by Barbara Best
On an adjoining property owned by the church, Mrs. Finch operates the all-female boarding house for deracinated and friendless women whose lives are complicated by circumstance. All those under her charitable roof find quiet shelter and an orderly existence — Sophie and Colette included.
Sophie feels encouraged to speak further by the light pat Clayton gives to her hand, which is now warmed in the crease of his elbow.
“Colette has expressed an interest,” Sophie continues. “Mrs. Finch said the hospital has strict requirements. Women must maintain a plain appearance and wear black or brown, no hoops.” She glances down at the hem of her black silk gown that has a greenish-gray patina in daylight. She had stopped wearing her heavy veil and understands that mourning progresses in phases of decorum. To be on the safe side, she will never disclose exactly when Ben died to prevent anyone who did the math from chastising her for deficiencies in propriety. Sophie is hopeful her personal progression, according to Victorian standards, will not be judged.
Victorians seem to have a ritualistic fascination with death and dying and a slew of customs and expressions of grief to go with it. In Boston, Sophie keeps good company as there are many widows among the population marking their deep mourning in various outward displays. Death in this era is a harsh reality. It circles like a flock of crows, waiting for a chance to pick their bones.
“Ah, Colette. Yes, perhaps.”
“No, me too.”
“Oh my, you cannot mean—”
“Don’t tell me you have concerns.”
Clayton’s eyes unintentionally dart to the source of his meaning.
“What? My baby?”
Clayton flinches and abruptly moves his attention to a disheveled man in military uniform who stands near a bench. One of his arms is missing and the flattened sleeve is tucked between the buttons of his blue overcoat. He throws crumbs to an assembly of greedy pigeons that are having a pecking war on a sandy patch of ground.
“Sorry. I’ve embarrassed you,” Sophie shrugs sheepishly. “Let’s hope I have some time before it gets to the point where people start talking. I feel fine.” Just this morning, Colette told her it might be time to trade her lady’s corset for a maternity version that laces on either side of her abdomen. They both know her pregnancy will one day become a hindrance. The joys of motherhood will inevitably equate to loss of freedom and economic independence.
“Staying busy will do me good,” Sophie continues. “I’m thinking we might volunteer first, since we don’t have any training. You know, to get our foot in the door. Have you been there? The hospital. The big one.”
“What, Massachusetts General? Why of course.”
“I thought so. Maybe you will give us a contact or put in a good word. Otherwise, we are just planning to show up and see what happens. I heard they pay their nurses a whopping seven dollars and fifty cents a month,” Sophie scoffs, knowing Clayton would not get the reason for her underlying irritation.
Mrs. Finch often talked about her volunteer work with the Ladies’ Aid Society and their regular visits to medical facilities in the Boston area. When her lady boarders gathered at the dinner table, she remarked about a new woman at Massachusetts General who is causing quite a stir. By their body language, Sophie could tell Widow Wabash and her close friend Miss Glenn also know something about it. It was funny how they suddenly became enthralled by their stew, pushing peas and carrots around on their plates.
Both women hold nursing positions at the hospital. As expected, they are all smiles when spoken to, but it is unlikely anyone in Mrs. Finch’s tight-knit bunch will be willing to help her and Colette. Following Mrs. Finch’s house rules to the letter, the women are polite to perfection. Secretly, though, they shun the outsiders, joking among themselves in whispers tinged with naughtiness — salt and pepper.
Clayton immediately hopes to persuade Sophie to abandon her idea. “Indeed, our hospitals are quite overwhelmed. Our surgeons are confronted by infections, epidemics and wounds on a massive scale. It is a dreadful place in its present state and entirely unsuitable for—”
“You can stop right there, Reverend Post. No one’s going to change my mind. I am not about sitting idle or living on charity when the money runs out. You have to admit, there is not much a woman can do in this city. Colette and I think taking on the work of a seamstress might be worth a try, but that’s later, when I’m supposedly housebound and bedridden. You know, when it becomes a total disgrace for me to be seen in public.”
Sophie tries to control her erupting mood at the social restrictions on pregnancy and women in general that bind tighter than her corset. She squeezes Clayton’s arm, hopefully to assure him her frustration is nothing personal. His muscles flex in protest under the fabric of his coat and he throws his shoulders back a bit.
“Sorry again,” Sophie crinkles her nose and sniffs. She takes a cleansing breath of reparation and blows a frosty vapor. They walk for a brief time in quiet.
“It is nice to have a park right down the street,” Sophie comments. “I bet it is beautiful here in the spring. And you say there are other favorites to explore? I’d like to see the Public Garden.”
The strip of gardens in the heart of Boston will one day become the Emerald Necklace, designed by the famous Frederick Law Olmsted, father of American landscape architecture. His name and principles will influence many cities, including Savannah, Georgia. This came up in Sophie’s studies and her project research at Copperfield and Brine. Olmsted will not move to Boston and leave his mark until the late 1800s.
