Sam held out a check, but Nick didn’t take it. “All you owe me is the fee for a night visit to a sickbed. That’s a dollar here in New York, I’m told. In any case, it’s waived.”
“Don’t be pigheaded, man, take the money. I’m in your debt. A few weeks ago you were keen to have me finance a laboratory for the hospital. This isn’t anywhere near the two thousand you wanted, but it’s a start. And as you say, the hospital is in dire need.”
Nick hesitated a moment more, than took the check. It was, as Devrey had said, made out to him; three hundred dollars drawn on what appeared to be Sam Devrey’s personal account. “That’s extremely generous.”
“As much as I can afford just now,” Sam said. “There may be more in the future.”
“Look, I’m not…I told you, your personal circumstances are no concern of mine.”
“I know you’re not an extortionist, Cousin Nicholas. I’m simply grateful.”
“Then on behalf of the Bellevue patients, thank you.”
“Not at all. Now I have two questions. About medicine.”
“Happy to answer if I can.”
“First, that business of washing your hands the other night. What was that all about?”
“Germs,” Nick said. “Minute beasties. There’s a theory that they cause the spread of disease by being transferred from the sick to the healthy. A Dutchman named Antoni van Leeuwenhoek first identified them nearly two hundred years ago. Most medical men don’t agree, say the germs are spontaneously generated by the disease itself. Happens I subscribe to the former theory. So I try to wash my hands before touching a patient.”
“Soap and water flushes away these invisible germs, does it?”
“Mostly. What’s the second question?”
Sam turned so he was once more staring at the river. “These pills and powders that are supposed to stop a woman conceiving a child. Are they any good?”
“On the evidence,” Nick said quietly, “it doesn’t seem that they are.”
“On the evidence, not much good at all,” Sam agreed. “Is there nothing to be done then? If it’s not the right moment for a child, I mean.”
“If the sperm doesn’t have an opportunity to fertilize the woman’s ovum,” Nick began, “then—” He broke off, seeing the look of total puzzlement on the other man’s face. “Look, it’s the union of the male seed, the sperm, carried in the semen, with one of the ova—” He tried again. “The eggs, man. The woman’s eggs and the man’s seed. That’s how babies happen.”
“The woman’s…But I thought…” Sam felt himself coloring and was the more embarrassed for that. “I know about the womb, of course. Still…”
“No reason you would know about the new findings. Chap over in St. Petersburg published his research a few years ago. It seems that women produce eggs. Just like chickens.”
“Chicken eggs!”
“No, of course not. That’s an entirely different system of reproduction. I was simply trying to give you a familiar example. According to Professor von Baer, women have eggs as well.” Nick noted his cousin’s grimace but plowed on. “Tiny, microscopic actually, and not capable of becoming a child unless the male seed, the sperm, carried in the semen, is—”
“You’ve been to St. Petersburg?”
Nick sighed. “Never.”
“Then how do you know about this von whats-his-name? Is he a medical doctor?”
“A professor of zoology. His results have been published in many languages. I’ve read about them.”
“Zoology? I begin to think, Cousin Nicholas, that you are entirely mad.”
“Trust me, Cousin Samuel, it’s quite straightforward. If the semen does not reach the ovum, and the fertilized egg does not then become implanted in the uterus, or the womb as you call it, there can be no pregnancy.”
“Good God, man. If one has to live like a monk—”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting. It’s only at the end of the act of love that fertilization can take place.”
“Yes, I see. Foolish of me, I suppose. I just never thought…”
Nick wanted to laugh. Instead he nodded and tried to look grave.
Coitus interruptus. The Greeks and the Romans had known of its effectiveness thousands of years ago. Now Sam Devrey did as well.
“All right, madam,” Maggie O’Brien said. “Time to start pushing.”
Past time, by God. Carolina had been in agony since the previous midnight, and it was now nearly dinner time the following day.
