by Radha Vatsal
“It should take a month or so, madam.”
“Oh my.” Miss Busby’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. “Well, Mrs. Belmont will have to put up with it.”
“Do I look so bad?” Kitty asked.
“Nothing that a little powder won’t fix,” Jeannie said.
The two women left shortly afterward.
“She’s quite something, the old lady,” the nurse said, straightening the blankets around Kitty’s bed.
“Miss Busby? She says strange things, but she’s all right once you get to know her.”
Julian Weeks arrived at three. He apologized for being late but said that he had spent the past hour convincing the doctor to allow Kitty to return home. “I’m sure you’d like to spend tonight in your own bed.” He patted her leg through the blankets.
Dr. Stevens returned to check Kitty again. “I’m allowing you to leave,” he said, “but only if you promise me to do the same things as you would here. Rest. Drink plenty of liquids. No sudden movements, no music, no reading and writing, as I’ve said before. And then on Monday, I’d like you to come back and see us.”
Despite her protests, Kitty was taken downstairs in a wheelchair and then transferred into the car. Every bump of the Packard made her bones ache, but she survived the drive home and walked into the apartment leaning on her father’s arm. Grace and Mrs. Codd were thrilled to see her, and Grace had run a warm bath with salts.
Kitty felt relieved to be back, and after she bathed and washed her hair, she lay under the sheets, ready for a nap before dinner.
Her father knocked and came in. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad.”
He hovered near the foot of her bed. “Capability, I know who you were with when the accident happened.”
Kitty’s chest tightened.
“The Brights have been calling, asking about you.”
“How is he?” Now that her father knew, she may as well inquire after Dr. Bright.
“Dr. Bright is fine, thanks to your quick thinking. It was he who called the ambulance.” Julian Weeks clasped and unclasped his hands. “I told you not to become involved with that family.”
Kitty looked away. “He asked to see me.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “To find out what I know about his daughter.”
“You do know something about his daughter then.” Mr. Weeks turned on his heel and paced about the room. “Look, Capability, I will admit that there’s something unexplained there. But while they may have lost their child, I am not about to lose mine. Give it up.” He couldn’t keep the emotion from his voice. “For me.”
Kitty thought long and hard. “You know I can’t.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Dr. Bright told me what happened. He was talking to you—”
“In the middle of the street,” she interjected.
“—and a car came up from behind him.”
“I thought he might be run over.”
“And in helping him, you were injured. You see, you don’t have to be doing anything wrong in order to put your own life in jeopardy.”
Grace knocked at the door. “Do you need anything, Miss Kitty?”
“I’m fine, Grace.”
The maid didn’t seem convinced, but she backed out and closed the door.
“I’ve heard that Dr. Bright serves on the Naval Consulting Board,” Mr. Weeks continued. “He’s probably evaluating proposals that, should they be approved, would be worth millions of dollars to someone.”
Kitty saw the black car hurtling toward Mr. Bright. His argument with his daughter. “Do you think someone might have been trying to run him over?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Weeks said forcefully. “And I don’t want to know. Can’t you see that there may be larger issues at stake than just some boarding-school girl who sleepwalked? That this could involve our government and the military?”
Chapter Fifteen
Kitty felt a bit better on Saturday, but her father still wouldn’t let her get out of bed. Grace brought in her breakfast and fussed over her until she felt desperate to be left alone.
Mrs. Vanderwell telephoned that afternoon, but Mr. Weeks took the message, which he relayed to Kitty in her room. “Amanda Vanderwell is on her way back to New York. She’ll be here soon.” He named the day.
“That’s wonderful!” The news already made Kitty feel less achy. It was something to look forward to. Her best friend in the city would be back in town. She tugged at the bandages around her shoulder. They had begun to irritate more than they helped. Tomorrow, she would take them off and return to normal.
“I told Mrs. Vanderwell about your accident, and she’s very worried,” Mr. Weeks went on. “She thinks you might have your head in the clouds because of the Bright girl… Anyhow, she’s going to send you some of her very own bread pudding.”
“You mean her cook’s very own bread pudding.” As far as Kitty was aware, Mrs. Vanderwell never set foot inside her kitchen, let alone prepared a dish with her own hands.
Mr. Weeks smiled. “I’m sure that, to her, it’s the same thing. By the way, the Brights telephoned again. They’d like to see you and thank you in person for your help. I said I’d let you know.”
“And that’s all?”
“The Lanes sent flowers… If you’re feeling better, I might go out for a bit, join them at their hotel for dinner.”
“You shouldn’t stay here cooped up,” Kitty said. Her father seemed to be seeing a lot of the Lanes, but better that than him bored at home and monitoring her every move.
Sunday morning brought even more improvement. Kitty got out of bed and walked around the apartment. She took a look in the mirror. Her face was still a mess—she had a red graze running down her cheek. She would have to do something about it before she went to see Mrs. Belmont.
Although Mrs. Vanderwell didn’t approve of telephone calls on Sunday, Kitty called her at eleven.
“I hear Amanda’s coming back. Can I visit as soon as she arrives?”
“Of course, Capability. But first, have you recovered? You must promise me you will be more careful in future.”
