Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 15

  The stains were even uglier in the wintry sunshine streaming through the bedroom window. They were multicolored, from rust and copper to an undigested, rank-looking brown. To Allison, they looked like exactly what they were. Spilled liquor, dirt from the speakeasy’s filthy tables and sticky chairs, rain spots, a bit of mud from the rose bed, and . . . Her breakfast turned in her sore stomach.

  Ruby asked, “Where did you wear this, Miss Allison?”

  Allison stood up and snatched the dress from Ruby’s hands. She rolled it into a tight pink ball. “It’s ruined, Ruby,” she said firmly. “I wanted to take the hem up, and I knew you wouldn’t like it so short, so I tried to do it myself. I spilled a whole pot of tea on it.”

  “That won’t never come out of silk georgette.”

  “As I said,” Allison repeated, “it’s ruined. If you’re keeping track for Papa, you can add this to the list.”

  Ruby’s eyes widened, and a flush crept over her plain cheeks. “Miss Allison, your papa—I mean, Mr. Henry—he—”

  Allison, feeling she had regained the upper hand, patted the maid’s arm. “I know all about it, Ruby,” she said. “Papa set you to spy on me, didn’t he? I hope he made it worth your while.”

  “Oh, Miss Allison,” Ruby said miserably. “You weren’t to know about it. Now I’ll be in trouble with Mr. Henry.”

  “No, you won’t,” Allison said. “I’m not going to tell him, so you don’t need to, either.” She thrust the ruined frock forward. “Just get rid of this, will you? We don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

  Ruby, her face stained an unbecoming red, took the rolled-up dress and carried it out of the bedroom. Allison wandered to the window to stare out at the winter landscape and wonder if there was any way to send Ruby back to San Francisco. It wasn’t the maid’s fault, she knew, and she didn’t want to be the cause of Ruby losing her job.

  At least it was all in the open now. Ruby had more or less admitted that her first loyalty was to Papa and Mother. She had taken her orders from Adelaide from the very first. It was too bad they couldn’t be better friends. Allison had even less control over her life than Ruby did.

  There had been a nanny once, when Allison was small, a sweet little woman called Rosy. She was a plump, warm-bodied person, ready with a grin or a kiss or a hug, whichever she deemed most useful in the moment. Skinned knees, pinched fingers, bad dreams, late-night thirsts, whatever small domestic crisis arose, the staunch and easygoing Rosy had a remedy. Rosy, in fact, was everything Adelaide was not, maternal and comfortable and uncritical. Allison had loved her with all the intensity a lonely child could muster.

  One terrible day, six-year-old Allison refused to go to her mother when she was ordered to. She couldn’t have known the consequences of her action, of course. She could only assess it now, recalling the scene as best she could. She had buried her face in the folds of Rosy’s apron and clung to her sturdy legs until Adelaide tore her away. With Allison squalling all the way, Adelaide marched the little girl off to whatever task she had in mind. Allison couldn’t remember Rosy saying anything, protesting or interfering in any way, but that didn’t matter. Adelaide pronounced the nanny “too familiar.” She was gone from the house the next day. No one told Allison anything about it, or offered the child any explanation. All she knew was that her protector, her friend, the only adult she could trust, vanished without a word of farewell.

  Years later, coming upon a doll wearing clothes Rosy had sewn, Allison asked about her. Her mother sniffed and began a lecture on the proper behavior of servants and their mistresses.

  Now, Allison knew that it was she who had been to blame for Rosy being sent away. She had revealed too much of her true feelings in front of her mother. It didn’t matter that she had been six. It didn’t matter that she was now nineteen. Adelaide was not to be trusted with feelings or confidences or anything else.

  Eventually, Allison came to understand that her father had been complicit in the loss of Rosy. He could have intervened, spoken up for her, protested that Allison needed the nanny who had been with her since she was tiny, and who, by any measure that counted, truly loved her. By the time she discerned that truth, her father was firmly entrenched on her mother’s side, a partisan in the war between mother and daughter. Ruby had been carefully selected and coached so as not to provide Allison with an ally, which meant that she had no one.

  Until now. Was it possible that Cousin Margot . . . ?