“I would like to see everything I can while I’m here. Boston is rich in history and architecture.”
Sophie can still feel the reverend’s disapproval, “Our funds are limited. You know that,” she defends. “Colette and I will need to find employment at some point. We have to start somewhere. Working at the hospital, considering the war and all, don’t you think it’s a worthy occupation to consider?”
“But so soon. Aren’t you happy with arrangements as they are?”
“You know we are.” Taking up residence near the rectory has been a Godsend while she and Colette get their, so-called, city sea legs.
Clayton offers up a silent prayer. The dear lady is headstrong and lacks the loving guidance of her husband. One day, he would like Sophie to meet his family, but for some untold reason he has asked his mother to postpone an invitation to tea. Their relationship is yet too fragile and not a thing to rush.
Sophie takes a fleeting look at Clayton and is reminded she likes his manly profile. His aquiline nose, arresting jawline and thick black lashes a girl would die for makes her think of Orlando Bloom. He is as close to pretty in a guy anyone would dare to admit, and nothing like Ben. She thinks she likes that too.
Their strolls on the Nannie Dee had been a routine they both enjoyed. Once they arrived in Boston, their relationship became a relaxed friendship. Sophie had even helped at the church when Clayton and Bishop Walker showed her “the books.” It is plain the men are more into God than their church budget. A Mr. Bumble, who volunteered for years to manage their finances, died and left them to their own devices. Neither clergyman has a knack or the discipline for keeping an accurate ledger. When Sophie assessed their carelessness and showed them where they had squandered money they did not have, both men insisted, “no one can serve two masters and God always provides.”
Shooing away a few pigeons in their path, Clayton measures his words, “We all must heed God’s calling. I would never endeavor to dampen the enthusiasm of one who wishes to serve. No doubt, the precious lives of our men will benefit from your care. It is a noble cause. Have you ever been in a hospital, Sophie?” Somehow he knows she is an innocent to the ghastly chaos of their institutions.
“I am not a romantic, if that’s what you mean. I know working in a hospital is no picnic, but I am a fast learner and have a strong stomach.”
“Well then. Massachusetts General,” Clayton says, pausing for emphasis. “I have been intro
duced to the medical staff there and accompanied the surgeon-in-charge on inspection. Mind you, I have only made their acquaintance, but I will see what I can do.”
Sophie hugs Clayton’s arm and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you so much. I knew you would help us. Now,” she smiles, ready to change the subject, “What do you know about the traveling circus?”
Her sweet kiss is like the brush of an angel’s wing. He is surprised and amazed at the same time. Clayton fixes on Sophie’s last question to steady himself.
“Ahem! Traveling circus, you say. Why, my dear, you can change topics faster than a person can say Jack Robinson,” he laughs joyfully.
“Yes! I saw an advertisement plastered to a brick wall outside Garner’s Bookstore a block over.”
The colorful poster had been vibrant at one time with waving red and white stripe pennants, a dancing clown and team of horses pulling a chariot.
Sophie mimics a grand Master of Ceremony, “Living curiosities — wild beasts — thrilling feats of extraordinary daring.”
Clayton joins Sophie in a spirited chuckle. “Why, my dear, your talents abound.”
“It sounds like fun, doesn’t it? I imagine it’s too cold for a circus now. They probably winter somewhere where it’s warmer.” Sophie is sure the event predates The Barnum and Bailey Greatest Show on Earth and makes a note to attend a performance first chance she gets.
Chapter 59
BEST POKER FACE
The game is five-card stud. A group of men, none of them beholden to the other and far from being friends, sit huddled around a table in the back room of a pricey saloon on Boston’s north end. Each is sizing up the next fella, collectively measuring the high-risk and self-destructive traits they no doubt find in themselves.
Cards from a new Hart’s deck have been dealt and fresh anticipation of having the perfect hand surges through their veins like an addictive tonic. Mastering the game is as impossible as reaching the end of the universe. Each eyes the other for outward signs of hustler, con-man, cheat or prodigy. They are strangers with one intention — to win, and win big.
Balancing on the back two legs of his chair, Major Larkin Tidewater tries not to squirm. Pain from a heavy blow to the base of his skull with the butt of a Rebel’s Colt Army revolver, which robbed parts of his memory, can be a telltale sign of his blooming stress. He eyes his opponents and thumbs through his cards, looking for an edge. Whether psychological or statistical, he has yet to decide.
Studying Mr. Vincent Paddy’s calm demeanor, Larkin is beginning to have serious qualms and blames his brother Chester. Chester came to him with a story about the cardplayer from a group of fellow officers who frequent the popular establishment. The men made a point of saying Mr. Paddy is a fair and passive player, the type who doesn’t mind losing.
