Midnight Confessions

by Candice Proctor

  “No,” he said now, his lips curling into a half-smile, “it doesn’t even surprise me. I have heard of Florence Nightingale. But this is neither the Crimea, nor Paris, nor even Philadelphia, and in my experience, the ladies who volunteer in hospitals might write letters, or hand out medicines, but they don’t usually treat wounds. Or bandage them.”

  Emmanuelle paused with one hand gripping the banister, unsure of how to respond. She wondered what he would say—what he would do—if he knew it was Emmanuelle herself who had cut off Lieutenant Rouant’s arm in the first place. She wasn’t licensed— couldn’t be licensed, as a woman—but since Philippe’s death, she had been doing more and more of the surgery at the hospital. Henri Santerre had been a gifted doctor, but age had twisted his hands and left him clumsy. Lately, he had been content to let Emmanuelle be his hands.

  “The lieutenant was uncomfortable,” she said with deliberate casualness. “His shoulder needed to be dealt with. There was no one else to do it.”

  “Are you telling me Henri Santerre was the only doctor in this hospital?”

  “No. But Dr. Yardley isn’t exactly what you might call an early riser.”

  “Yardley?”

  “Dr. Charles Yardley.” They’d reached the bottom of the steps. She swung to face him. “Shouldn’t you have a little notebook or something you’re writing all this down in?”

  He gave her a slow, malignant smile that showed his teeth. “I leave that sort of thing to Captain Fletcher.”

  Turning on her heel, she walked with quick strides toward the back of the building.

  “Elise Santerre told me your father was a doctor,” he said, keeping pace with her easily, despite his limp.

  “That’s right.” It disconcerted her to realize he’d been discussing her with Elise Santerre, to realize that he’d been asking questions about her, learning things about her, learning . . . what? With a clatter, she dumped the dirty tray on one of the long wooden shelves that ran along the wall between the office and the door that led to the courtyard and the service buildings beyond.

  “She said your husband was a doctor, too.”

  She swung to face him. “Did she tell you how he died?”

  “Yes.” He stood before her, so tall that he seemed to loom over her. It made her uncomfortable, having him this close. She kept feeling as if she couldn’t get enough air, as if his nearness were somehow making it difficult for her to breathe. “Tell me about Dr. Santerre,” he said.

  Emmanuelle jerked down the brass handle of the door beside them and pushed it open wide. “This was his office. Feel free to look around.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t even turn his head, but kept his gaze hard on her face. “When I asked Elise Santerre if she could think of anyone who might want her brother dead, she said to ask you. Why? Did he have enemies?”

  Did he? Emmanuelle thought? Did she? “Everyone has enemies, monsieur,” she said, not managing to keep her voice steady.

  “Not everyone gets himself murdered.”

  She brushed past him into the office. It was a small room, lined with shelves filled with old leather-bound volumes and loose papers, stuffed here and there amongst the books in a system only Henri Santerre had understood. The desk near the window overlooking the rear courtyard was mahogany, but old and battered, the two green leather club chairs that faced it worn and cracked. In contrast to the scrupulous cleanliness that prevailed in the wards and private rooms, the atmosphere here was dusty and close. All of the old man’s energy and most of his wealth had gone to the hospital itself.

  Crossing to the window, she stared out at the leafy, brick-paved courtyard, where a tall, blond-headed boy laughed at the tumbling antics of a small gray kitten. Dominic, she realized with a start, wondering with all of a busy mother’s guilt how long he had been waiting for her.

  “Madame?” said the relentless man behind her.

  She swung to face him. “Henri was passionate about his work,” she said, picking her words carefully. “Passionate and opinionated, and at times brutally forthright. He made some people very angry.”

  “Angry enough to kill? Over a professional quarrel?”

  “This city has two medical schools and two separate medical societies, one French, one American. At times the rivalry is intense.”

  He strolled over to scan the jumbled contents of the dead man’s shelves. “I thought you were all Americans, and had been for more than fifty years.”