It was her mother-in-law who had shown the most interest in the procedure during those long hours of misery. Her Aunt Lucy had spent the night sitting in a corner, tatting and sighing and occasionally wiping away a sympathetic tear each time the midwife said, “Not yet, madam. Do you a real disservice I would if I let you push now.” Until just a few moments before, when she’d murmured to Celinda Devrey, who was leaning over her shoulder, using a lorgnette and peering carefully between her daughter-in-law’s legs, “Here we go, two thumbs wide. That’s what we’ve been waiting for. Now, madam. Push! Push!”
Carolina pushed. And for all that she’d promised herself she would be brave, screamed. As long and as hard as she could. It did seem to help some.
Lucy finally dropped her tatting and went to stand by the top of the bed, giving her niece her two hands to hold and encouraging Carolina to squeeze as hard as she liked. “There you go, dearest. There you go.”
“Now wait for the next cramp, madam,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “The wee one’s almost here. I can see it.” If this were a normal birth, she’d say she could see the top of the babe’s head, but what she was looking at was the foot of one leg and the knee of the other. The left leg was bent behind the right, and the child was being born wrong way round. She’d known that to be the case for the past three hours. She had tried turning it. Sometimes a clever midwife with good technique—and Maggie O’Brien prided herself on her technique—could do that if the woman’s hips were very wide and the babe truly tiny. It wasn’t often possible at a first birth, and certainly not this time. The girl was really quite slim and the babe a goodly size. “Once more now, madam. Push!”
The pain was fearsome; Carolina had never felt the like. She squeezed Aunt Lucy’s hands as hard as she could and bore down. “Oh! Oh dear!”
Both the babe’s legs free and out now, the left not permanently bent as the midwife had first feared. And it was a boy. Sure and couldn’t she see his little willie plain as you like. The mother-in-law made a cooing sound behind her. Wanted a boy apparently. Didn’t they all. Particularly this sort with so much to pass on.
“Push, madam. We’re almost there. Push as hard as you can.”
“It’s a boy, my dear!” Celinda Devrey burst out. “You’ve made a bit of a muddle of it and he’s coming feet first, but you’re producing a son and heir for Samuel. Now do push harder and get the job done.”
Lucy Philmore née James drew in a quick breath. Babies born the wrong way round were the curse of the James women. She’d had only one pregnancy before her husband died, and that babe had suffocated before she could push his head out. And wasn’t that precisely how poor dear Penelope had died, birthing this girl who now lay here under the same malediction? When Carolina married, Wilbur wanted to give the girl the bed that had been his and his dead wife’s. Utter folly, Lucy told him. My sister died in that bed. Do you want that to happen to Carolina? Of course he had not and had a new bed made for the newlyweds. Solid mahogany with four posts, each topped with a winged cherub. It did not seem to have helped much. “The shoulders,” Lucy whispered in Celinda Devrey’s direction. “Are the shoulders out yet?”
“Just coming,” Celinda said, leaning further forward and peering more closely at the bloody carry-on in the bed. No point in being squeamish, not now when her grandson was appearing. But imagine Samuel insisting that the midwife wash her hands before she could go upstairs and attend Carolina. How utterly silly. If her son had any idea just what a messy sort of event th
is was…If any man had, for that matter. Ah well, it probably wouldn’t put them off their pleasure even so. “Push, Carolina! Push!”
The midwife shot her a sharp look. “I’ll say when, if you don’t mind, madam.” She’d been busy trying to adjust things so the girl would push out one shoulder at a time, and her practiced hands could feel the onset of each contraction. The time to push was when nature was lending a helping hand. The girl was shrieking pretty steadily now. She’d been marvelous, no doubt about it, but a point came for them all when it just seemed that a ripping good holler was the only way to get through the thing. She didn’t hold with all this nonsense of keep ’em silent so the men downstairs won’t worry. Why shouldn’t they bloody worry? All their doing, after all. “Now, madam. One good push will do it. Now!”
Carolina used all her breath to push as hard as she might and for as long as she could. Then she drew in one more and let it loose in a fearsome yell.
“It’s the head coming now,” Celinda reported eagerly. “Little Lansing’s shoulders are free and clear and only his head to go!” She was quite breathless with excitement. Samuel would be beside himself with pride. She would be well ensconced as little Lansing’s only living grandmother. It was really too perfect. If only Carolina would get it done and over with.