  Margot intended to reopen her clinic quietly, simply post hours in the window and let patients find her in the same way they had in the past. When she announced this to the family at breakfast, Dick protested that she should make more of a celebration of it. Her mother received the news in the absent way that had become her habit, as if she hadn’t really registered what was being said.

  Several days had passed since Margot came upon Allison being sick in the roses, but there had been no time for the promised talk. It weighed on Margot’s mind, one of many things needing her attention.

  Allison surprised her now by saying, “Let me help, Cousin Margot. You should make it an occasion.” She had said so little since her arrival that every person at the table turned to her in surprise. Her cheeks colored under their regard.

  “An occasion?” Margot asked blankly. “How does one do that?”

  Allison gave her a shy smile. The first morning after the night of the speakeasy, Allison had looked like a frightened kitten, but when she came to understand that Margot truly wasn’t going to report her misdeed, she appeared to relax. She had gone shopping twice with Ramona, and Hattie reported that Allison had eaten reasonably well before those trips. Margot took that as an assurance that Allison had understood her warning. No doubt the girl preferred not to faint in another tearoom.

  “Well,” Allison said now. “First, there should be a formal announcement.”

  Dickson said, “Good idea, young lady. I’ll speak to C. B. Blethen. Get something in the Times.”

  Margot said weakly, “The Times?” It wasn’t the newspaper that surprised her. It was the conversation, this discussion, treating the event of her clinic opening as if it mattered to any Benedict but herself.

  Allison went on in a little rush, though Margot could see she was self-conscious about it. “You could have a—let’s see—a reception. Or a tea. Invite everyone to see your office, tour the examination rooms. Emily Post says—” She broke off, her cheeks flaming now.

  “No, do go on, Cousin Allison,” Ramona said. “What does Emily Post say?”

  Allison fidgeted with her flatware, but she pressed on. “She gives instructions for an afternoon tea. A tiered plate, if you have one—”

  “Of course we do,” Ramona said.

  “She says to put the sandwiches at the top, and the sweets—cookies or cakes—on the lower tiers.” She paused and added, haltingly, “I could pour, Cousin Margot. I know how to do that.”

  It was the longest speech any of them had heard the girl make. There was an odd moment around the table, everyone trying to adjust to this new Allison. The change in her demeanor was gratifying, but it was startling, too. Margot sensed the family members taking care not to look at one another as they judged how best to react.

  It was Dick who broke the silence, saying heartily, “Excellent, excellent. You’ll be a lovely hostess, Cousin Allison. Lucky you, Margot! And we’ll all come, won’t we, Ramona?”

  “Of course we will.”

  Margot couldn’t think whether this was a good idea or an insane one. Blake was in the dining room, his cane in one hand and coffeepot in the other, and he paused behind Allison’s chair. He caught Margot’s eye and gave her a subtle nod. Prompted by this, she said, “Allison, it’s a very kind thought. Thank you. If you don’t mind taking charge—I’d be happy to make an occasion of it.” Margot couldn’t help thinking, Perhaps Frank will come. But she didn’t speak the thought aloud.

  He had mentioned in his last letter that he expected to return to Seattle before Chris
tmas, but that was nearly a month away. Sometimes Margot thought she couldn’t bear to wait. She had taken care not to press him, not to ask him to promise, or to tell him how much she missed him. But she did. She missed him with a constant phantom ache somewhere in her body, no place she could name medically but which, emotionally, was as real as any physical location.

  She pushed those thoughts down, to consider at a better time. She turned to Allison, thinking perhaps it would be good to have this distraction. “Tell me what we need to do,” she said. “Do you think you can manage? Speak to Hattie, perhaps order flowers or whatever you do for such events?”

  “I should come to see the clinic,” Allison said. “To know what the space is like, see if we need to rent a table—”

  Ramona gave a tinkling laugh. “I knew you had an eye for detail, Cousin Allison! What fun! Do let me be your assistant in this project, and tell me everything Emily Post says.”

  Allison’s pretty smile broke out again, and Margot wondered that her parents didn’t do more to encourage it. When she was happy—which she so rarely seemed to be—she was lovely, bright and youthful and pink-cheeked.