  “Technically, perhaps. But the differences persist. The French and Spanish doctors believe their role is to assist nature, not fight it. But the Americans, they practice what they like to call heroic medicine . They poison the body with massive doses of calomel and quinine, and then blister, purge, sweat, and bleed their patients until they lose consciousness. Dr. Santerre always said their patients recovered in spite of, rather than because of, what was done to them. And he was never the least bit hesitant when it came to calling another doctor a complete idiot.”

  Turning slowly, the Union major leaned his long, slim frame against the bookshelves behind him, one thumb hooking casually in his sword belt, an expression she couldn’t read on his face as he studied her. “What about Santerre’s patients? Did any of them threaten him? A soldier, perhaps? Someone who might have lost an arm or a leg on Santerre’s operating table, and resented it.”

  She’d thought about such a possibility herself, but hearing this man say it, hearing the contempt in his voice, brought the heat of anger flooding to her face. “Henri Santerre was a fine doctor and a skilled surgeon.”

  “Perhaps. But I haven’t met a doctor yet who wasn’t too quick to use the saw.”

  It was an accusation as common as it was unfair. Most people simply didn’t understand how close to impossible it was to control the onset of sepsis in a serious wound. “If a necessary amputation isn’t performed within twenty-four hours, death is almost inevitable,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, professional, but not quite succeeding.

  “I’m still alive.”

  “You are more fortunate than you realize, Major. The graveyards are full of men who threatened to shoot—or castrate—any surgeon who comes near them.”

  His laugh was both sudden and spontaneous, and unexpectedly, shamefully attractive. “How did you know?”

  “You would not have kept your leg otherwise.” She almost— almost—found herself warming to him, and had to force herself to say briskly, “But you’re right. Men whose lives are saved at the cost of an arm or a leg do sometimes bear a grudge. So do the families of other patients. Men . . . women . . . children . . . they all die, and those who loved them often blame the doctor. If you like, I could provide you with a list of Dr. Santerre’s patients for the last few years.” It was a long list, maybe even long enough to keep this man busy— and away from them all—until the Confederates could recapture the city.

  “I’ll put some of my men on it,” he said with a faint smile that told her he knew exactly what she was doing, and why. “Now, why don’t you tell me who you really suspect?”

  He was clever. Oh, very clever. She would have to be careful not to underestimate him again. He pushed away from the bookcases with one elegant thrust. “For example, who knew you would be at the cemetery last night?”

  She shook her head. “If you think to narrow your list that way, monsieur, I’m sorry, but we go every year. The number of people who know that must be endless.”

  “All right, let’s take a different track, then. Who owns the hospital now that Santerre is dead? You? Elise Santerre? Or this Dr. Yardley?”

  It was the question she’d been dreading. “I do,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “Dr. Yardley is a visiting doctor. He has his own practice elsewhere.”

  There was a short, dangerous pause. “I see.”

  “I doubt you do. Not if you think I’ve inherited a fortune. We have very few paying patients anymore, and now only one licensed doctor, while the building itself had to be mortgaged to pay the fine
your General Butler imposed on everyone who supported the Confederacy. If I manage to keep this hospital open another month, I’ll be surprised.”

  “Then why bother? Why not close it now?”

  “Because the people of this city need us, desperately. Because Henri Santerre was my friend, and this hospital was his life’s dream. I am not going to let whoever killed Henri kill this hospital, too. Not if I can help it.”

  Again, that flare of interest in the dark, intelligent eyes. “Perhaps that’s why he was killed. To close the hospital.”

  She shook her head. “The war will close this hospital, monsieur. The war, and your occupation. The people of New Orleans no longer have the money to pay for such things as medical care.”

  She watched his face grow cold, hard. “They should have thought of that before they seceded,” he said dryly.

  They stared at each other, and it was as if the very air between them shimmered with antagonism and challenge and something else, something dangerous and shocking and very, very real.

  A door opened in the distance. “Emmanuelle?” called a young woman’s familiar, well-modulated voice. “Où est-tu? What is this I am hearing about Dr. Santerre? Are the Yankees—oh . . .” She appeared in the doorway, a slim, elegant woman with golden hair and a thin, elfin face, her words trailing away as she stared at the major.

