Frank grinned at him. “Cuppa joe, is it?”
Harry smiled back. “Of course! That’s all we’re allowed these days, don’t you know.”
“I’ll have to say no, thanks,” Frank said. He put his Stetson on at a cheerful angle. “My wife’s expecting me for dinner. Looks like I’ll need to catch the streetcar.”
“Oh, ho,” Harry said. “No fancy motorcar tonight? You in the doghouse?”
Frank laughed. “Don’t think so. Just busy, I expect.”
The others waved, and made their way across the dry field toward their own automobiles, a Model T and an open saloon car that had seen better days. Frank turned the other way to walk to the streetcar stop. He had assured Blake he was not to worry if he was too busy at the end of the day to make it to the Red Barn, but despite that, it was rare for the Cadillac not to be waiting when Frank emerged in the evening. Somehow Blake had worked it out so he could pick up all three of the working Benedicts and still meet Frank to drive him home.
Frank didn’t mind the stroll through the warm evening, and he recognized a number of people who also rode the streetcar. It was a pleasant trip home, though it took so much longer than it would have in the Cadillac. He was whistling, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his briefcase in his left hand, as he walked up Aloha to Fourteenth Avenue. The sunshine, which had poured through the tall glass windows of the drafting room and made all the men fold back their sleeves, was fading now into a warm blue evening. Bees whirred in the rosebushes around Benedict Hall, and a hummingbird flashed past Frank’s head on its way to sup on a fuchsia hanging just outside Hattie’s kitchen window. Frank paused on the porch to appreciate these summer pleasures.
Summers in the Bitterroot Valley were hotter, dryer, more intense than the gentle summer of the Pacific Northwest. His mother would be picking huckleberries to preserve, bringing in ears of sweet corn to steam, cooking huge meals every day for the haying crew. His father would come in at night, sunburned and smelling of sweat and horses and sunshine. Frank’s memories of Montana summers were filled with sun. Here in Seattle, every sunny day was a special pleasure, all the sweeter because clouds could gather at any time, and the rain could return.
Frank had just opened the door of Benedict Hall when he heard the rumble of the Cadillac’s motor coming up the hill to the house. He stopped, looking out to the street.
Blake was at the wheel, sitting very straight in his driving jacket and cap. He stopped at the sidewalk, and got out to open the back door. Margot, with her medical bag in her hand, swung her legs out and stood up. She saw Frank on the porch, and lifted a gloved hand in a halfhearted wave. Blake said something to her, and she nodded. The two of them stood close, gazing into each other’s faces, though they didn’t speak again. They didn’t touch, of course, or make any gesture to indicate a relationship beyond that of mistress and servant, but Frank knew them, and he understood. Something was wrong, and Blake was trying to comfort Margot.
They finished speaking, and Margot straightened her hunched shoulders. As Blake climbed back into the Cadillac, she turned stiffly, like a soldier on parade, and started up the walk. Frank stepped to the edge of the porch and waited for her. The setting sun framed her lean figure as she walked toward him, so he could see only her silhouette, her face obscured at first by the brilliance dazzling his eyes. Not until she stepped into the shadow of the porch did he see her face, and understand the degree of her unhappiness.
He was accustomed to seeing his wife tired from a long day, spent, even irritable after hours of dealing with patients, or more likely, hospital administration. Occasionally, he himself was worn out at the end of a day, disinclined to talk, and Margot sensed his mood, and adapted to it. He tried to do the same for her, assessing the tension in her face, the weariness in her eyes. Tonight, though, she looked—stricken was the word that came to his mind. Her lips were pale and set, and her dark eyes seemed oddly opaque, as if she was trying to hide her feelings from him—and perhaps from herself.
Frank moved to meet her without speaking. He took her hand, tucked it under his elbow, and guided her across the porch and into the coolness of the hall.
Once inside she bent to set down her medical bag. She pulled off her gloves with deliberate movements, almost as if her hands hurt. She removed her hat and hung it with exaggerated care on the coatrack. Thelma emerged from the kitchen, a tray in her hands, and passed the two of them with a nod on her way to the small parlor. Margot ran her hands through her hair, ruffling it over her ears.
