Dr. Mary Stipp,
In light of developments recently brought to our collective attention, as well as information that you have been performing abortions at a private clinic, you are invited to report on May 12 at one o’clock in the afternoon to Albany City Hospital for examination of the terms of your medical staff appointment to this hospital. Please reply at your earliest convenience to this summons. However, please note that should you be unable to attend, said meeting will proceed without you. Any and all decisions made will be binding and indissoluble.
The Examination Committee
Albany City Hospital
During the war, in the midst of falling shells and dying men, Mary had not shown as much fury as she did when reading that letter aloud to him. Rumors, she railed. Who started them? It is unconscionable. Never once in the chaos of Antietam had William worried about Mary, but he worried now. The convoluted prejudices of a committee could be far more sinister than the brutality of artillery.
He went to the window. Outside, Claire and Elizabeth were climbing down a set of wooden stairs to the beach. Claire smiled at Elizabeth from underneath the wide brim of her sun hat, and Elizabeth bent low to kiss her cheek. William went down the hall and knocked on Amelia and Emma’s door. Emma was in bed, her back to the open door, a small figure curled up under a white candlewick bedspread. Amelia, reading a book, looked up at William and shook her head.
Mary had performed one last exam on Emma before they left. Amelia had held her hand and distracted her with stories, having learned that trick from Elizabeth. Luckily, no sign of venereal infection had manifested itself. Mary removed the stitches and declared Emma physically healed, completely able to undertake the trip. And even if no doll had ever made its way to their door, it had grown abundantly clear that while Emma’s body had healed, her mind had not. A place to disappear to, a place to regain her strength, a place where Emma and Claire could venture outside without anyone knowing who they were, was a good idea in any case.
William shut the door quietly. Were they expecting too much of a fishing village and a cheery hotel? Perhaps.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the amphitheater operating room of City Hospital, Dr. Mary Stipp sat beneath the bright pendant gaslight that illuminated the surgical arena. The surgery bed had been pushed against the wall. The ten members of the examination committee occupied the two front rows of the theater, the customary province of observing medical students. The physicians constituted the governing staff that oversaw the medical affairs of the hospital, in addition to granting and revoking admitting privileges. This afternoon, their general demeanor was one of censure, though their individual greetings to Mary had betrayed no hostility. As usual, the operating theater was cold, kept frosty to slow patient bleeding during surgery. How many surgeries had she done in this room? One, two a week? A hundred, at least. It smelled strongly of antiseptic.
The committee president, Thomas Hun, adjusted his pince-nez on his long nose as he read through a sheaf of papers on his lap. Mary thought the elderly Hun austere and smugly upright. As current dean of faculty at the Albany Medical College and former president of the Albany Medical Society, he had for years denied Mary entry to the society’s ranks, just as a prior dean had once denied her admission to the college. The vice chair of the committee, Samuel Ward, had been a medical cadet in the war, but of the rest she counted only Albert Van der Veer an ally. Mary studied Samuel Ward’s fine, impassive face. He kept his gaze trained on Hun, as one would a general, thereby distancing himself from the soldier being disciplined.
“The committee has received several complaints,” Hun began, finally looking up. He was a deacon at St. Peter’s Church and on Sunday he was famous for reading the liturgy in a thin, quiet voice so that parishioners had to listen carefully. “In fact, I have a list, which I will read for the benefit of all:
“Maintains secret, unsanitary private clinic for treatment of Ladies of the Night, which thereby aids and abets prostitution.
“As yet undetermined possible further connection with said profession.
“Neglect of duty.
“Performs abortions.”
He removed his pince-nez and dangled the glasses from a speckled hand that had probed innumerable patients over his fifty years of practice. “What say you, Dr. Stipp, to these charges?”
Mary stifled an impulse to raise her voice. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Hun, but am I in a court of law? Charges? Aids and abets? Perpetrates?”
“You understand the purpose, I presume, of this committee?” Hun waved his glasses at the silent cohort seated with him. “We certify competency in our medical staff. Any medical appointment is subject to review. When a member of the staff is publicly questioned about his—forgive me, her—medical practice, it becomes a concern. Staff appointments are not tenured. They can be withdrawn for any reason this committee deems valid.”
“Fine,” Mary said. “I’ll explain, though I shouldn’t have to. I established the private clinic as a haven to serve those women that neither this hospital nor any other in town will treat. In fact, this hospital has refused to treat many such women on many occasions.”
“We have a budget for the indigent—”
“You know very well that it does not extend to the treatment of women of a certain class. No. Let me be more specific. To the treatment of prostitutes.”
The collective committee, with the exception of Albert Van der Veer, winced.
Mary continued, “They are regularly turned away, especially in the aftermath of an abortion—”
“At this hospital, we do not condone immorality—”
“—when they are bleeding to death, in pain, on death’s door.”
“Answer the last charge, Dr. Stipp,” Hun said. “It is the most egregious of the four. In that clinic of yours, do you perform abortions?”
“I do not. That is a savage rumor fomented to discredit me. But I never turn away a woman who has been harmed by one.”
