"Of course." He slammed another shot, banging the glass on the bar. "I'll have a few more of these and trust me, I won't remember my own name tomorrow morning." His turn to wink. Reed grinned, and continued:
"Word from the servants is that Lilith was finishing her final year at Dana Hall, 'bout seven years ago. She got into a fight with her father and she threw it in his face. Everyone in the house knew that Margaret had slept with someone while he was out of the country right after they were married. Some say she had a lover and a final fling. Some say she didn't do it by choice." An uncomfortable silence hung between the two men.
"However it happened, she got pregnant with Lilith and Stone didn't know. Then nothing. No kids for years until Miss Julia was born. And she's feeble-minded. Gossips say there was a big fight between Stone and Margaret when Julia was born and she threw it in his face that the only child he could make was weak. He hasn't visited her bed since."
"How did Lilith find out?" James knew plenty of people who weren't the children of their "Da," but had never given much thought that it happened on Beacon Hill, too.
"Who knows? She's smart, that one. And so she threw it in his face when she was seventeen. And he had her committed."
"Tortured."
Reed nodded. "Something like that. I've heard some of the doctors there get their hands on a woman and, well – they cut off parts of a woman that most would prefer to keep.” James wasn't sure what to make of that, but the cold chill that unwound the warmth of his drinks didn't sit well.
A raucous shout interrupted the room's chatter as a group of young barreled through the door, someone shouting about a fight outside. Half the room poured into the street, leaving James and Jack with a chilly draft from the now-closing door and a colder knowledge seeping into James' pores.
Reed sniffed and said, “And that's when her grandfather -- Margaret's Da -- set up the trust. He knew what Stone was up to and set out to make sure Lilith would be safe and cared for. Stone will never leave his money to her."
"But he raised her as his daughter." James' tone made it clear he didn't understand the paradox.
Shaking his head, Reed pushed the empty glasses away from his belly and stood. "Of course he did. Can't have anyone knowing that Margaret bested him. The scandal -- John Stone as a cuckold? Can you imagine?"
No. He couldn't. But torturing Lilith at McLean because she’d figured out he wasn't her father still made no sense.
"So he hates her so much he told the people at McLean to do these unspeakable acts?"
Reed shrugged. "I don't know 'bout that. I just know what the kitchen maids whispered when I came for dinners and parties. And that Lilith came home after months there as much a shell of herself as men come back from war. She looked like she'd spent those months watching ghosts." And with that, Reed, stepped back, shook James' hand, and staggered off to the street, James watching his feet as they plodded past the window, lurching to the left out into the cold, starless night.
Chapter Eight
NOTHING TO FEAR. NOTHING TO FEAR. She chanted the words in her mind like an Eastern yogi muttering to himself along a verbal journey to nirvana. Of course, a yogi would not need to ruminate over the silly phrase. He would simply be enlightened. Lilith held no illusions of her own enlightenment when it came to this strange fluid.
She was frightened. No chant would cure it.
Perhaps Dr. David Burnham could.
His office was as peculiar as his receptionist. Both were large, dark, and shabby. While Burnham seemed to have taste – the oak-lined walls in the reception area and New Hampshire granite floors attested to that – the anteroom was a man's room, decorated by and for men. An oddity for a doctor who treated women for the most part.
“Who is your decorator?” Lilith asked the receptionist, using a finely-honed, clipped voice. Leaving people no choice but to answer an authoritative question had served her well for years. She didn't really care about the answer. How the subject replied, though, revealed everything she needed to know.
Silence. Her face was bent down over a manuscript. Thick black waves of hair streaked with the occasional craggy grey, like broken guitar strings, were twisted into a knot at the base of her head. Tea-stained cotton covered the woman in a tent-like dress, her bosom rising over a misplaced drop waist. The effect made her appear to have stuffed a pillow in a brassiere the size of a saddlebag.
Tipping her face up slowly, the receptionist's sharp eyes belied her molasses demeanor. Raven black, pupils blending into the iris like spilled ink. An angry scar from right nostril to ear, covered with a sad attempt at makeup.
“I wouldn't know. The doctor has kept his office as such since I began working here, Miss.” Gravel mixed with sand came forth in her voice, the words infused with an Irish lilt. Lilith wondered who gave her that scar.
And then the receptionist stood, towering a good foot over Lilith. “Excuse me while I attend to a pressing concern,” she said. Limping away, the woman's gait appeared to cause her great pain. Lilith snatched a glance at the desk. A small placard read “Mary Murphy,” a name you could shout in south Boston on any given day and hear fifty women cry “aye!”
Any concern she held for Mary dissolved when Dr. Burnham stepped through a door that was built into a wall panel. He seemed to materialize from nowhere, a spirit at a séance.
“Miss Stone? Do come in. I apologize for my tardiness.”
She glanced at the clock. He was two minutes late.
“If two minutes is tardy, Dr. Burnham, then you are as exacting a physician as I would wish to see. You inspire confidence.”
“I seek only to find answers, Miss Stone. The rest is a byproduct.”
An arched eyebrow was her reply.
She had come to the right place.
