by BJ Hoff
17
A TIME TO FIGHT
That my weak hand may equal my firm faith…
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
Within the week, it was painfully clear that the letter to the editor in the Herald was affecting the practice of Andrew Carmichael and Bethany Cole.
Fridays and Mondays were ordinarily their busiest days of the week. It wasn’t unusual to find the waiting room filled to capacity on either morning. But when Bethany arrived at the office on Friday morning, she found only two patients waiting, both of whom appeared too destitute to be choosy about where they went for treatment. The patient count had been light yesterday as well, although neither she nor Andrew had remarked on it.
She greeted the patients, telling them they’d be called shortly, then went to find Andrew. To her surprise, he was seated behind his desk with Frank Donovan standing across from him. The latter seemed uncommonly serious when he greeted her. Andrew, too, had no welcoming smile, but then he’d been desperately solemn and tense ever since the ugly letter had appeared in the Herald.
“Frank saw the letter, too,” Andrew said with no preamble. “He’s convinced it was written by Warburton—or that he had it written.”
Bethany glanced at Donovan and nodded. For once she agreed with the caustic Irish police sergeant.
“I still can’t believe a clergyman would be capable of something like this. It boggles the mind, to think of a man of Warburton’s prestige stooping to anything this low.” Andrew stopped when the policeman uttered a sharp sound of derision.
“Many’s the man who’s plowed a crooked furrow in a straight field, Doc,” said Donovan, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now tell me, what’s the name of this woman Warburton was mixed up with?”
Andrew looked at him. “Lambert. Mary Lambert. But, Frank, you can’t bring her into this! She’s still too fragile.”
Donovan pulled a sour face, then bent and splayed both hands on top of the desk. “Listen to me now, Doc. This bounder has brought bad trouble on your Mary Lambert as well as yourself. She more than likely knows the man better than anyone knows him, including his missus. And I can tell you that a woman who’s been wronged by a man like Warburton is usually all too eager to pay him back.”
Andrew shook his head. “Frank, Mary’s not like that. And she’s not well yet—”
Donovan’s jaw tightened even more.
“Doc—have I ever tried to tell you how to do your job when you’re sewin’ someone up?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Then don’t be tellin’ me how to do mine. I aim to take care of this nasty business, but you’ve got to trust me to do it my way. Now, where do I find this Lambert woman?”
Andrew hesitated another second or two. Then, “At the women’s clinic on Baxter. I’d hoped to get her out of there before now, but there’s no money to pay for a better place.”
“And where are the younguns?”
Andrew frowned and leaned forward. “You leave the children out of this, Frank.”
“I will if I can. But I want to know where they are, Doc.”
“The boy’s at Whittaker House,” Andrew said after a heavy sigh. “The two little girls are at the Chatham Children’s Home.”
Donovan nodded, then straightened and left the office, his hat tucked under his arm.
Bethany turned toward Andrew, who sat holding his head in his hands, looking exceedingly weary. Her heart wrenched with worry to see him like this. And after what she had learned of addiction while treating Mary Lambert, she couldn’t help harboring another concern. In light of this heinous attack and the effect it was having on their practice—on their lives—what if he simply gave up? Was there a possibility he could succumb again to his addiction?
She shook her head, as if to throw off the ugly thought. It sickened her that she had even allowed it into her mind for an instant.
“Andrew, he’s right,” she said. “We’re in over our heads with this. Let Sergeant Donovan handle it his way.”
He raised his head. “Frank can be ruthless, Bethany. Even the other men on the force keep their distance from him.”
She laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Maybe that’s what it will take to put a stop to this nightmare, Andrew. And he’s right about Mary Lambert. She would know more about Warburton than anyone else. She might be able to tell Donovan something that will help.”
“But Mary is still so—”
“Andrew! Will you please just this once think of yourself instead of everyone else?”
He reared back as if she’d thrown a rock at him.
Bethany fought to curb her impatience. One of the reasons she loved this man was for his goodness, his genuine concern for others. But he could also be impossibly naïve, and right now he needed to face facts.
“You’re in trouble, Andrew! You need help. Robert Warburton knows you can ruin him if you choose. He means to destroy you first—you must see that! And you’ve no idea what he might do to Mary Lambert—or the children. Do you honestly think they’re safe from the likes of him?”
He went pale. “You don’t believe he’d hurt his own children?”
“Oh, Andrew, I doubt this man even considers them his own. And with what he’s done to that poor woman so far—and to you—I wouldn’t put anything past him. Don’t you see? Mary Lambert and those children are as much a threat to him as you are—even more so.”
She hesitated, unwilling to cause him more pain but determined to make him see that he was in real jeopardy. “There’s no telling what a man like Warburton might do to avoid the kind of scandal Mary could create for him,” she said, softening her voice. “You’ve already seen that he’s not going to stand by and let his reputation be ruined. Please, Andrew, if there’s any way to stop him from ruining you, you have to let Frank Donovan handle this.”
He got up—with some difficulty, Bethany noticed—and stood studying her with a worried look. Finally, he nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
Pain ripped at her when she saw the hopelessness, the humiliation in his eyes. He was ashamed, she realized. Ashamed of a past he’d thought locked away, ashamed of what its revelation would mean to his patients, his practice—but most of all for what it would mean to her.
