American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Weak as she was, she tried to summon some nudge of feeling, some vestige of tenderness and maternal affection for the wee, wrinkled babe in her arms. A vague memory stirred in her, a remembrance of how, with the other children, she used to love this time of warmth and closeness.

  These days she felt nothing—nothing but the inertia and fatigue and… deadness…that had become second nature to her. What was meant to be—and once was—an act of love and nurturing was now nothing more than routine, a task to be tended to, a duty.

  Even though she knew she might be inflicting harm on her own child, Vangie found it impossible to shake herself free of the numbness that held her captive. The Wise Women in the village of her childhood believed an infant could sense the rejection or the indifference of a mother and claimed that such a child wouldn’t thrive, but instead would eventually grow ill and perhaps even die.

  But somehow even the memory of those horrible tales couldn’t stir her to more affection for this babe. It was as if the part of her that had once held the capacity to mother a child had died in the same cursed shipwreck that took the life of her eldest son.

  A cold shudder racked the length of her body, and the babe jerked and wailed. Automatically, Vangie placed him back at her breast, where he suckled even more voraciously, as if he feared that any moment she might cast him away.

  She studied the babe, guilt clawing at her soul like a deranged buzzard. Not merely the guilt occasioned by her lack of feeling for her newborn son, but a guilt prompted by her previous resentment of Conn for not trying to make peace with their firstborn son—a resentment so fierce she had delayed telling him she was with child again until she could no longer hide her condition. And there was also the ever-present suspicion that, by allowing her bitterness and unhappiness to show, she had driven her husband to finally write Aidan in an attempt to reconcile and coax him into make the crossing to America.

  If she hadn’t made her misery known to Conn, he might never have written to Aidan, and if he hadn’t written…

  She choked down the acid taste of her misery, her heart seizing with another twist of grief. Weakness swept over her and, trembling, she called for Nell Grace to come take the babe.

  After walking the floor for over an hour with her fretful baby brother, Nell Grace sighed and carefully put him down in his cradle, waiting to make certain he wouldn’t wake.

  Even sleeping, he seemed restless and agitated, as if he could find no comfort, no real peace. His teeny mouth twitched, his little hands knotted and unknotted, and his legs jerked beneath the blanket with which she’d covered him. Already his few wisps of hair revealed the same red hue as his mother’s, the fiery red that all of the MacGovern children had inherited. And he had the high, broad forehead of their da.

  And of Aidan as well.

  Nell Grace shook her head. She wouldn’t think about her older brother right now. Aidan was lost to them. Baby Will—William, named by Da with no input from their mother—was here. He needed her attention, needed the attention of all of them.

  What he needs is his mum.

  The thought wrenched her heart. Her mother had no interest in the infant boy who lay sleeping so restlessly in the same cradle Emma had used only three years before.

  Her mother had no interest in anything these days. Mum had taken to depending on her for everything, especially anything to do with the baby. It was left to Nell Grace to comfort him when he cried, which was most of the time, to change his didies and give him his baths—indeed, to see to his every need, except of course for his feeding.

  It just wasn’t right. Nell Grace loved the poor wee boy dearly, but he needed more than a big sister. He needed his mother. But his mother—well, she just couldn’t be bothered.

  Nell Grace knew it was wrong to think so harshly of her mother—the woman who only weeks ago had evoked nothing but feelings of affection and admiration. But she couldn’t help it. Of late it was difficult, sometimes impossible, to realize that the frail, lethargic woman sleeping in the bed nearby, indifferent to her own newborn son, was the same woman who had once loved her children so fiercely, sacrificing her own needs and desires to fulfill their wants and needs.

  Aidan’s death had turned her once beautiful, fiery mother, so filled with a zest for life, into a listless, mourning shadow of herself. Nell Grace could almost see her fading, slipping away from them like a cloud of smoke, carried out to sea by the wind.

  Something had to be done. There must be a way to bring her mother—her real mother—back to them.

  Nell Grace touched one finger to her tiny brother’s smooth cheek. His mouth pursed, but he didn’t wake. Tears scalded her eyes as she watched him. He was so precious, so perfect, so sweet.

  So tiny…so fragile…so needy.

  Abruptly she straightened, stalked across the room to the piled-up laundry basket, and began folding clothes with far more energy than the job required. She had to do something. There must be something that would draw her mother back to reality, force her to see how much Baby Will needed her.

  How much they all needed her.

  And then, as she was shaking out one of William’s little didies, an idea slipped into her mind—so quick it surprised and unsettled her. The fabric hung limp in her hands as she turned the idea over in her head.

  Could it work? It wouldn’t be easy. It would depend almost entirely on Miss Susanna and Mrs. Dempsey—would they be willing to help? And Renny Magee would have to do her part. But Nell Grace sensed that Renny would do anything to help, anything at all.

  The real question in Nell Grace’s mind was whether she could carry it off. She was terribly soft where both her mother and Baby Will were concerned. Could she really go through with such a thing?

  There was only one way to find out. But first, she must talk to Miss Susanna.

  In the meantime, she could only hope she knew her mum as well as she thought she did.

  20

  AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS

  God of mercy! God of peace!