Nothing to fear, indeed.
His inner office was as professional and shabby as the reception area. With curtains that needed a strong beating and airing, and a threadbare Turkish carpet that might stretch back to the nights of Scheherazade, what he lacked in finery he made up for in book volume.
“You are no stranger, then, to my condition?” If she could be blunt here then she would take advantage of the freedom.
Burnahm touched the top of a thick stack of books, sheets of paper poking out to and fro from various pages. “I've done considerable research on it since receiving your letter and your request for my medical assistance. It is quite intriguing.”
“It is not incontinence, then?” Lilith's cheeks went warm but she held eye contact, willing away shame. He was a doctor after all.
But so was Dr. Maurice Scott.
“No, Miss Stone, it most certainly is not, if your descriptions of the episodes are true to form. Did you bring the sample I requested?” His matter-of-fact tone pleased her. Startled her, really, for sexual matters were, at best, discussed in polite company behind euphemism and giggles. At worst, not at all.
“Yes.” She rustled through a small pocket in her skirt and handed him a small test tube with a wet piece of cotton in it. “This took some work, finding a test tube and hiding the torn cloth from my maids, but I've done it.”
“So this was soaked by the fluid you describe that comes out of your vulvar area during orgasm?”
That was direct. “Yes.”
“And this happens every time you have sexual intercourse. Vaginal intercourse.” Now he was taking notes in a thick leather binder, and ink-spotted white glove on his right hand.
“Yes.”
“This also happens during times of arousal at night?”
She frowned. “No, not that I am aware of.”
He paused and removed his glasses, looking intently at her. “And yet you said you wake once a month to a wet bed.”
“Oh. That. Yes, I do, but I assumed...” Her voice trailed off and she realized, once again, that she need not be demure. He was a scientist. “I assumed that was urine.”
“Your letter indicated there is no ammonia scent.”
“
No, there is not.”
“Then it is not urine.” He put his glasses back on and returned his attention to the notepad.
“Dr. Burnham, I must say that you are the most plain-speaking doctor with whom I've worked.”
He looked back and her and smiled sadly. He began to speak, then stopped. Tipping his chin down, eyes averted, he replied, “I am familiar with some of the doctors you have worked with.”
Her belly filled with a cold, familiar vulnerability. “You know about Dr. Scott.”
“Yes.” He frowned, a compassionate, angry look that caught her off guard. “Your grandfather consulted me after your release. I helped to drive Dr. Scott out of the region.”
Gratitude replaced the vulnerability. “I...I had no idea,” she stammered.
Rubbing his eyes with his ungloved hand, Dr. Burnham suddenly seemed ten years older. “I kept my role quiet intentionally. The various medical associations for physicians in this country do not take kindly to fellow physicians weeding out the unscrupulous among us. Paradoxically, they do not recognize that allowing men of poor morals to prey upon unwitting women under the guise of treatment tarnishes the reputation of us all.”
Lilith leaned back in her chair, a relaxed stance that came with finding an intelligent conversationalist. She didn't relax often.
“Thank you.” She had no other words.
“Don't thank me. I did what any decent man would do. In fact, I wish I could have done more. If only we could have stopped what he did to Miss Nourse.” His voice trailed off and he turned away, closing his eyes. “Perversity disguised as science has no place in medicine. It is I who am grateful to your grandfather for revealing Dr. Scott's treatments.”
There was nothing more to say. Lilith found that a change of subject generally required a blunt force trauma to the conversation in lieu of social niceties, and applied the weapon of laying the next move at Burnham's feet.
“You speak so boldly of sexual matters, doctor.”
He laughed, head thrown back and to the left, and answered, “I do nothing more than treat sexual issues as surgeons treat wounds. We would not fear discussing a man's amputation in clinical terms. A woman's vagina, or a man's penis, should be given the same respect.”
She grinned conspiratorially, “That won't happen in our lifetime, I'm afraid.”
“Depends,” he said, “on how long you plan on living.”
A flash of memory of Miss Evangeline Wolf made her blood run cold again.
A smack filled the room, followed by a smattering of dust in the air as Burnham slapped the stack of books. “Your condition is called 'saline liquor.'”
“Saline?” Her heart sank. “But I thought you said it wasn't urine.”
“It's not. The term is a misnomer, used by a famous seventeenth century French obstetrician, François Mauriceau.” Burnham put his glasses back on, instantly aging himself and making him considerably less attractive to Lilith, a relief she didn't realize would feel so good. Burnham read, “He described 'saline liquor during coition, which increases the heat and enjoyment of women' – and thus we find the beginning of our understanding of the fluid that you emit during sexual arousal.”
“So it is normal?”
“What is normal?” Burnham lobbied back, smiling.
Irritation rose in her, combating the relaxed, congenial feeling she'd been enjoying. “No one has ever described this as a part of 'normal' female sexuality.”
“Miss Stone, how often has anyone discussed female sexuality with you in any detail? How would such a subject come up at all in your life? Such matters are not part of the conversation or instruction of young women.”
“But this 'saline liquor' is an oddity, no?”
