Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Eileen Ramsay

  And so the night before her graduation, which should have found her joyously looking forward to a glorious new dawn, found Rose Nesbitt biting her carefully nurtured fingernails and worrying herself sick about the future. She did not even try to sleep. She sat at her bedroom window wrapped in an old coat and went over and over again the interviews, the rejections. It was bizarre. It was insane. It could not be happening . . . but it was. Rose had applied for every opening in every hospital anywhere in Scotland, and had been rejected by every one. She was a woman and this authority and that authority did not hire women. Hospitals did not even want her on gynaecological wards, where one might have supposed there was a special need for a female physician. The other graduates in Rose’s situation – that is those who had no money, no connections in the medical world, no fathers or brothers prepared to offer them a chance – were in the same position.

  Rose re-read her letters of recommendation from her professors, from the dean of the university: ‘outstanding diagnostic skills . . . eminently qualified . . . first-class honours . . .

  ‘This prize, that prize . . . this professor says, that professor says . . .’ she muttered. But no one wanted to know. If a woman was poor, medicine was still a closed profession.

  Rose got up from the window and moved restlessly around the room, her frustration mounting as she walked.

  ‘It’s so damned unfair. I’ll be a doctor in a few hours and I can’t work.’

  Donaldina’s voice echoed in her aching head.

  ‘They cannae stop you, surely? Just hing a sign oot o’ the windae and sharely the fowk’ll come flocking.’

  Rose stopped. Elsie too would have seen it as simply as that. A sign out of the window: ‘Doctor Rose Nesbitt’. Consulting hours . . . any minute of the day or night. Oh, she’d be kept busy all right . . . eventually. Could she do it? What did she need apart from her skills? The list was endless. And how would she live while she waited for the first person who was brave enough or afraid enough to trust her? She looked around the simply furnished little room. She could not practise from here, from her lodgings, could she? The room was clean. One table, wooden. One overstuffed chair. A three-drawer chest. A wardrobe.

  She remembered the handleless furniture in Elsie’s wee place, the drawers that opened easily enough if a knife was stuck in just so; the curtain, heavily darned but clean, that hid the box-bed where Rosie and Ma slept. Suddenly she could see Elsie with her mug of tea. She was real; she could almost touch her.

  ‘It wouldn’t do, Ma,’ she told the memory. ‘It takes some money to start a practice and the folk up there, the ones I want to treat, couldn’t afford to pay me anything. I have to find a job in a hospital or an opening with another doctor who needs a junior.’

  As if in a dream, she saw Elsie reach over to put the kettle closer to the fire. ‘Well, lassie, you could go on and do that other fancy degree you wis talkin’ about.’

  Rose felt an almost overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude well up inside her. ‘Take still another degree. Don’t hurry to pay us back. We were happy to help.’ Was Elsie real? Was she a dream?

  ‘I wish you were here, Ma.’

  The dream Elsie emptied the cold tea into a bucket beside the fire and made a fresh pot. ‘Ach, Rosie lassie. I’m that happy with whit ye’ve done. Look at yourself. Nae faither, yer ma nae better than she should hae been.’ She held up her hand to still Rose’s automatic protest. ‘The good Lord kens fine whit I was, Rosie. I wisnae frightened tae meet Him wi’ ma lassie there no’ denying me. Lassie, lassie, yer a doctor. You can save life . . . you can . . . Ach niver mind. I cannae find the words, but I’m the proudest woman in the Hilltown, in the hale of Dundee. My lassie’s a doctor. I’ll be at your graduation, and our Frazer and auld Mr Wishart’ll be there tae, never fear.’

  Rose shivered. Go to bed, Rose, or you’ll look dreadful in the morning, she told herself.

  She slept, and the morning brought a huge bouquet of roses from Kier and a telegram from the university authorities. Miss Nesbitt was to be offered a Carnegie Research Fellowship at the instigation of Mr Carnegie himself. She was to become Assistant Professor of Obstetrics and Gynaecology for two years, at the end of which she would be offered the new degree MD. For Rose Nesbitt, MB, Ch.B, MD, there were to be no limits. Did Miss Nesbitt care to accept?