“Of course, Mrs. Vanderwell.”
Kitty waited until her father went to take his bath. Then she picked up the instrument again and asked the operator to connect her.
“How are you, Miss Weeks?” Mrs. Bright came on the line. “Dr. Bright and I have been worried sick about you. And my husband owes you his thanks and his gratitude. If you hadn’t acted so decisively, he might have been killed. As it is, you paid the price.”
“I’m feeling better every day, Mrs. Bright,” Kitty said. “I’m young, and I’ll recover fast.”
“Young bones do recover quickly. But all of this is my fault,” Mrs. Bright went on. “Miss Weeks…”
“Yes?”
“Your father doesn’t want us speaking to you anymore, and I can’t say I blame him. I’d feel the same if you were my daughter. This should be our final conversation. Elspeth is gone, and I must come to terms with that.” Kitty pictured Dr. Bright hovering in the background while Mrs. Bright spoke. “And you must get on with your life.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bright.” Kitty replaced the receiver.
The message was clear: Elspeth’s mother would no longer help her. She was on her own.
• • •
“Don’t even try to read.” Mr. Weeks snatched the paper from Kitty’s place at the table on Monday morning. “Now that you’re up, I take it that you will go see the doctor at the hospital as he asked?”
Kitty unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. “I think I’m better off resting at home.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“I don’t like hospitals.”
“Capability—”
“I promise that if I start
to feel worse, I will pay him a visit. Don’t worry about me,” she insisted. “Please carry on with your day.”
Mr. Weeks left for his club at eleven, and Kitty telephoned Miss Busby at the Sentinel. She again reassured the editor that she would be fit to interview Mrs. Belmont on Wednesday.
“Are you certain, Miss Weeks?” Miss Busby’s voice crackled down the line. “This is extremely important, and if we have to cancel, I’d prefer to do so in advance.”
“We won’t have to cancel. I’ll come in tomorrow for a short day. You’ll see, I’m fine.”
The operator transferred Kitty to Mr. Musser. When he came on, she asked him a favor.
“You’re all better, Miss Weeks?” he said. “I heard about the accident.”
“Word spreads fast.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it does… Take care of yourself, and I will be waiting.”
• • •
On Tuesday, Kitty went to the Sentinel, having promised her father that she wouldn’t stay long and that she would return home at the first sign of fatigue or discomfort.
“Ah, Miss Weeks,” Miss Busby exclaimed when Kitty came in. “You look much better. A little worse for wear, but quite within the realm of acceptable.” Kitty had followed Jeannie’s suggestion and covered her grazed cheek with face powder.
“I’m not planning to stay long, Miss Busby,” she said. “I just wanted to take care of a bit of last-minute research before tomorrow.”
“Quite right, Miss Weeks. You must do whatever is necessary to make this a success. God speed, my dear.”
As promised, Mr. Musser was ready, but first, Kitty had to interrupt the ditty he was humming to himself. “When the grown-up ladies act like babies, I’ve got to love ’em, that’s all… I want to be the popper. When they walk like babies, talk like babies, that’s the time I fall. Though they may be forty-three, I want to bounce them on my knee.”
Kitty knocked on the counter, and he looked up, a smile plastered on his face.
“Ah, Miss Weeks. What do you think of my musical abilities?”
“They’re excellent, Mr. Musser.”
“Let’s take our seats.” He gestured to the tables at the morgue, which were usually empty when Kitty came in but today were occupied by four other reporters sifting through papers.
“So,” he said, carting a file under his arm, “I found nothing for ‘batteries’ as they pertain to the navy. So then I thought and thought.”
“Yes.” Kitty couldn’t wait for him to get to the point.
“I knew I had read something, and then I remembered—it had to do with submarines and batteries that didn’t work.”
“Say more,” Kitty urged.
Musser opened the file. “This is one from last March.” Kitty had told him when they spoke on the telephone that she wasn’t allowed to read and had asked if he would read to her. “A United States Navy submarine, the F-4, sank during routine maneuvers near the coast of Honolulu. The probable cause was seawater leaking into the submarine’s lead-acid batteries, which produced chlorine gas that asphyxiated the crew. All twenty-one men aboard perished.”
He flipped to a different page. “This story, printed a few days after the accident, explains that the battery is the heart of a submarine, like the periscope is its eye. When running on the surface, a submarine can use gasoline engines or even steam turbines as in the case of some French ones, but once submerged, the boat must be sealed, and there can be no outlet for the exhaust. Hence the need for exhaust-free power in the form of energy stored within batteries.” He looked up. “Needless to say, the issue of seawater leakage is a major problem for the lead-acid submarine batteries currently in use.”
Mr. Musser went on. “Secretary Daniels tells us that ‘submarines have given us more trouble than anything else in the navy… We have yet to find a successful type of battery and engine. The lead casings around the batteries are liable to be eaten out by the sulfuric acid in the batteries. Then the steel surrounding the lead is eaten through, and the salt water from the submerging tanks gets in, and chlorine gas is generated, which is very dangerous to the crew.’”
“Excuse me—” A reporter at the next table spoke up.
