Benedict Hall Page 19

  “I don’t know.” He picked up the plate and flatware, but stood holding them, staring at the remnants of her breakfast. “Last night, that man—Carter—was here, trying to see Mr. Preston.”

  “Is that the Carter Preston mentioned?”

  “The same. He was Mr. Preston’s batman, out in the East. His army servant.”

  “I can see you don’t approve of this person, Blake.”

  “I certainly don’t approve of his coming to Benedict Hall in the middle of the night.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Money.” Blake gestured with the dirty plate. “He said he did some work for Mr. Preston, and needed his pay.”

  Margot felt the familiar wave of unease. “Preston said Carter arranged Loena’s abortion.”

  “More than that. He said Preston wanted a word placed in certain ears. Here and there, he said.”

  “A word.” Margot patted her lips with a napkin and laid it on the table. “You have an idea about this, I gather.”

  “I don’t like to believe it of Mr. Preston. And I hate to speak of it in case this Carter made it all up.”

  Margot snorted, and turned to fetch her coat. “It’s probably something to do with that scandal rag he writes for. Nothing to do with us.”

  “Do you read his column?”

  “Not since he printed that ghastly photo of me. I’m afraid of what I might see.”

  He came after her into the hall, and helped her into her coat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

  “No. It’s a beautiful morning.” She put on her hat and gloves. “There’s something else I have to worry about, Blake.” He cocked his head, and raised his gray eyebrows. “It’s Dr. Whitely, Leonard Whitely. He claims I performed Loena’s abortion. And that I’ve been doing others, at my clinic. He’s threatening to revoke my hospital privileges.”

  Blake hesitated for a long moment, as if he were trying to decide something. Finally, when she bent to pick up her bag, he cleared his throat. “Dr. Margot. You should speak to Mr. Dickson. He can have a word with the directors.”

  “Father would probably think it served me right. You know how he feels about the clinic.”

  “Let me speak to him, then.”

  “No, Blake, but thank you. I have to fight my own battles, don’t I?”

  “You don’t have to fight them alone.”

  She gave him an affectionate smile before she went out into the cool sunshine and walked quickly down the hill toward the streetcar. The storm had left the lawns green and the air sparkling. The fresh air cleared her head. She tried to enjoy the quiet of the early morning streets, and not to think too much about what she would find when she went into Loena’s ward.

  But she knew, just as Cardwell had known. It was a deathwatch. There was nothing in her power that could change it.

  Preston dressed carefully in a vested suit. He smoothed his tie and took his hat from the shelf above his wardrobe. It was surprising, really, how much he enjoyed writing his column, hearing the bit of buzz around the newsroom as people leafed through the paper. The latest one, in particular, had been a swell bit of fun.

  The scents of griddle cakes and bacon floated up the stairs, drawing him down to the dining room. Griddle cakes were one thing Hattie did well. Her bacon tended to be limp and greasy, but the crisp edges of her griddle cakes made up for that.

  He was seated at the table with his coffee when Hattie carried in the breakfast tray. As she arranged the platters in front of him, he glanced up. “Where’s Leona?”

  Hattie’s eyes were swollen, and her lips trembled. She plucked at the pinafore of her apron as he served himself two griddle cakes and the crispest rashers he could find. She said in a teary voice, “Leona’s at the hospital, Mr. Preston. Loena’s real bad, she says.”

  Preston repressed a flare of irritation. He made himself lay down his fork, though the griddle cakes were cooling on his plate. “I thought she was going to be all better, once she got to the hospital. Margot—”

  “Miss Margot sat with her almost all day, Leona says. Then she got a nurse to sit with her all night.” Hattie stepped back from the table, and flapped a hand at him. “Eat, Mr. Preston. Have all you want. Hardly anybody here for breakfast.”

  “Mother?”

  “I took Mrs. Edith a tray, and Miss Margot left before anyone else was up.”

  Preston reached for the pitcher of warm maple syrup, but he didn’t pour it yet. He held it in his hand, as if his appetite had disappeared. “I should go to the hospital, shouldn’t I, Hattie?” he said sadly. “Take Loena some flowers.”

  Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, that’s sweet, Mr. Preston. That’s just so sweet of you. That poor girl!” A sob broke from her throat, and she hurried from the dining room, sniveling as she crossed the hall to the kitchen.

  Preston poured syrup over his griddle cakes, and ate two rashers of bacon as it soaked into them. The griddle cakes were delicious. He sat back when they were finished, and sipped the strong black coffee to counteract the sweet taste in his mouth. He put his hand over his breastbone, pursing his lips as he thought about his mother’s lecture and Hattie’s grief. Then, with a decisive motion, he pushed his plate away, set his cup down, and rose.

  His father came into the dining room just as he was on his way out. Dick was walking down the stairs at the same moment. “Leaving already, Preston?” Dickson said.

  “Early day,” Preston said. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Father.”

  His father nodded. Dick, behind him, said, “Quite the busy bee, aren’t you?”

  Preston flashed him a grin, then remembered, and pulled his lips into a grave expression. “Well,” he said, “work goes on, despite domestic crises.”

  “That’s right,” Dickson said heavily. “Nothing we can do but carry on.” He nodded, mostly to himself, as he went on into the dining room.

  Dick stood where he was, one hand on the knob of the dining room door, as Preston made his way to the coatrack. As he adjusted his fedora, Preston glanced back at his brother. “Something to say, old man?”

  Dick’s face had the same hard look Margot’s so often wore. “Mother and Ramona are both terribly upset, Preston,” he said stiffly. “I fully expect there to be no more shenanigans.”

  Preston opened the front door, letting a rush of rain-washed air into the hallway. “Shenanigans,” he mused, just loud enough for Dick to hear him. “Shenanigans. Is that what they are?” He gave a silent laugh as he went out into the sparkling morning.

  There was a little flurry of activity in the hospital corridors as breakfast trays were being delivered. Preston wrinkled his nose at the smell of medicine and disinfectant mixed with the odors of fried ham and oatmeal. He had to ask directions once or twice before he found his way to Loena’s ward. He peered around the doorway.

  The girl lay still as death, the spare shape of her body barely visible beneath the stiff white coverlet. A gray-haired nurse in a long apron bent over her, sponging her forehead. On her other side sat Leona, pale and nearly as still as her sister. She had Loena’s hand in hers, stroking it over and over. It looked as if she had been making the same gesture for hours.

  Preston gave a slight, warning cough, and walked into the ward. The nurse glanced over her shoulder to scowl at him. When Leona looked up, she seemed to go even paler, a phenomenon Preston could have enjoyed under other circumstances. For now, he needed both of them to leave the ward. He put a finger to his lips, and tiptoed across the gray linoleum. He had a slender spray of pink tulips in one hand, bought at the street corner, and he held them out as he came close.

  Leona began to reach for them, but the nurse said sternly, “No men allowed in this ward.”

  Preston stopped where he was, the ridiculous bunch of flowers in his left hand, his right hand pressed to his breast, the perfect gesture of sincerity and concern. “Oh,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m family, really. Preston Benedict.”

  He kept his
right hand where it was, pressing the stone, as he watched the nurse’s expression change. “Benedict? Are you Dr. Benedict’s brother?”

  His belly gave a twinge of fury. “I am,” he said. “I came to see how our girl is doing.”

  “Well,” the nurse said. She had a beaky, sharp face, like a crow. “I suppose you can come in for just a moment.”

  As he drew closer to the white iron bed, Leona reached again for the flowers, but Preston held them out to the nurse. “I know it isn’t much,” he said sadly. “But do you have a vase somewhere? When she wakes up, a spot of color might cheer her up, don’t you think?”

  He flattened his free hand against the stone. The nurse’s wrinkled lips pinched, making her look even more crowlike, but she took the flowers. “I’ll see,” she said primly, and bustled away, her long apron fluttering. “I’ll be right back.”

  Leona said, “Dr. Margot just left. She had another patient to see.”

  Preston ordered, “Go help the nurse, Leona.”