“It is the same thing.”
“It is not. Hospitals refuse to treat prostitutes even for rape.”
“No prostitute is raped. That is impossible.”
“They are raped. Often. And attacked. It’s a hazard of their profession. As is venereal disease.”
The men scoffed, and Mary wondered how a purported investigation into rumors had so quickly devolved into what defined the rape of a prostitute. “Do you know what I do at my clinic? The exact things that each of you does every day for your patients. I treat their tonsillitis, stitch up their wounds, and ease the ravages of disease. I deliver their babies. I take care of them.”
Hun sniffed and tented his hands. “Naturally as a woman of peculiar liberality, you are sympathetic to these disreputable causes—”
“Tonsillitis in a child is a disreputable cause?”
He ignored her. “But our purpose today speaks to respectability and your fitness as a member of this staff. City Hospital has a reputation to uphold. It has long been the view of this committee—frankly, since you were first admitted—that your status has always been provisional. It was our belief that your husband would intervene should you stumble. However, both of you operated on Mr. Harley, and considering that the man is now charged with the ravishment of one of those sisters, it was a gross conflict of interest that I am surprised you undertook, given your demonstrated affection for the O’Donnells and your many efforts to recover them. We are all therefore shocked that you would give aid and comfort to the man who attacked them. And—”
“That is a baseless charge, and you know it,” Mary said. “Neither William nor I had any idea that Mr. Harley had been involved in the kidnapping of Emma and Claire O’Donnell. Had we known and had time, we would have called in another physician, as was since done. Albert Van der Veer has stepped in, as I am certain you are also aware.” She tilted her head at Albert, who acknowledged her with a
brief nod. “However, in any case, the time required to obtain alternate assistance that chaotic night would have compromised Mr. Harley’s already precarious physical condition. Only my husband and I and Albert Van der Veer reported to the hospital that night, and Dr. Van der Veer had already gone home when Mr. Harley arrived. Where were all of you, by the way?”
“Please hold your commentary until I am finished speaking,” Hun said. “We also heard from our head nurse, Miss Müller, that you were late on your rounds of Mr. Harley the day after you treated him—”
“Emma and Claire had just arrived and needed care—”
“Thus allowing Mr. Harley to be spirited away and putting him at greater harm.”
“It is preposterous to hold me accountable for that. He was taken away without my consent or knowledge.”
“If you had not been derelict in your duty, then you would have been here and thus could have prevented that unfortunate development. No matter what the man’s offense, he deserved good medical treatment. His life was put at risk, we understand—”
“As are prostitutes put at risk when they are denied care. I—”
Hun forestalled her with a raised hand. “Despite our many points of difference with you, and despite the fact that few of us consider a woman fit to do the work of a physician, we the committee recognize that given your prior profession as a midwife, your sympathies cannot fail to fall naturally into the arena of womanhood. Today you have also denied performing abortions, and though I personally am not yet entirely persuaded, we lack evidence. You will therefore be pleased to learn that I have decided that we will renew—provisionally—your appointment here to City Hospital under the condition that you treat females only, for female problems, with the caveat that you desist in caring for prostitutes. The reputation of the hospital is at stake. Charitable impulses are to be lauded, but not immoral ones.” He sniffed again, satisfied with himself. “I think you will find this ruling more than generous.”
He offered this compensation prize as he would a box of fine chocolates. To his right and left, his fellow physicians hunched blank-faced, giving nothing away of their own opinions on the subject of Hun’s supposed benevolence.
“I am a medical doctor,” Mary said. “Educated and experienced. I am careful, prepared, diligent. I have met every criterion of our profession and will continue to do so for as long as I choose to practice. I will treat whomever I wish to treat, regardless of gender or background or societal caste.”
“I thought as much,” Hun said, gathering his papers. “Of course you may do as you like privately, but you will no longer be associated with this hospital. Your appointment to City Hospital is terminated.”
“You understand that my patients will suffer if I do not have access to the surgery—”
“You should have considered that before you refused our olive branch. You may, of course, always refer them to any one of us here, or to your husband.”
“He also operated on Mr. Harley, if you’ll remember. And yet you do not investigate him?”
Hun rose. “This investigation is now concluded.”
One by one, her former colleagues filed from the surgery. Albert Van der Veer put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. She wondered how long they had all been waiting to expel her from the hospital’s physician rolls. She gathered her things and exited the hospital through the accident ward. Outside on the street, under a streetlamp, Captain Mantel was talking with Doctor Hun. Mantel caught her eye, a flicker of triumph on his face.
—
At her downtown clinic, Mary attacked the accumulation of dust and dirt, mopping the floors and chasing away the roaches with buckets of water. She had forgotten her apron, and when she straightened, she wiped her hands on her splattered dress. She loved these grim walls, the blistering work that chapped her hands, the raw humanity that walked through her doors. Three years she had spent here, once a week, caring for women who might now be her only patients. She had no idea what would happen to her other practice once the news got out that she had been dismissed from the hospital. It was a Monday, not a Thursday, but she lit the lantern to hang outside anyway.