Frank had his own coat off, and his hat on the rack next to Margot’s. He said, “A drink, maybe, sweetheart.”
“Yes,” she said in a voice pulled tight with tension. “Please.”
He guided her down the hall to the small parlor with his good hand circling her waist. Thelma, tray delivered, passed them again on her way back to the kitchen. Frank was glad to find the small parlor empty. Blake had no doubt gone to pick up the Benedict men from their office, and Ramona and Edith had not yet come down. He led Margot to the small divan before he crossed to the tray of chipped ice and glasses laid ready beside the decanter of whisky. He poured two fingers of liquor into one of the heavy cut-glass tumblers, and dropped three ice chips into it. He made a similar drink for himself, but with more ice and less whisky, and carried the two glasses back to the divan.
He sat down, and handed her drink to her. She took it with steady fingers, but she avoided his eyes. “Drink,” he said. “Come on, Margot. It will help.”
She did, swallowing half the contents of her glass in a single gulp. She let her head drop back, and her eyes closed. Frank took in the butterfly sweep of her dark lashes against her too-pale cheeks, and the complete lack of color in her lips. Her pulse was visible in her long, smooth throat, and its beat seemed quick to him, restless and unhappy.
He said now, “Sweetheart. Tell me about it if you want to.”
She drew a slow, whistling breath. “Sometimes I wonder if I can keep it up, Frank.”
“Perfectly natural.” He sipped his own drink, and settled himself closer, willing his strength into her.
Her eyes opened, and she stared at the molded ceiling, where the chandelier moved slightly in a faint gust of air, carved crystals twinkling with the evening light. “I don’t know if it’s fair to share this one.”
“Up to you,” Frank said. He let his arm press against hers, and he leaned back so their shoulders touched. “If it would help.”
“It was just ghastly, from beginning to end,” she said. “Thank God I wasn’t on my own.”
“You were at the hospital.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “We lost a baby. I did everything I could think of—I should say, we did, Dr. Clegg and I—he’s the pediatric specialist. It wasn’t enough. We don’t know enough.”
“Can’t blame yourself, Margot.”
“I know.” Her lips trembled, and she lifted her free hand to press a finger to them. “Poor little boy,” she said in a whisper. “He never had a chance.”
“Parents?”
Without moving her head, she transferred her gaze to his face. “Oh, Frank,” she said, even more softly. “This little one, not even a year old . . . Someone left him in the yard at the Child Home. Just lifted him over the fence and deposited him there, like—like he was an unwanted puppy. He came down with diphtheria.”
“Poor little guy.”
“Yes. We did a tracheotomy, but it was too late. He—expired—a few minutes later.”
“I’m so sorry. For him, for you . . . it’s terrible.”
“It is. I hated having to call Mrs. Ryther to tell her. And there’s a young lady there who will take this hard.”
“Diphtheria. I thought we had gotten ahead of that.”
“We’re trying, but there’s an outbreak on the Tulalip Reservation.”
“Anything to be done about that?”
She moved one shoulder, and blew out her breath. “Quarantine,” she said shortly, “until it’s
over. Vaccinations, but a lot of people don’t trust them. At least the other Ryther children were vaccinated. Thank God for that.” She drained the rest of her drink. Frank took the empty glass to refill it, but she said, “No, thanks, Frank. No more. I’ll go up and have a bath. Go to bed early.”
“I’ll have someone bring up a tray.”
She hesitated, as if she were about to refuse, but then nodded. “That would be nice.” She started to push herself up from the divan. “We could both have our dinner upstairs. Together. I’m sure no one would mind, this once.”
He found her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sure they wouldn’t.”
“I’ll speak to Blake—”
“No, I’ll do that. You go up. Run a bath, get comfortable.”