  Miss Nesbitt sent a telegram of acceptance and cried with relief and happiness, but no one saw the weakness.

  *

  A very few streets away, Dr Lucille Graham sat over a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, poached eggs on toast, and hot fresh coffee. She read her letters; one from her father from Washington, D.C.:

  . . .  I plan to see one or two places before I return permanently to Scotland. Once at home with you, my dearest child, I know I shall not want to wander far from my pipe and slippers. I have long wanted to see the Rockies and the deep South. The du Pays have invited me on a little jaunt to Georgia. By the way, you do remember the du Pays? They are incredibly powerful and have the wealth that goes with such power, but there is something about Max that is so innocent, so naïve. I think perhaps he would have found life easier had he been born in a different century . . .

  Lucy tried to conjure up a picture of Maximilian du Pay, but it was horses she saw; splendid, perfectly matched horses.

  ‘Well, thank you for being so sweet to my dear father.’ She sent the thought-wave three thousand miles and returned to the enjoyment of perfectly made coffee.

  ‘Mr Kier, doctor.’ Isa was at the door and there behind her was Kier.

  ‘Oh, that coffee smells wonderful. May I have some?’

  ‘Good morning, Kier,’ said Lucy and waited while Isa carried a cup and saucer from the sideboard.

  ‘I’ll fetch some brown sugar, Mr Kier.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Isa. Mr Anderson-Howard wasn’t invited for coffee.’

  Kier smiled at Lucy and then, meltingly, at Isa. ‘She doesn’t mean it, Isa. She knows well the rigours of an early ferry from Fife. I am in need of a restorative, no longer being in the first flush of youth as you might say. Lucy, darling, all that is needed to make today perfect is for you to say you’ll marry me.’ He stopped clowning as if he, like Lucy, was taken by surprise by his levity. ‘Please, Lucy. I want to be married. My house is so big and so empty.’

  ‘An excellent reason for marrying,’ said Lucy tartly, although her heart was pounding.

  He sat down and stirred the sugarless coffee and, not for the first time, Lucy wondered if she had said the wrong thing. ‘When is a woman old enough to know when she is saying and doing the right thing?’ she thought.

  ‘Father is in Washington. He’s having a splendid time with all his old “buddies”.’

  He leaned across the table and put his strong brown hand over her equally strong pale fingers. ‘Rose graduates today, Lucy. I had hoped you might hire her; you need a junior. You could go on holiday, visit your father, get married.’

  There it was again. But was it now a joke?

  ‘Can you come with me to the capping?’

  Lucy looked at him in amazement. He had made no secret of his interest in Miss Nesbitt. What had been impossible to gauge was the depth or quality of his interest.

  ‘I have met Miss Nesbitt twice, Kier. She would be extremely surprised to see me there.’

  ‘But, Lucy darling. Think of our graduations. All the old toothless aunties; lovely presents, lashings of food and gallons of champagne. This poor little thing has no family. Her brother, who kept her alive until she was almost old enough to fend for herself, was captain of a whaling vessel which went down with all hands when she was scarcely sixteen. Her half-brother, her only other relative, is in Australia and seldom corresponds. Medical school was hard for you, Lucy, because of the climate of the time. Think of what it was like for her and come to cheer her.’

  ‘I have an afternoon clinic.’

  ‘Just this once, for me, can’t you
postpone, or get someone to help? Old Bracewell thinks the sun rises and sets on your head. Won’t he take your overfed old biddies, just for today?’

  Lucy folded her napkin primly, a gesture that should have told him, had he been in a mood to read signals, that she was angry; usually she tossed the napkin beside her plate.

  ‘That was an uncalled-for remark. I can’t think why you should think either Miss Nesbitt or myself would be cheered by an afternoon in the other’s company. Now, if you have finished your coffee, I suggest you leave, so that one of us at least can do a decent day’s work.’

  He looked after her. That last had also been an uncalled-for remark. He was wealthy enough never to have to work but he worked very hard, not only in the management of his estate but in every charity or good cause that she herself laid before him.

  ‘Women,’ he muttered under his breath as he stood watching her furious departure from her elegant dining room.