Maggie O’Brien had no time for either the woman gawping over her shoulder or the one at the top of the bed. The little lad’s shoulders were out now and the cord looked to be in the right position, not wrapped around the neck, thanks be to Holy Mary and all the Saints. But the head—the midwife could do nothing about that but pull and encourage. Here it was, the final contraction probably. And depending on how long it took, they would get either a dead baby or a live one. “Now, madam. Summon all your strength for one final push. That’s it! That’s it exactly! Well done, madam. Here he is!”
Dorothy had earlier been sent downstairs to prepare dinner for Mr. Devrey and his father-in-law, but the men barely touched their food, wincing visibly each time Carolina’s shrieks shattered the peace of the dining room. Then came silence.
Both men looked at the ceiling, as if they might be able to see what was happening above their heads. After a time Wilbur Randolf gave up the pretense of eating his mutton chop and went to the sideboard, poured himself a full snifter of brandy, and knocked it back as if it were water. “Get you something, Sam? Trying business this.”
Sam shook his head. He was too queasy for drink. What did that quiet overhead portend? What if Carolina were to lose this child? Or if it were deformed or otherwise defective? Would it be his fault? His punishment for Mei-hua? No, of course not. He’d spent too long in Asia. He was a Christian. Well, if he was anything. The Christian God was supposed to be just. Fair enough. Carolina hadn’t done anything wrong. But there was no accounting for good and bad joss; he’d seen enough of that to know.
“Congratulations, Samuel dear.” Celinda threw open the doors to the dining room. “You have a healthy son.”
Randolf held the brandy snifter in a white-knuckled grip. “My daughter? How is Carolina?”
“She’s fine as well.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes, she’s ready now. Come along, both of you.” Samuel still hadn’t said a word. He was staring straight ahead as if he’d been struck dumb. “Come along, dear boy,” his mother repeated. “Come and see our precious little Lansing.”
“No,” Sam said.
“What do you mean no? Surely you want to see—”
“Yes, of course I want to see my son. I mean he’s not to be called Lansing.”
Wilbur Randolf made a sound that implied satisfaction.
“Carolina and I talked it over,” Sam said. “His name will be Zachary.” He pushed past his mother and took the stairs two at a time. A healthy son. The best possible joss, by God. His duty done and over with, and Carolina bound to be entirely occupied now that she was a mother. Excellent joss.
Manon was coming down the hall when Nick spotted her. “There you are, Cousin Manon. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Here I am, Cousin Nicholas.”
As usual, she had a basket over her arm and she wore her plain, black-ribboned bonnet and dark gray cloak.
“You’ve not been on the wards yet, I take it,” Nick said.
“Not yet? Is there someone you want me to look for?”
“Yes, there is. A little girl called Bridget.”
“They are a great many little girls called Bridget in this place,” Manon said. “What is her complaint?”
Nick hesitated. “She has two broken wrists,” he said finally. “And has suppurating wounds on her back and shoulders.”
“You mean she’s been tied up and beaten to within an inch of her life, do you not? Repeatedly.”
“That’s what I mean, yes.”
“I take it she comes from our own Bellevue orphanage, that Christian refuge of the abandoned child.”
He nodded, too miserable to speak, as if it were his fault.
In the normal way of things Nick probably would have known nothing about this particular Bridget, but young Monty Chance—the resident doctor working under him—had shown himself quite conscientious. He had asked for Nick’s help setting the delicate wrist bones. “Don’t want to mess it up, sir. I take her for five or six. How will she live the rest of her life if her hands are useless?”
How indeed? They had done the best they could, but the girl was never going to have a normal amount of flexibility in those hands; presuming, of course, that the wounds on her back didn’t go black with poison and kill her before disabled hands became something to contend with.
He could not simply let it go by.