  Margot looked around the table at her family and smiled. “Thank you all. I guess I’ll—I’ll just put myself in your hands!”

  Only Edith said nothing. She sat pushing a bit of biscuit around on her plate with her fork, not seeming to hear the conversation around her. Margot noticed that no one, not even Allison, suggested that Edith should be included.

  Still warmed by her family’s unexpected enthusiasm, Margot excused herself and left the family to finish their breakfast while she went out to the hall to put on her coat and hat. Blake followed, leaning on his cane. “Where are you headed, Dr. Margot? I can drive you.”

  Margot bent to pick up her medical bag. She was about to refuse, but really, it was the perfect way to take Margaret Sanger to see the Women and Infants Clinic, and it would save a lot of time over the streetcar. “If you’re free, Blake, it would be helpful. It’s going to be a full morning. I need to go to the train station, then to the Women and Infants Clinic.”

  “Let me just change my coat.”

  Margot slipped out through the front door and stood in the shelter of the porch while she waited. She felt the bite of winter on her cheeks and in her lungs. Pewter clouds shrouded the vista of the city, obscuring the Sound and the mountains beyond. Frank had left Seattle while the trees still blazed red and gold, and now they were sere, the deciduous ones bare of leaves, the layered greens of pine and fir providing the only spots of color.

  She shivered a little against the cold and began to button up her coat. As she smoothed the collar with one gloved hand, she felt a new chill on the back of her neck, the vague prickle that meant someone was watching her. She spun sharply around to scan the porch behind her, and the gardens to either side. She couldn’t find anything. She turned back again, but she frowned at the odd sensation.

  As the Essex rolled down the driveway and pulled up at the curb in front of the house, Margot shook off the uneasy feeling and strode determinedly off the porch and down the walk to the gate. She was thrilled to be meeting Margaret Sanger at last. Today meant the culmination of months of letters and plans and petitions. She mustn’t let it be shadowed by pointless anxiety.

  Blake, now attired in his driving coat, his cap, and his black leather gloves, got out of the driver’s seat to hold the passenger door for her. “Blake,” she scolded. “You don’t need to do that.”

  As she slid onto the seat, she saw the rebellious glint in his eye. “I’m managing perfectly well, Dr. Margot,” he said.

  She chuckled as he got into the driving seat. The cane waited in the seat beside him, but it was true, he had managed the doors with ease. “Patients like you keep doctors on their toes,” she said.

  “Do we indeed,” he said, giving her a wry glance in the rearview mirror.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, you do.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, with a twitch of his lips, “that’s a good thing.”

  As the Essex swept majestically down Broadway and turned down the hill to King Street Station, Margot said, “I had forgotten how nice this is, Blake. I took it for granted, and then when you weren’t here—that is, the streetcar is fine, but this—this is marvelous. I’ve missed it.”

  “It’s good to be driving again, Dr. Margot.”

  Margot was tempted to say that it was really Blake himself she had missed and not the automobile. She didn’t speak the words, but she suspected he knew. She was still smiling when they reached the station.

  Margaret Sanger was surprisingly small for a woman who had caused such a furor, not only in New York but in the whole country. She was slender and dark, with a slight overbite and a light, precise voice. She shook Margot’s hand, refused to allow her to carry her bag, and insisted she wasn’t tired in the least. “I won’t be staying in Seattle, Doctor,” she said. “So if we could go directly to the site, I’d prefer that.”

  “Of course. I’ve kept the whole day free.”

  “Very good. I’m due in three other cities this week.”

  If her tone was a bit peremptory, Margot let it pass. The woman had, after all, put her life on the line for their cause. She could be forgiven her lack of grace.

  Blake emerged from the Essex and took Mrs. Sanger’s valise to stow in the back. He touched his cap brim, said, “Good morning, ma’am,” and held the door for each of the women, limping only a little without his cane.

  As they drove, Mrs. Sanger asked where Margot had studied, how long she had been in practice, what her special interests were. She seemed collegial, pleasant enough, looking curiously out the window as the Essex rolled into the poorer section of Seattle. When Blake, following Margot’s instructions, pulled the car up in front of a modest brick building, Mrs. Sanger said, “Is this it?”