She moved closer and grasped his hands in hers. “Oh, Andrew! Don’t look at me that way. We’re not going to let this happen. We’re going to fight it, and we’re going to win! Don’t you dare think anything else.”
“Bethany,” he said, his voice hoarse. “This isn’t your battle.”
Bethany lifted her hands to his shoulders and held him fiercely. “It’s just as much my battle as yours! I’m going to be your wife, remember? Besides, where’s your faith, Andrew?”
He frowned.
“I’ve heard you tell more than one troubled soul that we don’t fight our battles alone, that the Lord is at the forefront fighting for us. That we’ve only to stand firm and believe, and He’ll give us the victory.”
A somewhat sheepish expression settled over him, and he even managed a faint smile. “Do you believe everything I say?”
“Do you?” Bethany countered.
He shook his head. “Hardly.” He paused, searching her features. “But I do believe God’s promises. And it seems you just reminded me of one of them.”
Bethany framed his face in her hands and brought his head down to hers. “Then see that you don’t forget it,” she said, kissing him gently on the cheek and then the lips.
He pulled in a ragged breath. “Well,” he said, his smile a little steadier now, “at least all this has accomplished one thing I never thought I’d see.”
Bethany arched an eyebrow.
“You agreeing with Frank Donovan,” he explained.
“It’s not likely to become a habit.”
“No,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand. “I’m sure it won’t.”
He moved as if to kiss her again, but Bethany put a finger to his lips. “We have patients waiting. A
nd we’ve kept them waiting too long.”
He glanced toward the door. “Patients? Really?”
“Really,” she assured him, freeing herself from his arms. “You take one, and I’ll take the other.”
Frank Donovan didn’t give a second glance to the squalor surrounding the Women’s Clinic and Convalescence Center. He knew it well. The area never changed, unless it was to grow even more disreputable.
He parted the boozers littering the street corner and dodged the debris—mostly broken bottles and animal waste—as he headed toward the steps. Inside, he paid little heed to the dingy surroundings, also familiar to him. Instead he went immediately to the matron, who sat at a table piled high with papers, dirty dishes, and a suspicious-looking pan covered with a towel.
There was a stench in the place that reminded him of a hospital smell but with some unidentifiable odor added—something sweet and putrid and unwashed. The woman at the table looked up as he approached. She wore a plain gray dress and threadbare white apron, and Frank noted that her hands were dirty. But then, in a place like this, perhaps it was difficult to keep them clean.
“Sergeant.” The matron’s tone made it clear she remembered him from their last encounter, which had been anything but agreeable. On that occasion he’d brought in a girl not yet sixteen years of age who had been repeatedly raped by a drunken stepfather, a piece of garbage who’d also passed consumption to the girl.
This particular matron had fought with Frank, insisting they could not take a consumptive patient who would likely spread the disease throughout the center. In the end, Frank had threatened to have the afflicted girl cough in the woman’s face if she didn’t find her a bed where she could be secluded from most of the other patients and see that she received the proper medical attention.
Her hostile glare didn’t faze him now, although she gave herself airs as if he would be wise to show her some respect. To avoid laughing at the pretentious old scold, he fixed his stare on the sizable mole by the corner of her mouth.
“Where would I find Mary Lambert?” he said.
Miss Savage looked down her nose—no easy feat, Frank noted, since it was a long way down—and snapped her reply. “This isn’t a hospital. We don’t observe visiting hours.”
“I’m not a visitor, darlin’. I’m the law.”
If looks could maim, no doubt he would have found himself missing all four limbs. Miss Savage—a fitting name if ever he’d heard one—fixed a stare on Frank that sawed its way through every bone in his skull until it drilled a hole into his brain. He’d have thought the woman would warm to his endearment, for surely she would have heard precious few.
“Where,” he repeated, “would I be findin’ Mary Lambert?”
“Down the hall,” she snapped, not looking at him. “Last room on the right.”
“Ah. My thanks, dear.”
Frank could feel the blade still slashing away as he turned the corner and started down the hall.
He walked in without knocking and stopped just inside the room. Two sets of sagging beds faced each other on opposite sides of the room, indicating it was shared by four women. At the moment, only two occupants seemed to be present.
“Mary Lambert?” He addressed his words to the woman nearest the door. A somewhat blowzy sort, with wild black hair and knowing dark eyes—attractive enough if a man liked her kind—she looked him over and smiled. Frank smiled back, a firm believer in the old saw about catching more flies with honey than vinegar.
He was surprised when a soft reply came from the far side of the room.
“I’m Mary Lambert.”
The woman curled in the chair by the window was small and fragile and looked much younger than she must be in reality, given Doc’s account of the years she’d been Warburton’s mistress. She had a cloud of fair hair tied back with a yellow ribbon and was swathed in a wrapper that looked to have belonged to someone twice her size.
She was not what he’d expected, to say the least.
He turned to her roommate. “Would you mind takin’ a turn down the hall, lass? I need to be speakin’ to Miss Lambert alone, you see.” He made sure she understood he wasn’t asking.