  At the change in his tone, two little spots of color flared in her cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Preston,” she whispered, and fled.

  Loena lay unmoving beneath the bleached coverlet, her freckled nose pointing at the ceiling, her white lips a little open. She was more than pale, he thought. She was—waxen, was the word. He liked thinking that. Thinking like a writer, he reflected, not that he would write about this. The girl was a wax image of herself, nearly lifeless. No, bloodless. He wondered for an instant just how much blood she had lost. She looked, in a way, as if she were already dead.

  He watched her as he undid one button of his shirtfront with quick fingers. Her breath moved, ever so slightly. And she was so hot! He could feel the heat of her as he leaned close. She moaned, startling him. Still alive. He wondered if, left to her own devices, she might make it. It didn’t look like it to him, but then, he wasn’t a medical man.

  He glanced swiftly over his shoulder, but there was no one about. He pulled the stiff coverlet back to expose Loena’s small body in a flimsy nightgown. There was a pungent smell about her, a foul smell, as if something was rotting. His nose twitched, but he bent over her, pulling the silver chain from inside his shirt.

  He pressed the sapphire to her chest, between her two small breasts. They had been delightful, those breasts, firm and pink, with nipples like new pennies. Now they seemed flaccid, flat. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t want to see them again.

  In truth, he thought, he would be just as happy not to see the girl herself ever again. But his mother—and Hattie—

  He closed his eyes, and let the stone sing its ancient song through his fingers, a long-buried song of power. The girl’s eyelids trembled, and lifted. Her eyes opened, and a jolt of energy shook her slight frame when she saw him.

  “Preston!”

  Startled, Preston palmed the sapphire, and thrust it into his shirtfront even as he took a step back, away from the bed, and from the girl looking up at him with glassy, frightened eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be here!” There was no mistaking the authority in Margot’s voice nor the suspicion in her eyes. Her shirtwaist was creased and limp beneath her white coat. Her stethoscope looked like a tired brown snake hanging around her neck.

  A moment later the nurse returned with Leona trailing behind her. The nurse carried a plain glass vase, with the tulips’ pink heads drooping this way and that. Leona exclaimed, “Loena!” and scurried to her sister’s bed.

  Margot followed more slowly, her hard gaze fixed on Preston’s unbuttoned shirt. It softened as it shifted to Loena. Preston tugged his jacket lapels forward, and stood to one side.

  Margot was already pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, and folding back the coverlet, exposing Loena’s abdomen. “Out, Preston,” she said. “I’ll talk to you in the hall.” She bent over the girl, turning her to one side, touching the soiled bandages with her gloved hands. It made Preston feel sick to see it.

  “I’ll wait for you,” he said.

  “Five minutes.” She didn’t even bother to glance at him.

  His belly cramped with resentment. Why should she speak to him that way? She always treated him as if he were slow, or stupid. Even when they were little, when he was only three and she five, she had ordered him around, treated him like a baby, a nuisance.

  Of course, he mused, smiling to himself as he strolled out of the ward, he had put the fear of God into her then. And now, in a way, he had done it again. A few harsh words didn’t matter. A ruined reputation did.

  Margot and Cardwell exchanged a look as they pulled Loena’s covers up again. The girl had fallen asleep the moment Preston left the room. Perspiration beaded her face.

  “She was awake for a moment,” Cardwell said.

  “Let’s push more liquids,” Margot said. “She’s sweating, and that’s a good sign.”

  Cardwell nodded, and went to a cupboard, coming back with a bowl of vinegar water and the enema apparatus. She moved to the opposite side of Loena’s bed, so that Leona had to move out of the way. Cardwell began to uncoil the enema tube.

  “Is she better?” Leona asked hopefully.

  “Half an hour ago I was sure she was going to die,” Margot said bluntly. Leona gave a gasp, and clasped her hands before her. “But she’s started to perspire, Leona. That might be a sign her body is beginning to deal with the infection.”

  “I’ve been praying so hard!” Leona crossed herself. “To St. Jude.”

  Cardwell murmured, “Saint of lost causes. Good choice.”