  Kier could not know, of course, for Lucy had taken great care that he should not, of the many hours of correspondence that lay between one Doctor Lucille Graham and those in charge of the future of his protégée, Miss Rose – so soon to be Dr Rose – Nesbitt.

  Lucy had thought of offering Rose a job. She needed a junior; the girl was superbly qualified and trained. But between them stood Kier. Not for a second did Lucy think that Kier loved Rose. She had known him all her life; she had nursed him through illness and through Camillas, Claires, Carolines and sundry other females. Rose was different, she was so obviously not of his milieu. But Lucy could not like her and she knew herself well enough to realize that she liked her less because of Kier.

  Am I a frustrated old woman who doesn’t want him herself but doesn’t want anyone else to have him either? I don’t think so. If he loved, really loved, and was loved in return I could cut the knots, but I’m still being weak in not taking Miss Nesbitt into my home. It’s not because of Kier; it’s because of my patients. This is my consulting room but it’s also my home. I want to be happy here. I want the atmosphere happy. I cannot like Miss Nesbitt.

  And then at one of her committee meetings of the Women’s Hospital Board, the possibility of the offer of the Chair of Gynaecology had come up.

  Lucy had thought long and hard, and eventually rejected the offer. ‘I am sensible of the honour, gentlemen, but am forced to admit to you that I have no deep interest in the subject. I would suggest to you that Doctor Wentzell is far more qualified.’

  ‘We thought that, since you are a woman, Doctor Graham . . .’

  Lucy smiled. It really was the only thing to do when men pointed out something she had known for nearly thirty years. She spoke boldly, the weight of dear Mrs Dryden’s money behind her.

  ‘I have a proposition . . . Lady Donaldson is particularly interested in a young female student . . .’

  ‘Mr Carnegie’s protégée? Miss Nesbitt?’

  Lucy had not heard of the great philanthropist’s interest in Rose, but it proved surely that she was right that Rose was a suitable candidate. She agreed readily enough.

  ‘In 1907 the degree MD, Doctor of Medicine, will be introduced from this university.’ (Oh, that I could take it myself. You can’t, Lucy, you can’t. Too many depend on you.) ‘If the university were to offer the chair to Doctor Wentzell, who is gaining a worldwide reputation in the field, and a two-year research fellowship to Miss Nesbitt as his assistant . . .’

  ‘Mr Carnegie will be satisfied. We gain a world-renowned professor and, in two years’ time, our first female MD.’

  And I don’t feel that, because of Kier, I have to offer a job to Miss Nesbitt, thought Lucy.

  There had been times when Lucy thought of submitting her own name as assistant to Dr Wentzell. She had even thought of offering Rose a partnership so that she would have time to study for the degree herself. Lucille Graham, MD, Lucille Graham, Doctor of Medicine.

  Had it been Surgery, you would have jumped, Lucy Graham, she told herself. But this is ideal. They say Miss Nesbitt is superbly qualified and, according to her record, she has a particular interest in Obstetrics. She should be the one to assist Doctor Wentzell.

  Lucy tried not to dwell on the knowledge that a two-year research scholarship would keep Miss Nesbitt very busy. By 1907 the world could have changed. Practices all over Scotland would be lining up to hire female doctors. Therefore she, Lucille Graham, would not feel that she had to ask Miss Nesbitt to join her.

  I could have taken her as a locum and seen whether or not we could jog along together. Or I could have taken a holiday, joined Father on his little jaunt to Georgia or his trek through the Rockies. How wonderful that would be . . .

  Patients and their well-being came first. The Rockies would stand until she had time to visit them.

  She did not attend Doctor Nesbitt’s graduation, and so she did not know that the day had been spoiled for Rose by the action of a half-demented drunken woman who had begged to be allowed into the hall where the capping was taking place.

  ‘We’re no good enough fer her now, but whae worked in the mills tae keep her ladyship at the skill. Yer mother wis a whore, Rosie, bluidy doctor Nesbitt, same as mine, and don’t you forget it.’

  Kier saw and heard the woman. He saw Rose, her face ashen, and then he saw Dr James Robertson gently lead the woman from the hall.

  Rose saw him and felt the sudden bile in her throat. He knew, he knew, he had attended Elsie. Kier would find out, the dream was ended.