  Make this mad confusion cease;

  O’er the mental chaos move,

  Through it speak the light of love.

  WILLIAM DRENNAN

  A few minutes after seven that evening, Andrew opened the door of his flat to find Edward Fitch’s driver standing there, hat in hand.

  “It’s Mrs. Guthrie, sir,” the man told him. “Mr. Fitch apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but requests that, if possible, you come right away.”

  Andrew was surprised but didn’t hesitate. Mrs. Guthrie’s condition must have worsened significantly for Edward to send for him so late in the day.

  He fretted all the way to the Fifth Avenue mansion, trying to think of something he could do for Fitch’s mother-in-law that he hadn’t already thought of. He had exhausted every medical avenue he knew, and she had often been in his prayers, but her condition had steadily worsened. At this point, he was at a loss as to how he could help her.

  Despite this frustration, he felt a measure of relief that he’d been summoned. Given the rumors that were spreading in certain circles, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Edward Fitch had joined a number of his other patients—former patients—in shunning him.

  Another letter had appeared in the papers just two days ago—this time in the Tribune and even more vitriolic than the one in the Herald. Without actually naming Andrew, this second letter left no doubt as to the target of its accusations, describing him as a “physician from the British Isles” and again making reference to his “female associate.” Although it had been written in such a way as to make it seem penned by a different hand, Andrew was convinced the same person was responsible for both letters.

  Predictably, Andrew and Bethany’s patient load had dwindled still more following the appearance of the second letter. Humiliated by the venomous letters, the reduced practice, and the cold shoulder he was receiving at the hospital, it was all Andrew could do not to give in to the depression that lurked continually at the edges of his spi
rit.

  A part of him was enraged by the unfairness of it all. Warburton, if indeed it was Warburton behind this heinous campaign, seemed invincible in his efforts to destroy him, while Andrew felt virtually helpless to defend himself.

  He couldn’t deny the charges completely—not when his journals partially confirmed them. In order to make a rebuttal, he would have to admit that he had been an addict at one time. And such an admission, for many, would do nothing but confirm the allegations. Among some of his colleagues and his patients, there would be no forgiveness, no quarter given—only the speculation that one was never free of such an addiction.

  And in all honesty, he couldn’t refute that charge either. Who knew better than he that, for an addict, there always loomed the danger of falling from grace?

  Why had he ever been so foolish as to confront Robert Warburton? That singularly unpleasant visit had accomplished absolutely nothing for Mary Lambert and her children. It had incurred immeasurable trouble—and quite possibly total ruin—for himself. And Bethany, who had worked so hard and made so many sacrifices to practice her chosen profession, was in danger of being ruined as well.

  She tried to appear untouched by the whole wretched business. But he had seen the pain in her expressive blue eyes, even when it was masked by anger. He would die before he’d hurt her. And yet she was being hurt, and hurt badly, by these malicious attacks. She didn’t deserve what he had brought down upon her—any more than he deserved her and her love.

  The idea of giving Bethany up for her own sake occurred to him daily, even though he couldn’t bring himself to entertain the thought for more than a moment. If he were a stronger man, a better man, he would free her from her promise to marry him. Instead, he needed her more than ever.

  He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether Bethany would, given a choice, altogether reject the idea of bringing their engagement to an end.

  He found Natalie Guthrie noticeably weaker. The deterioration of both her physical health and her mental stability was so dramatic that Andrew, who thought he’d seen her at her worst, was shocked.

  She was a forlorn figure, her shoulders hunched as she sat on a small chair near the fireplace, where, in spite of the mildness of the evening, a fire blazed. She looked up as her son-in-law left the room and Andrew walked the rest of the way in. Every vestige of the dignity and pride that once lined her elegant countenance had disappeared. Her skin was ashen and her hair had gone almost white. The combination gave her a bloodless, almost ghostly appearance.

  He could tell she had been weeping, and the moment their eyes met, she began to weep again, a racking, punishing seizure of sobs that shook her entire body. Andrew quickly went to kneel in front of her, taking her hand to steady her, but saying nothing.

  When she finally quieted, she motioned for him to pull up the chair from beside the bed. “Please sit with me for a while, Dr. Carmichael. There’s something I must tell you.”

  Andrew seated himself and leaned forward a little, waiting.

  “Today—” She looked at him, her eyes glazed with a hint of the familiar wildness he’d come to expect in her. “Today I decided to…end my life.”

  Alarmed, Andrew again reached for her hand, but she shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I’m telling you this so you’ll know how desperate I’ve been. Besides, as you can see, as with everything else I’ve attempted, I lost my nerve and couldn’t do it.”

  She paused, gave a small sigh, then went on. “I was able to pray today,” she said, wringing her lace handkerchief into a rope. “I haven’t prayed for a long time, not really prayed. I’ve…‘said my prayers,’ given lip service to the effort—that’s all. For so long, the words have seemed meaningless, as if they simply bounced off the walls and fell back at me.

  “But today—I don’t know why, but today was different. When I tried to pray, I…I simply fell apart. It was as if I were breaking into pieces. It was actually painful. Physically painful. I finally just…threw myself at God and begged Him to take me, to put me out of this unbearable misery. I did, Doctor—I begged Him to let me die. I suppose that was a terrible sin, but I just felt I couldn’t go on any longer.”