He was rewarded by seeing a little color rise in her cheeks, and though he suspected, from the brightness of her eyes, that she would shed a few tears when she was alone, that seemed like a good thing. They stood together, and he kissed her cheek. She clung to him for a moment, and Frank held her, pressing his cheek against her hair, before they walked out of the small parlor, parting at the bottom of the stairs.
The rest of the family began to gather, the men coming in from work, Allison dashing through the front door with her tennis racket, the ladies descending the stairs even as she raced up them. Frank greeted everyone, and explained that he and Margot would have their meal upstairs. He waited where he was for Blake to come in, just putting on his serving coat.
Blake frowned when he saw Frank. “Is Dr. Margot all right?”
“She will be, Blake. Could you organize a tray for the two of us? She doesn’t feel much like company.” Frank gave a wry smile. “Other than mine, I guess.”
“That’s the best thing for her,” Blake said. “She’s had an awful day.”
“She told me.”
“I’ll take care of it, Major.”
“Thanks.” Frank was about to start up the stairs himself, but he saw that Blake was leaning more heavily on his cane than usual, and there were pale lines graven around his mouth. He stopped. “You’re taking it hard, too,” he said.
Blake cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, his voice rumbling through the hall, “that was just a baby. It’s a sad thing, and Dr. Margot worked so hard to save him.”
“Can’t save them all, Blake.”
“No. No, indeed. You remind Dr. Margot of that, Major.”
“I will. Thank you, Blake. I will.”
Blake said, “It’s not my place to say so, sir, but I’m very glad Dr. Margot has you to support her.”
Frank regarded him gravely. “She has both of us.”
Blake nodded acknowledgment, and limped on toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER 12
Bronwyn was alone in the tiny single room Mother Ryther had arranged for her. She had watched the site for the test Nurse Church had administered, a stinging injection just beneath the skin, and when it flared into a hot, itchy circle of scarlet, that meant she was susceptible. The nurse injected her other arm with the antitoxin, and said there would be two more injections, a week apart.
“No contact with the children for at least three days, Miss Jones,” the nurse said. “We think they’ve all been vaccinated, but Mrs. Ryther’s record keeping is not the best. We could have missed someone.”
Nurse Church was the first Negress Bronwyn had ever met. She was very pretty, with full lips and what looked like a dimple in one cheek, though she hadn’t had occasion to smile that day. The dimple lay quiescent in her satiny skin, a hint of something that might show itself in happier times. She patted Bronwyn’s arm, and handed her a glass of water. “Drink this, please, and several more today and tomorrow. I’ll explain to Mrs. Ryther, but what Dr. Benedict wants you to do now is rest. Your meals should be brought up to you.”
Bronwyn was installed in a cramped, windowless bedroom, hardly more than a closet, furnished with nothing but a cot with a thin mattress and dingy sheets. Nurse Church returned in the late afternoon, and knocked on her door. When Bronwyn opened it, she recognized the sorrow in the nurse’s face, and a sudden pain wrenched her heart.
“I’m sorry, Miss Jones,” Nurse Church said, and it was clear by the misery in her eyes and vibrating in her voice that she truly was. “The little boy passed away at the hospital. Dr. Benedict thought you should know, and she wants to make certain you understand there was nothing you could have done.”
Bronwyn leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly so weary she could hardly stand. She passed her hand over her eyes, not daring to speak in case she sobbed. The little nurse said, in a voice as gentle as the touch of a silk scarf, “Miss Jones. Go to bed now. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept.”
It was the only thing Nurse Church had said that wasn’t true. Bronwyn didn’t feel better. She cried for hours, once she was alone, and she lay awake far into the night, only falling into a thick sleep when the sky began to lighten. Even then she was haunted by nightmares.
She felt infinitely worse when she awoke. She lay on the narrow cot and cried again, thinking of the baby. Alone. He had died all alone. No one had wanted him, and no one had been with him at the end but doctors and nurses. Strangers. The cruelty of it stunned her, and the idea that her own baby, hers and Preston’s, could have suffered the same fate filled her with desperate anxiety.