The warden of the orphanage was at dinner in his private apartments when Nick found him. Indeed, the enticing smell of cooked meat permeated the place, though by all accounts the children were fed on porridge and watery soup. So, it was said, they wouldn’t have expectations beyond their station when they went out in the world. “You are a bloody disgrace, sir,” Nick announced, “and a fool with it.”
The warden had a napkin tucked under his chin and a forkful of meat dripping with gravy halfway to his mouth. He didn’t bother to reply until he’d closed his lips around the morsel. Then, opening his mouth and exhibiting half-chewed food, he said, “Hare. My wife does a mighty fine jugged hare. Dr. Turner, isn’t it? Been planning to come along and introduce meself. Been busy.” He swallowed his meat with an audible gulp, then pointed to a chair. “Sit yourself down, sir.”
“No, I won’t sit down. Not with you. And your charges have introduced you well enough for me to know as much as I want about you.”
The warden pushed his plate aside, produced a gold toothpick, and began working on the bits of meat stuck between his protruding front teeth. That combined with his fat cheeks and short, wide nose gave him the look of a pig. “I do my duty, sir. I’m charged with training up these misbegotten unwanteds with enough docility in ’em so’s they can go into service with decent New York families and give no trouble. Never have no complaints from them as gets a serving maid or a stable boy from my orphanage, Dr. Turner. They knows their place, my orphans do.”
The nature of the fractures meant that the little girl had to have been hung by her hands while she was whipped. God alone knew how long she’d been left without treatment after. According to Monty Chance, the weals made by the lash were already full of pus when she arrived at the hospital. Nick grabbed a long-handled serving fork from the table and leaned forward, pressing the two prongs against the warden’s fat neck. “Listen to me, you pitiful excuse for a man. If I see one more child who’s been abused by your barbaric notions of duty, I’ll take a lash to you myself.”
The warden pushed the fork away with one hand and tipped his chair back so it was leaning against the wall. “Will you now, Dr. Turner? I don’t think so. Just as I don’t think you’re likely to stab me with that there fork. You’re a gentleman, you are. Your kind needs my kind to do what needs to
be done in that sort o’ matter. Frankly Clement’s me name. Clement as a summer’s day. Long as you don’t get me dander up. That’s what I tell all the wee ones soon as they come here. But if you do…well, even a summer day can turn to lightning and thunder, Dr. Turner. And if I can’t be getting the best out of ’em here, there’s always the Refuge.”
That was the ultimate threat, over west on the Bloomingdale Road. Leg irons and solitary confinement for those adjudicated delinquent children. But Nick was not treating the miscreant eight-year-olds of the House of Refuge. “One more abused child,” he repeated, spitting the words through clenched teeth, “and I’ll have your job. I swear it.”
“We’ll see, Dr. Turner. We’ll see.” Clement let the chair fall forward with a thud and stood up. He was considerably shorter than Nick but at least twice as wide. “You’re new here and you don’t know how things are, so I’ll not be taking this bit o’ bother to Dr. Grant. All that pleased with you he is so far, Dr. Turner. All that pleased to have found a respected doctor from a long line o’ respected doctors to take over at our hospital. Gives him good standing with the council, that does. But my line o’ work here at the orphanage, that earns brass. Pay good money the gentry do for servants trained up at my orphanage. Very good money indeed.”
And most of it going into Tobias Grant’s pocket.
Nick had left without another word, but two days later he was still seething. “A Christian refuge,” he said, repeating Manon’s words. “I can’t think that anyone with any sense would call it that.”
“Oh, but that’s exactly what most of the town does call it. We have a succession of preachers here, Cousin Nicholas. Most from among the New Order Evangelicals, as they’re now known. New breeds of mostly Presbyterians, with some Methodists and Baptists as well. What they have in common is that they find the Episcopalians and Lutherans too mealy-mouthed for their liking. But whatever side of the theological argument they take, all are upstanding Protestants. Because, of course, the council doesn’t want to encourage the Irish in their superstitious Catholic ways. The preachers bring the good news of the Gospel to the orphanage at least twice a week, even sing a hymn or two. They do not, of course, bother to ask if the children are fed and warm.”
City of God Page 9