Burnham nodded, referring to another book. “Yes, though I've found ample descriptions in medical and psychoanalytic texts.”
“Freud? Freud describes it?” Lilith rolled her eyes.
“I'm afraid so,” he chuckled. “He links it to hysteria. Kraft-Ebbing connected it to sexual inversion. If you had stayed for my full lecture last month, you'd have heard that detail.”
A sharp knock on the door made Lilith jump.
“Yes, Mary?” Burnham called out.
A muffled, low voice answered, “You next appointment, doctor.”
“Thank you.” He closed his book and looked at Lilith with a wistful expression. “Worrying about what is normal in sexual matters is common for men and women, but it is more important to worry about emotional and physical health. Your saline liquor is well-documented, but yes – rare.”
“But it's not...”
“It is not incontinence. If anything, some scientists believe it to be an ejaculation much like that found in men.”
Father always said I was a man in female form.
“And for reproduction?”
“This has no effect.” He glanced at a wall clock and smiled tightly. “I'm afraid we must end. If you find the condition to be a hindrance in daily life, please see me again.”
“But Doctor, why did this start shortly after my time in McLean? And why does it happen at night, in bed, without a man?”
Nodding, he walked her toward the door. “It is a sign of arousal. Much like a teenage boy with nocturnal emissions. You've tapped the limits of my research into this issue, Miss Stone. I can assure you only that it is part of your sexual makeup, and any husband will need to accept,” he paused and shook his head quickly, “no – appreciate – this proclivity.”
Did his lips twitch with amusement? Lilith wasn't certain. The conversation began to feel a bit too prurient, and the vulnerable feeling returned.
“I thank you for your forthright information, doctor.”
“And I thank you, Miss Stone, for helping me to expand my understanding of the field.” A formal half-bow preceded the closing of his door. As Lilith stepped out of the office Mary was nowhere to be seen.
Appreciate.
Her face fell. She'd kicked James out of her bed for nothing.
Nothing to fear after all.
Chapter Nine
“ARE THERE ALLIGATORS THERE, JAMIE?” A layer of grime framed Bobby's wide blue eyes.
“Yes. And they're a hundred feet long and eat little Irish boys for breakfast.” Packing for his trip was proving both easier and harder than he'd expected. Easy – he had only one small suitcase. Hard – the difficulty in leaving behind his brothers, sisters, Ma and Da.
And Lilith.
“Another one came!” Mikey tore into the room, a year younger than Bobby and as innocent and book smart as Bobby was corrupted by the streets. He waved an envelope eagerly before James and Bobby.
The first letter had come from her three weeks ago, a fine linen paper that James recognized instantly.
He'd ignored it.
Persistent, isn't she? This one he took from Mikey's outstretched hand, snatching it before Bobby could get his grimy hands on it and run into the streets to read it aloud.
“Get, both of you. Give me a few minutes alone.” Soon he'd have as much solitude as he wanted, traveling alone and embarking on an ambitious adventure of his own making.
But he wouldn't find solace.
Not if he kept ignoring her letters.
On his bookshelf sat a small, red book bound with cheap cloth. His journal. He'd tucked her previous letter there and now pulled it out.
The envelope required considerable effort to open; at work he routinely opened such fine paper, but here at home it seemed out of place.
Dear James,
Once again I find myself writing to you in apology for my actions. I've wavered for weeks, wondering whether to send this. My friend Esther urged me, telling me that regret is worse than embarrassment.
I suspect any woman who caries a Mexican rat in her purse about town is not to be trusted with advice in such matters, so your response will tell me whether she is correct.
May we find a way to meet soon? The lecture this Thursday at the Unitarian church in Cambridge is,
ironically enough, on the role of hysteria in women. It seems an appropriate venue.
Sincerely,
Lilith
That lecture had passed two weeks ago, and James knew all too well that she had attended, for he had nearly attended as well. That night was a haze, walking into the room and seeing her there, then ducking back so as not to be spotted. Maria had cornered him, asking for some time, and he'd demurred, lying about a work matter. Using Maria to get to her father's money had seemed expedient at the time, a shortcut to riches he could never achieve without help.
Now he realized the true price, and it was higher than he wished. While Maria had never uttered the word “love,” and James shuddered to imagine it, he nonetheless felt something for her, even if it were just scraps of gratitude for access to her father's investment.
And a healthy appreciation for skills few women possessed in carnal matters.
Whatever Maria may have felt for him seemed distant, too incomprehensible to consider. Her cold exterior and calculating eyes made him feel like a pawn in a game. She moved the pieces where she wished and analyzed positions, strategies, strengths and weakness, all with a goal of an end game that gave her pleasure.
But her feelings? For him? If she had them, she'd never hinted at it.
With a slight tremor in his hands, James opened the new letter from Lilith.
Dear James,
Your journey to Chile is pending, and I will throw all proper behavior by the wayside and simply ask you to visit me at my friend Esther Nourse's home on Salem Road in Cambridge tonight after 9 p.m. Use the servant's entrance. I leave my boldness at your mercy and urge you to meet with me, for your pending journey will remove all chance.
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