When she opened the door, she was shocked to find Viola Van der Veer on the doorstep, looking out of place in the dank alleyway. She was dressed in a fine blue gown that emphasized her tiny waist. Mary recognized Bonnie’s fine handiwork in Viola’s elaborate hat, decorated with ostrich feathers and a hummingbird perched in a nest of twigs. This was the second time an overdressed Van der Veer had made an unannounced appearance at her clinic, and both times she’d been shocked to see them.
“Jakob told me you might be here,” Viola said. “May I come in?”
Mary opened the door wide to admit her, then hung the lantern outside in its usual spot. Viola edged past her, lifting the hem of her gown to keep it from dragging in the puddles of mop water pooling on the uneven floor. Inside, she turned, taking in the musty clinic, betraying no surprise.
“It isn’t much, but my patients feel safe coming here. Until recently. Would you like to sit?” Mary said, indicating one of the wooden armchairs stacked in a corner.
Viola waved away the offer. “I’m sorry for the unannounced visit, but I have long wanted to see you in person to say how sorry I am about Bonnie’s daughters. I’m heartbroken about what—happened.” She pulled nervously at the tips of her calfskin gloves. “I would have called on you, but I wasn’t certain how you would have felt, given our family’s connection with Mr. Harley.”
“I would have been grateful.”
“I probably shouldn’t even be speaking to you.” Restless, she began to walk about the room. “No doubt there is some legal prohibition banning it. And they’re maligning all of us in the papers. This morning, that terrible Horace Young pointed out the impropriety of Jakob defending Mr. Harley. Not that I wanted Jakob to do it, but the truth of it is that we are all pariahs now. No one, it seems, will win in this. Least of all Emma and Claire.”
“No, they won’t.”
“How are they?” Viola said, stopping, her voice plaintive.
“I believe Claire will be all right, but Emma—I don’t know.”
“I’m terribly sick that our family has a part in this. I loved Bonnie. She was kind to me. I had very few friends, and she was one.” Her expression darkened. “My heart breaks—but how I feel doesn’t matter. Not in comparison to how the girls must be feeling.”
Mary noticed that Viola’s hands were shaking. She had dropped the hem of her dress, and the silk of her skirt was absorbing the last of a small puddle, but Viola took no heed. Clearly, the tiny woman had something else on her mind besides an apology.
“Jakob is smart,” Viola went on. “And good. It was his father who wanted him to defend Mr. Harley. Jakob didn’t want to. He was afraid of what Elizabeth might think. But he’s clever. I suppose all mothers say that.” She looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She gave up talking and ran a gloved hand up the doorjamb.
“Mrs. Van der Veer—”
“Viola, please.”
“Viola. What is it that you came to say?”
She sighed and hesitated for a moment. “I collect French dolls. Very expensive. Jumeau. I know to someone like you that seems frivolous”—she nodded at the clinic, in which nothing could be said to be frivolous—“but I like fashion. And the dolls are meant to show off the latest couture from Paris. I miss going there. I used to go with my father. I think I told you that at the party? Anyway, I like to see what is new.” She was talking fast now. “The dolls mean a lot to me. They’re quite rare and difficult to find. No one in Albany sells them. You have to go to Manhattan—”
“Viola?”
“Jakob told me. About the dolls sent to the girls.”
Mary recalled how quickly Jakob had snatched them from her hands. She had caught a glimpse at the bottom of their shoes, the s
croll of a French word embroidered into the silk.
“He recognized them—the type of doll—that day at your house. He knows about my collection. I keep them in my bedroom.”
Mary fought a sudden chill and reached for the shawl she had put aside when she was cleaning. The content of the note came suddenly back to her: Do you miss me? “The dolls are yours? You sent them?”
“No.” Viola’s hands, perpetually in motion, stilled. “No. They weren’t mine.”
“How do you know?”
“I counted them. I’m certain. The ones that were sent to Emma and Claire did not come from my collection.”
“Then do you know who did send them?”
“I don’t.”
“Did Jakob tell you there was a note?”
Viola’s startled response told Mary that Jakob hadn’t.
“What did it say?”
Mary didn’t like to think of what the note had said. Its cool arrogance had unnerved her. “I think you’d rather not know.”
“I see.” Viola swallowed. “I can’t even imagine how awful this is for your family. It is for me. It has been for Jakob. I hardly see him anymore. During the day, he hides himself away somewhere preparing for the trial. He won’t even tell me where he goes. He never wanted to be involved—but I told you that already.”
Viola looked wistfully around the clinic. She was lingering, as if she had nowhere else to go. Mary wondered how she filled her days.
“I think you might like to know,” Mary said, “that Jakob was very good to Emma when he interviewed her. Very kind. We—most of us—appreciate his discretion. Very few attorneys would have treated her with such care.”
“I’m glad.” Viola’s face lit with pride, but within seconds her expression fell again. “I suppose it’s Elizabeth who is distressed.”
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