The woman got up, glanced from Mary Lambert back to Frank, then gave a lazy shrug and left the room.
Frank walked over to the window where Mary Lambert sat and took a closer look. She quickly uncurled herself and straightened, one hand gripping each arm of the chair—most likely, Frank speculated, to still their shaking.
She was slender, too slender by far, and had the fair, porcelain skin of a fine doll-baby. With her wide blue eyes and dainty features, she appeared impossibly young—and unmistakably frightened.
For a moment or more, Frank felt at a loss—a condition almost unknown to him. He had been prepared to either turn on the Irish charm and sweet-talk a fallen woman into telling him any and every tawdry little piece of information that might prove helpful in putting an end to that snake Warburton’s shenanigans or, if need be, bully his way past her defenses until he had all he needed.
He was sorely afraid that this strangely childlike creature staring up at him with the fearful eyes was going to make either contrivance next to impossible. He suddenly felt as brutish as a wild boar. Even his size, which most often served as an advantage, now seemed to turn him into a great clumsy oaf, and he felt the irrational urge to keep his distance for fear his very shadow might somehow bruise the slight woman before him.
With some effort, he yanked himself back to his senses and pulled up a chair across from her. “We need to talk, Mary Lambert,” he said, forcing a hard note into his tone. “My name is Frank Donovan—Sergeant Donovan—and I’m a friend of Dr. Carmichael’s.”
The apprehension in her eyes flickered and ebbed just a little, but she watched him closely, saying nothing.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Robert Warburton,” Frank said. He hated the way she seemed to crumple under the impact of his words, but she had flummoxed him just enough that he didn’t quite know what tack to take with her.
“Everything,” he said, doing his best to ignore the pain that had replaced the fear in her eyes.
“From what I understand,” he added, “you would be knowin’ him better than anyone else.”
18
DECISIONS FOR RENNY
Behold me now,
And my face to a wall,
A-playing music
Unto empty pockets.
ANTHONY RAFTERY (TRANSLATED BY DOUGLAS HYDE)
Renny Magee walked the floor in the bedroom she shared with little Emma and Nell Grace, treading lightly to avoid waking the other girls. This was the second sleepless night in a row for Renny. Soon the sun would be up, and she had her chores to do no matter how poorly she was feeling. Her eyes were hot and sandy, and every few minutes her stomach roiled as if she might be sick. Was this, then, what it was like to be “flattened”?
Flattened was Conn MacGovern’s word, and he used it often. It seemed to mean that he was either dead tired or famished to the point of queasiness.
Renny didn’t think she was famished, although she hadn’t eaten much at all yesterday, or the day before either for that matter. She definitely had that queasy, faint feeling that used to strike her when she was still on the streets of Dublin trying to earn enough coins for a proper meal.
The reason for her upset had nothing to do with hunger, but everything to do with the MacGoverns. Last night she had posed the question to herself as to whether she should leave. Sure, and no one in the family wanted her around any longer, since more than likely each of them blamed her for the death of their son and brother.
After all, she would have never made it to America in the first place had she not used Aidan MacGovern’s passage to get here. Hadn’t she begged to come in his place when he announced he’d not be using it? And hadn’t Conn MacGovern argued up one end and down the other with Vangie that they shouldn’t waste their son’s ticket on the likes of Renny Magee?
But Vangie had prevailed. It had been Vangie who made the final decision to allow Renny to board with them.
By now, no doubt, Vangie surely regretted that decision.
The thought of Vangie sharpened the sickness in Renny even more. Vangie had been near to dying for days, lying still as a stone, ignoring the new babe—not eating, not talking, but simply…existing.
Even when she’d roused a bit and finally begun to nurse the infant, she paid him little heed, as if she would do what she must to keep him alive but no more. She scarcely looked at the poor wee thing. Indeed, Vangie hardly noticed anyone or anything these days, other than to give a nod by way of reply or a dull word of instruction. Even Conn MacGovern had had no success in coaxing her back to some semblance of the way she had been before their eldest son’s death.
When Vangie spoke to Renny these days, which was seldom enough, she didn’t actually look at her, just said what needed doing as she stared across the room or down at her hands. She didn’t seem angry so much as merely…absent.
Renny thought angry might have been easier to take.
She supposed she would have to leave soon. Every day she thought to do it. But then would come the question as to how she could leave Nell Grace with most of the work of running the household and taking care of the new babe.
And how could she leave her friend, Maylee, the only true friend she’d ever had? Maylee was fading more and more every day. Lately it seemed to Renny that she would simply continue to fade until there was nothing left of her, not even a shadow.
Maylee depended on her, Renny knew—her visits, the “treasures” from outdoors, the foolish old tales and ditties from Ireland with which Renny often regaled her. How could she turn her back on Maylee?
And how could she ever bear to leave Vangie? Especially Vangie, who had become, at least in Renny’s imagination, the mother she’d never had.
A mother who didn’t want her, who in truth must resent her something fierce.
But, oh, wouldn’t it be a terrible grief to no longer be a part of Vangie’s life—of the MacGoverns’ lives?