“Ach, I am too loud,” Musser said. “I will speak softly.”
“No, not at all. I couldn’t help overhearing though. I’ve been writing stories about chlorine. The Germans used it at Ypres, but of course the British had tried it out first on their enemies.”
Kitty had heard that men started frothing at the mouth before their lungs were eaten away. Their bodies had been found twisted in agony on the battlefield.
“That’s why Mr. Edison has devised an entirely different kind of battery for our submarines—”
“Excuse me.” Kitty interrupted him. “Did you say Mr. Edison has devised a new battery?”
“Yes. One that works on a solution of potash so its parts don’t corrode or destroy one another.”
“Why isn’t it being used?”
“It still has to be tested.”
“And when will that be?”
“This Saturday, as a matter of fact. Right here in New York City.” The reporter noticed the puzzled look on Kitty’s face. “At the navy yard in Brooklyn.”
“And if the batteries work?”
“They will turn our submarines into the world’s safest and most powerful fighting force. Simply put, they will transform our fleet.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Isn’t it strange,” Kitty said to her father as he poured drinks in his study before dinner, “that Mr. Edison chairs a committee to which he himself might have to send a proposal for evaluation?”
“Which committee?”
“The Naval Consulting Board that Dr. Bright serves on.”
“Are you still thinking about that business, Capability?”
“Just thinking.”
“It’s known as a conflict of interest.” He handed Kitty her glass.
“Well, if Secretary Daniels knows that Mr. Edison is such a prolific inventor, why appoint him to the post? It’s hardly fair to ask a man to rule on the fitness of his own product.”
“Normally, I would agree with you, Capability, but in this case, Mr. Edison is a patriotic citizen. I doubt he would propose anything that he thought was of less than one hundred percent value to our country.”
“I suppose.”
“And besides, who else could Daniels have chosen to fill that seat? Someone who knows less than Edison does about these kinds of things?”
Kitty tried to get as much sleep as she could that night in preparation for the next day’s interview with Mrs. Belmont, but her dreams were filled with car accidents, Thomas Edison aiming chewing tobacco into a spittoon, and Elspeth laughing and laughing as the half-deaf old inventor struggled to hear her through an old-fashioned hearing horn. Had Elspeth invented a battery that competed with Mr. Edison’s—had she admired him and hoped to emulate his achievements in some small measure—could he, or someone in his team, have stolen her ideas?
Kitty woke feeling uneasy, whether from the dreams or the prospect of the interview, she couldn’t tell. She chose a green dress, applied extra ointment and powder to her cheek, and arrived with some trepidation at the building unofficially known as the Belmont Suffrage Headquarters at 13–15 East Forty-Second Street. Mrs. Belmont’s personal residence wasn’t far away at 477 Madison Avenue, but she met all business callers at her place of work. When Kitty rang the bell, Mrs. Belmont’s secretary, Miss Baehr, escorted her to a private office on the second floor.
“Mrs. Belmont only sees visitors by appointment,” Miss Baehr said in hushed tones. “She plans to speak with you today and expects you will return next week to observe rehearsals and meet Miss Maxwell, the composer, and the rest of the cast.”
“If that’s what Mrs. Belmont wishe
s, then of course.” Kitty half expected to be provided with a list of dos and don’ts and a suit of body armor before she went inside.
A small but redoubtable woman with chubby cheeks and a determined chin came out from behind her desk to shake Kitty’s hand when the secretary knocked.
“Finally.” Mrs. Belmont’s rasping laugh scraped Kitty like sandpaper. “Miss Busby of the Sentinel’s Ladies’ Page deigns to send someone to see me. I’ve enjoyed—and not enjoyed—forty years of relentless publicity, but this is the first time with someone from your paper. What do you say to that, Miss Weeks?”
“I don’t believe the Ladies’ Page has been in existence for forty years, Mrs. Belmont.”
“It hasn’t.” Mrs. Belmont took a seat on an armchair and gestured to an empty one opposite her. “But you know what I mean.”
The room was filled with books and papers and filing cabinets, and young women knocking softly came in and out to retrieve papers or check something in a folder.
“So tell me, what has piqued your editor’s interest in my activities all of a sudden?”
“Miss Busby believes our readers will be interested in your suffrage operetta. It’s such a novel idea.” Kitty felt she must hold her ground or risk being run over for the second time.
“Ah, I see. Safe enough for the Ladies’ Page.” Mrs. Belmont nodded. “I thought so. You can bury it amid society tableaux for charity or the black-and-white ball at Sherry’s sponsored by the Ladies’ Auxiliary of the Lying-In Hospital.”
“No. It will be a feature article.”
“My, my, I’m flattered. Is this your doing, young lady?”
“Ah.” Kitty didn’t know what to say. She was spared by someone coming in with a letter for Mrs. Belmont to sign.
The older woman put on reading glasses and scanned the document for a moment. “Women should have a voice in deciding what is and what is not obscene in regards to motherhood. Nicely written. I like it.”
Her assistant, a competent young lady, college-educated by the looks of it, handed her a pen, and Mrs. Belmont signed. The assistant blotted the paper and took it away.