  “Yes,” Margot said. “It needs a bit of work, inside and out, but the rent is reasonable, and the owners agreed to our purpose.”

  “A Negro section of town, I see.”

  Margot involuntarily glanced forward, to read Blake’s reaction to this. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he reached for his cane and opened his door. She said, “Yes. Does that matter?”

  Mrs. Sanger climbed out of the backseat without so much as a nod to Blake. “It’s excellent,” she said crisply. “It’s a principal part of the community we want to reach.” She added, in a casual way, “These people need birth control more than most.”

  Margot met Blake’s gaze as she herself got out of the automobile. His features were perfectly blank, his eyelids hooded, his mouth straight. She left her medical bag on the seat, and she brushed the sleeve of Blake’s jacket as she passed him. Her own voice, she thought, was equally crisp, even brusque, as she said, “Thank you very much, Blake. We’ll try not to keep you waiting too long.”

  He answered, “I’ll be right here, Dr. Margot.” There was no inflection in his deep voice, but she heard the old echoes of the South in his accent, remnants that surfaced when he was angry. Margot’s lips pressed together as she turned to follow her guest.

  She used a key to open the door, but as she and Mrs. Sanger stepped inside, Sarah Church emerged from a back room. She wore a long paint-stained apron over a shirtwaist and ankle-length skirt, and her curly hair was bound up in a scarf. Her deep dimple flashed as she came eagerly forward, saying, “Dr. Benedict! Have you come to check on our progress?”

  Margot nodded to her. “Hello, Sarah. Yes, in part. Also to show Mrs. Sanger our building. Mrs. Sanger, this is Sarah Church, the nurse who will staff the clinic and assist the physicians. Sarah, this is Margaret Sanger. You know her work, I believe.”

  Mrs. Sanger put out her hand to shake Sarah’s, and then said, “A Negro nurse. Very good choice, Dr. Benedict.”

  Margot stiffened, and she saw Sarah falter in the act of extending her own hand. Mrs. Sanger seemed not to notice, briefly shaking Sarah’s hand, then turning in a circle to assess the room.
It smelled pleasantly of fresh paint. Sarah had cadged some simple furniture from one of the local businesses, a divan, a couple of mismatched straight chairs, and a low table.

  Mrs. Sanger said, “You’ll need a desk, of course. Will you be able to install a telephone?”

  Margot moved to Sarah’s side so the two of them faced Mrs. Sanger shoulder to shoulder. She heard the ice in her own voice as she spoke. “The matching funds should cover a telephone, yes. We’re still working on the furniture.”

  “And the doctors? Are they Negroes also? We did that in New York, you know, and it was quite successful. Harlem, it was.”

  She walked toward one of the examining rooms, and Sarah and Margot stole the moment to glance at each other. Sarah’s wide, delicate nostrils quivered. Margot gave an apologetic shake of her head, and beneath the cover of Sarah’s apron, touched her hand before she followed Mrs. Sanger.

  “I will be one of the physicians,” Margot said. “I don’t know yet who the other ones will be.”

  “Oh, I recommend using coloreds,” Mrs. Sanger said offhandedly. She started into the first examining room, adding over her shoulder, “They understand each other, you know.”

  When Mrs. Sanger had moved out of sight, Margot turned to Sarah. “Blake is outside,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you go and say hello to him, and I’ll—I’ll—” She made an irritated gesture in Mrs. Sanger’s direction.

  “It’s all right, Dr. Benedict,” Sarah said. “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Blake. Please don’t worry about this. I’m used to it.”

  Margot’s chin rose. “I don’t want you to be used to it.”

  Sarah’s eyes shone with wisdom far beyond her years, and her own small chin jutted in a matching movement. “This is our life, Dr. Benedict.” She spoke without resentment, without even self-pity.

  Margot nodded toward the outer door. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m going to have a word with our guest.”

  “Of course,” Sarah said. “But you know, Dr. Benedict, you can’t change the world singlehandedly.” Something about the courage in her face, in the lift of her head and the decisiveness of her steps as she walked away, tightened Margot’s throat. She had to clear it and draw a long, cooling breath before she followed the woman she had thought would be a mentor.