  “Mademoiselle La Touche is a volunteer at the hospital,” Emmanuelle said, going to take her reticule and gloves from the drawer in the small table near Henri’s desk, where she had always kept them. “She should be able to answer any further questions you have. Now you must excuse me, Major.” Walking briskly toward the door, she lifted her black straw hat from its hook. “I promised to take my son to visit his grandparents, and we are already late.”

  “Of course, madame. We can continue our conversation later.”

  His words filled her with dismay; she didn’t want to continue their conversation later. She never wanted to see him again. Automatically tying the frayed black satin ribbons of the hat beneath her chin, she said to Claire in rapid French, “If you have time, would you look in on Lieutenant Rouant? He would like to dicate a letter.”

  “How is he?” asked Claire, her soft gray eyes round with concern.

  “Dying.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  Emmanuelle was in the hall, her hand on the door to the courtyard, when the major’s voice stopped her. “One more thing, madame,” he called after her.

  She turned to find him beside the stairs, watching her. “Monsieur?”

  “How did you know Dr. Santerre had been hit by a crossbow bolt?”

  He said it casually, as if the question had only occurred to him, when she knew he must have been waiting for just this moment to spring it on her and disconcert her. Oh, he was good, she thought; very, very good. Her heart had begun to thump wildly, but she managed to say steadily enough, “I could think of nothing else it could be.”

  “And did you know it had a silver tip?”

  For a moment, her voice deserted her completely as a wave of terror washed over her.

  “Madame?” Those hard, knowing eyes narrowed as they studied her.

  “No,” she finally managed to say. “How could I? How . . . very odd.” She glanced out the small panes of the French door. Dominic had found a bit of twine and was trailing it over the paving stones to the mock-ferocious delight of the kitten. “You must excuse me, monsieur,” she said in a rush. “My son is waiting for me.”

  She pushed through the door without a backward glance or another word, but inside, she was screaming, It can’t be, it can’t be . . . can it?

  “Maman!”

  Dropping his end of the string, Dominic came running. She thought for a moment he would throw himself against her the way he used to do when he was younger. But he was eleven years old now, almost as tall as she, and he only skidded to a halt beside her. “There you are.” His smile was wide and engaging. “I thought perhaps you’d forgotten we promised Papère we’d come today.”

  “No, of course not,” she said, reaching out an unsteady hand to ruffle the curling blond hair that was so much like Philippe’s. He pulled away and made a face, and she laughed. “We’ll leave now. I just need to stop by our house on the way.”

  “Must you?” He turned around to dogtrot, backward, ahead of her through the porte cochere. “We’re already late. And you know Grand-mère doesn’t like it when you’re late.”

  “I’ll only be a moment. There’s something I need to check.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me,” he demanded. “Do.” But she only laughed and shook her head.

  He continued to press her for an answer all the way home. But she never did tell him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The boy looked nothing like her, Zach thought, watching mother and son walk away. It wasn’t only the curling blond hair, or the unusual height that promised to send the son soaring past his petite mother in a few years. The angles of his face were different, softer, the expression in his clear blue eyes dreamy.

  “That Dominic, he looks more like Philippe every time I see him,” said Mademoiselle Claire La Touche, coming to stand beside Zach, her French accent breathy and lilting.

  Zach turned to find her gaze fixed not on the brick-walled courtyard, with its tubs of sweet olive and jasmine and the distant echoes of a child’s laughter, but on him.

  She was younger than the haughty, self-possessed widow, probably no more than eighteen, built tall and boyishly thin in her body, although there was nothing boyish about her softly pouting mouth, or the way she had of looking at a man. Nothing boyish at all. “You knew Philippe de Beauvais, did you?” he said.

  “Of course I knew Philippe. We are distant cousins— or should I say, we were cousins,” she corrected, her wide, dewy gray eyes clouding with a storm of emotions he couldn’t begin to identify. “My mother is a de Beauvais.”

  He wasn’t surprised. Zach hadn’t been in New Orleans long, but it was long enough for him to have learned the importance here of family connections. And not just the father’s family, either. If anything, it was often the mother’s family with which the children tended to identify, for in many ways this was a matriarchal society in everything but name. “Is he the reason you volunteered to help here, at the hospital?”

