewis shook Walter’s hand. “I’m proud of you, Walter, for doing the right thing and contacting the authorities and your counsel about this very serious matter.” He shot John a glare.
“Thank you for coming,” Walter said.
I shook my head at Walter. “How?”
“I had a guest when you came to my house. I informed her of the situation when I went for my bag.”
“Was it Olivia?” I asked under my breath so only Walter would hear.
“I had no choice.” Walter tugged at his collar and flashed a remorseful glance at John. “If I hadn’t called, we’d both be held accountable.”
“What is this really about?” I asked Walter in a low voice. “Honesty or how you look to your father?”
Margaret scowled at me, her hands on her hips. “How dare you speak to him that way?”
I pleaded with Walter. “You saw Mr. Hughmen. You know I help people. I do good.”
“That, Emeline”—he pointed toward the parlor—“is not good.”
Lewis and Benedict joined the circle of authority surrounding us.
James swayed back and forth, his right arm wrapped around his torso and his left hand over his mouth.
Lewis stepped closer to John. “Of all the people. All this time we’ve been searching for this ‘illegal nurse’ and the entire time it’s been your wife.” He pointed at me.
A vein pulsed at Benedict’s temple. “You of all people know this is condoning murder,” Benedict said in that deep, proud voice.
John swallowed.
Lewis stood tall. “If you cooperate, you won’t be charged— just her.”
“You should be grateful,” Margaret said from her position outside the circle of men.
“Who are we taking in?” a patrolman asked.
“We need to get the dying confession.” Marcellus jerked his head to the side to crack his neck. “We’re going to need to speak with all of you in private.” He nodded in the direction of the parlor. “Starting with the victim.”
A patrolman marched into the parlor, his heavy boots clunking, and returned with Oliver and Carmine. Carmine went for James, but another patrolman cut her off and another grabbed Oliver.
The first patrolman went back into the parlor with Walter at his heel. “Wait. She needs a doctor present. Her condition is too unstable.”
Marcellus nodded, and Walter went in before shutting the doors.
Lewis took John by the arm. “We need to talk.”
“This way.” John led Lewis and Benedict down the hall toward the library.
“John!” I cried.
“Mrs. Dorr?” Marcellus hovered over me. “Where can we speak in private?”
I looked at John.
His face stiffened, but he nodded.
I took a breath and guided Marcellus down the hallway.
Margaret stepped out. “Watch out for that one. Your wife knew she was trash from the moment she saw her.”
I glared at her and then continued to the dining room. I watched John sit at his desk in the library just before Benedict shut the door.
We entered the dining room, and Marcellus closed the door with a snap. He sat at the head of the table, and I took the seat to his right—the same places where John and I sat for meals. The blood on my hands had dried and was flaking between my fingers. I wondered if John would cooperate and give me up. He should have. I’d destroyed his life, our reputations, and my family’s good name, and it looked very much like I was a murderer and my best friend the victim. Would any of this have happened if my father had lived? Would it be different if I had kept my promise?
A White Room Page 30