She had presented herself at the Ryther Home as a young woman in need of work and a place to live, fabricating a complicated story of dead parents, vanished siblings, nowhere to turn. She didn’t dare use her own name, lest someone decide to search for her. She had borrowed her maid’s name instead, the first that came to mind, and Olive Ryther had taken her in without hesitation. Mother Ryther’s only question had been whether Bronwyn was pregnant, but even that would not, evidently, have meant a rejection. Mother Ryther, it seemed, was prepared to deal with whatever baggage she might be carrying.
Bronwyn knew nothing of caring for children. She couldn’t boil an egg or make toast. She had no idea how laundry was done, or how a floor should be mopped. Every time she was asked to perform some task, someone had to show her how to do it. It was a wonder, she thought, that they didn’t turn her right out of the house.
Her one great talent, she had discovered, was lying. She lied about her name, and she lied about her reason for coming to the Ryther Home, but it had been in vain. As nearly as she could tell, her own baby wasn’t here.
There were plenty of others, though, and when the nameless little one fell ill, she felt as if she had a purpose at last. She wasn’t much good at the other kinds of work that needed to be done, but she could sit beside the bed of a sick child. She had held him, sung to him, changed his sweat-soaked clothes, coaxed him to take sips of water. She had sat with him for hours, while around them the life of the house went on.
He had died anyway. She had failed even at nursing a sick baby.
It didn’t help that his doctor had been the very same woman in the clipping from the Seattle Daily Times. Preston’s sister, the bride in her gauzy dress with the long net sleeves and the pearl-encrusted headband, posed on the staircase of Benedict Hall. This tall, sharp-eyed woman with the long fingers and direct, almost masculine way of speaking—she was Preston’s sister. She looked very different from her wedding photograph, but this was Margot Benedict, and to her, Bronwyn was nobody at all.
When she could shed no more tears, Bronwyn stared at the unadorned ceiling with burning eyes, and wondered what she was to do with the rest of her life.
Margot found respite from her sadness in a full day of seeing patients. The waiting room in her clinic was full from midmorning till late in the afternoon. Angela barely had time to step into the storeroom to eat the sandwich she had brought from home, and Margot didn’t eat at all. She was grateful, as the day wore on and her stomach started to grumble, that Hattie had risen early to give her scrambled eggs and one of her baking-powder biscuits before she went to do her hospital rounds.
Her last patient was a giant
of a man, broad-shouldered and big-bellied, who had to stoop to pass under the lintel when he came back to the examining room. He wore the coveralls and heavy boots of a laborer. He dropped the suspender of his coveralls and rolled up his shirtsleeve to present a badly infected arm, and explained he had been clearing blackberry vines from a building site.
Margot made him take off his shirt, but she allowed him, seeing his embarrassment, to keep his undershirt on. She cleaned his arm herself, to take a good look at the depth of the scratches and the extent of the infection. She washed the arm thoroughly with Dakin fluid, then instructed Angela to apply a layer of sulphur ointment, and cover it all with a thick bandage. She was confident there would be no complications, but she told the man to return in two days so she could reexamine the area. She scolded him in what she hoped was a mild way, reminding him that carelessness was the way a minor irritation became a serious crisis.
He hung his head and said, “Yes, Doctor. Yes, Doctor,” with such contrition that her lips twitched, and she almost smiled.
Not until the man had left did she remember the lost baby, and her sadness of the night before. As she walked up Post Street to the waiting Cadillac, smoothing on her gloves, she reminded herself that she was supposed to be objective. She couldn’t grieve for every patient she lost, or she would be worn to nothing. The day a physician could prevent every untimely death would be a day of miracles, and she didn’t expect that day to come in her lifetime.
She sighed as she slid into the backseat of the motorcar, setting her bag beside her. “Good evening, Blake.”
“Good evening, Dr. Margot. I trust you had a good day.” Blake glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“I did. A busy day.”
“Your clinic is well established now.” He started the engine, and steered carefully toward Madison, braking to let a horse cart cross ahead of him. “That must be satisfying,” he finished, when the maneuver had been accomplished.
The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 13