  Again she broke off and sat watching Andrew, her eyes now clear. She was obviously gauging his reaction to her words.

  “Something…happened,” she whispered. “I can’t explain it—I don’t understand it. But I tell you, Doctor, that God spoke to me in that moment. He somehow—I don’t know how else to say this—He broke through to me, through the cloud of sickness in my soul. He stayed my hand from harming myself. And He impressed upon my heart that I was to send for you.”

  A chill edged its way down Andrew’s spine. That something had happened to Natalie Guthrie, he didn’t doubt. And there was no doubting the fact that she meant to make him a part of it.

  But why?

  “I delayed, not wishing to bother you,” she continued. “But the more I hesitated, the more desperate I felt. Somehow I knew I must confide in you.”

  Andrew swallowed, for the life of him unable to imagine what could be driving the woman—and a little reluctant to find out. Yet he couldn’t doubt her earnestness. He knew that whatever had possessed Natalie Guthrie to summon him here this evening was of monumental importance to her.

  She leaned closer, still studying him with a peculiarly intense expression.

  “Tell me, Dr. Carmichael,” she said, her words coming slowly now, her voice thin and strained. “Do you believe that a secret sin can drive one to the edge of madness?”

  21

  A HEALING TRUTH

  Thou must be true thyself

  If thou the truth wouldst teach;

  Thy soul must overflow if thou

  Another’s soul wouldst reach!

  HORATIUS BONAR

  Andrew sat staring at Natalie Guthrie, shaken by the blunt and entirely unexpected question that hung between them. He had to remind himself that the woman was obviously speaking of her own sin, not his.

  He formulated his reply carefully. “Yes, I suppose I do believe that. It seems to me that sin is very much like acid.”

  She was still watching him closely. “Acid?”

  “Yes. If sin remains unconfessed and unacknowledged, I think in time it—in a manner of speaking, of course—can burn a hole in one’s spirit. And that, in turn, it can quite possibly lead to all manner of illnesses, including disorders of the mind.”

  Natalie Guthrie looked strangely satisfied by his reply. “Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly! And I believe that’s what has happened in my life, Doctor! My sin has finally eaten a hole in my spirit, and perhaps in my mind. Oh, I knew you’d understand!”

  She was growing quite agitated, and Andrew put a hand to hers to try to calm her. “Mrs. Guthrie, what is it? What do you want to tell me?”

  “Oh, Dr. Carmichael! You have no idea of the dreadful thing I’ve lived with all these years. You can’t imagine—”

  She stopped, again wilting into the demoralized woman he’d seen upon entering the room. Andrew gave her a moment, and eventually he could see her making a determined effort to pull herself together.

  “My daughter must never know,” she said, searching Andrew’s eyes. “Neither Caroline nor Edward can ever know what I am going to tell you.”

  Andrew gave a nod of assent. “You have my word that whatever you say to me will remain strictly between us.”

  She waited two or three seconds more, then glanced away, toward the other side of the room. “Caroline is…illegitimate,” she said heavily. “My late husband was not her father. He never knew. Caroline doesn’t know. I’ve never told a soul the truth until today.”

  Somehow, Andrew wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t the first time it had occurred to him that Natalie Guthrie’s condition might be prompted not by a disease of the body, but by a sickness of the soul—a condition he understood all too well. He made no reply but simply waited in silence for her to continue.

  Her voice g
rew a little stronger as she went on. “It doesn’t really matter who her father was. I don’t want to talk about him, not even to you. It’s enough to say I was…infatuated. I was quite young, and he was an older man, very cosmopolitan. I told myself he took advantage of my almost ludicrous naiveté. The truth is, I was flattered by his attention, and I’d been daydreaming about romance, as girls of that age will sometimes do, and—well, it happened, that’s all. Only once. But—” she shrugged. “Merritt, my late husband, had been courting me for more than a year, and when I first realized I was going to have a child, I agreed to marry him. I…also agreed to a very brief engagement.”

  The tears were falling again as she lowered her head. “I never told Merritt about the…the other man. If he suspected, he kept it entirely to himself. He was a good man, my Merritt,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He really did love me, and in time I grew to love him. After a while, I couldn’t bear to hurt him, and if he’d known the sordid truth about my…indiscretion, it would have hurt him. Terribly.

  “So I’ve lived with the knowledge of my sin and with the harshest kind of self-reproach every day of my life since. Truly, Doctor, especially in this past year, I have longed for death, just to be free of the guilt.”

  She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as she lapsed into another bout of weeping.

  Andrew knew this was no time for platitudes, so he simply waited for her to regain her composure. And while he waited, he prayed for her.

  When she finally dropped her hands away from her face to look at him, her features were contorted by exhaustion and grief, her eyes red and swollen from unrelieved weeping. But Andrew thought he detected a new clarity and even a kind of strength in her gaze.

  “Mrs. Guthrie? I must ask you: Why do you think it was so important that you tell me about this?”

  She unknotted her wrinkled handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought perhaps you might know.”