  “Keep it up, Leona. It’s good you’re here with her. I’m sure it gives Loena courage.” Margot removed her stethoscope from her neck and folded it in her hand. “I have to go speak to my brother,” she said. “Matron, are you all right to stay for the time being?”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’ll take care of the enema, and then see if I can wake her again, get her to swallow some broth.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margot half expected Preston to have fled, but he was waiting in the corridor, as promised. His shirt was buttoned now, and he lounged against the wall, his hands in his pockets, one knee bent, the heel braced behind him. “How is she?” he asked. His tone was one of sincere concern, but his eyes were bright, his lips ready to curve into a smile.

  “She might have taken a half step back from death’s door,” Margot said. “That’s all I can say at the moment.” She scowled at her brother. “What were you doing in there?”

  His gaze was one of pure guilelessness. No happy toddler’s eyes could have looked less troubled. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Damn it, Preston,” Margot snapped.

  “Margot, darling,” he said smoothly. He dropped his foot to the floor, and straightened. “You shouldn’t curse. Talking like a man won’t make you one, you know.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I came into the ward, and you were bent over her. Doing something. What was it?”

  He smiled at her. “You’re imagining things, Margot. Too much ether, I would guess.”

  “I’m not imagining anything.” She glared at him. “What is it you keep under your shirt, Preston? That you keep pressing on?”

  His smile faltered, just a bit, but enough to set her intuition tingling. His voice sharpened. “Really, Doctor. Do you try to get everyone’s clothes off?”

  “I don’t want you to take your clothes off. I want you to answer me.”

  “Well, I’m not going to.” He put his hat on, and straightened his lapels. “I just came to visit Loena. As I told you—” His smile returned, wide and angelic. “I feel responsible.”

  “You are responsible.”

  He spread his hands, his smile broadening. Margot’s fingers tingled with a sudden desire to snatch at her brother, to tear the buttons off his carefully pressed linen shirt. She knew in her bones there was something there. She dropped her hands, and linked her fingers in front of her. “How will you feel if she dies?”

  “She won’t.”

  “You can�
�t know that, Preston. No one can know that.”

  “Even the great lady doctor?”

  “I can’t believe you’re making jokes at a time like this. I’ve been expecting the girl to die any moment.”

  “And now you’re not?”

  “Now I’m not so sure.”

  His lip curled. “Well, isn’t that swell! I think I prefer my doctors to be better informed.”

  She couldn’t repress the weary sigh that rose from her throat. “We learn as we go, Preston, and do the best we can. Medicine is an inexact science.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said, and laughed. He touched his hat brim with two fingers. “See you at dinner, doc, back at the old shack.” He sauntered down the gray corridor, sleek and elegant, the picture of insouciance.

  She could only stand and watch him go. She didn’t realize how tightly she was gripping her hands together until her fingers began to ache.

  Before she left, she peeked into the ward one more time. Her eyes widened, and she put a hand to her throat as she saw Cardwell spooning broth from a cup, Loena’s pale lips parting to receive it. Leona was at her other side, dabbing at the drops that escaped down her sister’s chin.

  CHAPTER 11

  Frank spent two days in an agony of indecision. He went out each day, not wanting to alert Mrs. Volger to his lack of employment. He walked the pier in the early morning hours, listening to the calls of seagulls and the shouts of the fishermen as they set out into the misty sunshine. He went back to the café at the Public Market, but he drank only coffee. He paced through the high stalls, giving the Chinese family at the flower shop an embarrassed nod when they recognized him. He felt as if everything had gone wrong, and the flowers he had intended to offer Margot, and which had decorated Mrs. Volger’s hallway until they were brown and drooping, symbolized the wreck of his life.

  On the third day, he woke with the sense of a decision being made. The whole thing was silly. Benedict had responded out of all proportion to the actual offense—if there had been an offense. They had been to war together, Frank thought. They had fought on the same side. While they could not be called friends, they were hardly enemies. They had provoked each other, struck at each other’s vulnerabilities. An injustice had been done, but surely, with calmer heads and a little thought, it could be undone.