  A slow, delicious smile curled the pouting lips. “Ah, no. Antoine gets the blame for that.” The smile told him the choice of words was deliberate. Blame, not credit.

  “Antoine?”

  “My brother. We were at a dinner party right after the war started—Antoine, Philippe, Emmanuelle, and I. Emmanuelle was talking about a group of wounded soldiers who’d been brought down by rail from Virginia, and I made the mistake of saying I wished I could do something like what she was doing, something beyond scraping lint and knitting socks. And Antoine, he said, ‘So what’s stopping you?’ ”

  “In other words, you volunteered to help with the wounded because of a dare.”

  She gave a startled trill of laughter. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  She pushed past him, through the door to the courtyard. He went with her to the two-story brick kitchen that ran along the hospital’s rear property line, and stood watching as she spoke to the hospital’s black cook and loaded a pitcher of cool lemon water and glasses on a tray. In some disturbing, elusive way, she reminded Zach of Rachel, in a way that went beyond the pretty blond looks and easy, arrogant self-assurance of old money. It was the second time he’d found himself thinking of Rachel in less than twenty-four hours, and the realization disturbed him. Because of him, Rachel had ended up dead.

  “Are there other young women working as volunteers here at the hospital?” he asked, when Claire had finished.

  “Hardly,” she said with a smile, and hefted the heavy tray easily. She was stronger than she looked. “Most people find the idea of exposing refined, modest young ladies to the horrors of a hospital highly objec
tionable.” She said it as if it were a quote, and he suspected it was.

  He took the tray from her and carried it across the flagged courtyard. “Yet your parents don’t object?”

  She moved to open the door for him. “Oh, my mother objects.”

  “But it doesn’t stop you.”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “You think it should?”

  It took an effort of will for him to enter the hospital again. The Hospital de Santerre was clean and bright and breezy, nothing like the dark, airless tent on the edge of a war-torn valley in Tennessee where Zach had spent countless weeks of agony. But the smells were the same—fainter, to be sure, but they were still there, along with that inescapable aura of suffering and fear that seemed to cling to the very walls. He really, really hated hospitals. At the entrance to the downstairs ward, he handed Claire La Touche back her tray and said, “Tell me about Henri Santerre.”

  She shrugged, the pout back on her lips. “What is there to tell? He was an old man.”

  And not one of Mademoiselle La Touche’s admirers, Zach thought. “That’s all you have to say about him? That he was old?”

  Again, she shrugged. “The Santerres are a respectable family. Not one of the better families,” she added with all the unself-conscious pride of one who had grown up secure in the knowledge that her own family antecedents were among the best, “but old and respectable.”

  La famille again. Zach thought about that small, white tomb where Emmanuelle de Beauvais had gone to pray, the one with the name MARET chiseled deep above the entrance. There had been only two names carved in the slab that sealed the Maret crypt, no marble angel praying on the roof, no spiked wrought-iron gates barring the front. In a city where family was everything, where did the Marets fit?

  He watched, one shoulder propped against the door-jamb, as Claire La Touche began to make the rounds of the ward, dispensing cool drinks, straightening beds, touching her soft lady’s hand to fevered brows. The really heavy nursing—the changing of beds, the bathing of shattered bodies, the emptying of bedpans— was being done by the male nurses, a couple of black men and a young white boy with a thin face and a shock of light brown hair who leaned on a crutch as he moved slowly through the wards. But it wasn’t an easy thing, this task performed by ladies such as Mademoiselle La Touche. Zach watched, his throat oddly thick, as she held a glass to the lips of a boy of no more than sixteen who’d lost both hands. She was wearing that pouty smile of hers, laughing at something he’d said as she touched his cheek in a fleeting caress. But when she left the boy’s bedside, Zach could see the glitter of tears in her eyes, and he had to admire her. She might have begun working in the hospital on a dare, but it wasn’t the reason she was still here, over a year later, enduring sights and sounds and smells that had been known to make battle-hardened men sick.