  Her classmates were at her side, chafing her hands, begging her to take no notice, to remain calm.

  ‘Doctor Robertson says there’s an old drunk turns up at almost every graduation in Dundee. Part of the festivities.’

  Rose could not enjoy her celebratory meal with Kier. Her trembling hands could not open his gift. Her mind was too full of Donaldina and the action of Dr Robertson. She had seen him often since the night when Elsie had died, and he had been his usual aloof self. Never, in any way, had he referred to the night, the patient, or the disease from which the patient had died. Why not? And once again he had rescued her. Why? What did he want? He had to want something. No one did anything for nothing, did they?

  Had there been any phantoms at the capping, phantoms of long-dead lovers who had given everything they had for nothing, surely they would sadly have slipped away.

  ‘Let me,’ smiled Kier and he took the jeweller’s box from Rose. There was a delicate gold watch inside. ‘You see, not a personal gift, just something an old friend can give . . .’

  Rose winced at its beauty. ‘Rose Nesbitt, MB, Ch.B’ was engraved in fine script on the back.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

  ‘There’s just room to add MD.’

  A little colour flowed into Rose’s face. ‘It all seems like a dream,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not a dream; it’s very real. You’re a doctor, Rose. In fact, you’re Assistant Professor of Gynaecology at the University of Dundee. Where are you going to live?’

  ‘Live?’ The thought had obviously not occurred to her.

  ‘You can’t stay in student lodgings. Have they told you there is accommodation at the university? I’m sure there must be.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not taking anything in. It’s all too wonderful.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It’s going to be even more wonderful. Come along. You’re dead on your feet; I’ll take you home.’ He saw the sudden look of panic in her eyes. ‘I must catch the last ferry so I shall dump you out, Doctor Nesbitt, very unceremoniously, on your doorstep.’

  She laughed and a few minutes later he did almost exactly that. He had gone before Donaldina staggered out of the bushes in the basement.

  ‘Well, well, Doctor Nesbitt, too good fer yer ain blood.’

  ‘I’m not working yet, Donaldina. I’ll give you what I have, but I won’t be able to help much for another two years.’

  She emptied the shillings in her purse on to her sister’s dirty, calloused hand. First thing in
the morning, she vowed, first thing, she would find somewhere else to live, and she would leave the university as a forwarding address. She looked down at the dainty gold watch.

  ‘I’m a doctor. I’ve done it and no one is going to spoil it.’

  13

  Dundee, 1907

  DUNDEE HAD MANY philanthropists and among the most generous were the Cairds. In 1899 J.K. Caird, LLD, together with the Forfarshire Medical Association, had built a maternity hospital in Dundee. The need for maternity beds very quickly outgrew the new facilities, and in 1907 an extension was opened. There were six beautiful new spacious wards, each one holding twenty beds.

  Dr Lucille Graham was one of the many doctors at the official opening. Dr Rose Nesbitt, Assistant Professor of Obstetrics and Gynaecology at the university, was the only other practising female medical practitioner present.

  The younger woman bowed politely to the slim, elegant figure in the soft grey silk gown. Lucy smiled and held out her hand.

  ‘Dr Nesbitt, how very nice to see you. I hoped you would be here; I hear such exciting things about you.’

  Rose had learned to school her features but still a little surprise showed, while at the same time she strove to sound sophisticated and blasé. ‘You terrify me, doctor. Surely not from Mr Anderson-Howard?’

  ‘From Professor Wentzell and from other members of the faculty. I have been asked to attend your graduation, and will be most happy to be there.’

  ‘How very kind,’ said Rose quietly. She wished she could have bitten back that stupid remark about Kier. Now Dr Graham would think her guilty of bad taste, and it was so important to make a good impression – even after this, after nearly two years of research. Her findings had been published in the prestigious British Empire Journal of Obstetrics, and yet, and yet . . . She smiled at Lucy. Surely it was not too late to make friends.

  Lucy made it easy for her. ‘You must be very proud of yourself, doctor. I would give anything to be in your shoes, to be the first female medical graduate of St Andrews University, the first to be able to call herself MD.’