Larkin hates being the butt of a bad joke. Their primary opponent is more like a shark circling their feet and jerking them to their deaths when they least expect it. In fact, Mr. Paddy has the best poker face he has ever seen. He is one skilled operator.
Vincent’s style is cool and calculating. Like a predator summing up his kill, he notices how the major keeps his cards packed close to his face. He sees the pesky fly buzzing the sweat that trickles down Tidewater’s neck and nervous glances between the brothers.
Vincent clears his throat and tosses his chips to the center of the table with nimble fingers. It won’t be long now. Noses are red and eyes are bloodshot from a night of drinking. The amateurs have lost a considerable sum and Vincent is about to make his excuses after the next hand. More from boredom than sympathy.
During the last round, Larkin is all-in. He has been dealt a debatable hand, leaving him hopelessly on track to losing everything he owns. His only hope is to invent a monster hand and scare the other players off.
A man at the table that goes by the name Bixby holds a pair of sevens. He sets his pipe in a silver tray and stretches his cramped arms casually above his head. “Well gentlemen, I’m out. Poker is the reason my wife hugs me on Monday and gives me a good cussin’ on Tuesday,” he chuckles. The sound has a cynical ring.
“Fold,” Chester blurts, happy to shrug off the maddening pressure. The game has been juicy, but he’s seen the Elephant and knows when he’s beat. “I weren’t good at bluffin’ anyhow.” Chester throws down his cards and observes his brother who is glued to his chair.
Mr. Rathbone who played earlier is monitoring the game with another regular and partner of his. He rests one hand on the major’s tense shoulder, “Shall we take a break, gentlemen?”
“Agreed,” Vincent booms. He pushes his chair back and pulls one stumpy leg up near his knee, balancing his ankle on his thigh. He runs a fresh cigar under his nose, smiles and scratches a match on the sole of his shoe to light it.
“You boys from these parts?” he asks, puffing away. A churning cloud of smoke dissipates quickly in a breeze from a recently cracked window.
“Yessir. Born and raised,” Chester beams, flattered by the sudden attention.
Vincent nods, “Thought so. We have a distinct accent. Nothing like it anywhere in the world.”
“Yessir. Don’t know about worldly places, but with the war an’ all, I reckon we done a bit of travelin’.”
“Ah, where to?”
“Been as far as Carolina. My brother’s been fu’ther south than that. Never fails, someone brings it to our attention. The Boston accent. Ain’t that right, Larkin.”
“Sure is, brother,” Larkin responds tightly. Chester’s jabber and the colloquial speech picked up at camp bothers him. Feeling antsy, he rises from his chair and crosses the room to a makeshift bar where liquor flows freely. There is a lot of jovial laughter coming from a group of cardplayers in an adjacent room separated by heavy, blue-velvet drapes. Larkin thinks he is sitting at the wrong table tonight.
“What brings you back to Boston-town?” Vincent is moderately curious.
“We’re on furlough, sir.” Chester says, watching his brother’s back. He cannot believe he is helping himself to another shot of whiskey, on-the-house or not. The hair rises on his arms at the thought of impending doom and crippling disappointment. Once Larkin sets his mind, there is no stopping him.
“Our younger brother. He took a nasty bite from a Reb’s razor-sharp saber. The poor fella next to ’em got it much worse. Our folks died of cholera and nobody’s here to care for him. We got no other family.”
Anxious to impress, Chester rambles on, “We helped recruit for the 55th Massachusetts, didn’t we Larkin? What you’d call a sister regiment to the 54th. Trained at the same camp,” he says, his face bright with self-importance. “Never seen anything like it. Those free Coloreds pourin’ in from all over, eager to volunteer. Filled up two regiments lickety-split.”
“You don’t say,” Vincent remarks, studying his cigar and completely at ease. “Brave soldiers of the 55th.” He briefly glances at Major Tidewater who returns to the table to stand by his chair. “Your wounded brother, how does he fare?”
“Pert good, sir.” To be even more interesting, Chester adds, “There’s some crazy story goin’ round at the hospital ’bout this nurse. With that Southern twang of hers, some say she’s a Rebel spy. But I say she’s the best at doctorin’ there ever was. Nursed our brother from near death. Larkin, here, thinks he knows her from someplace, but his memory ain’t workin’ too good these days.”
“What is her name, may I ask?” Vincent takes a speculative sip of his brandy and resists the temptation to lean in. He thinks of his temporary ward, and this is quickly confirmed.
“Nurse Jane. Jane Peterson,” Larkin speaks up. Saying her full name out loud causes something to register behind his eyes. It surfaces as a startling revelation on the features of his face. “I know who she is! I remember now. That woman at Pulaski. The Mystifying Ghost Lady, damned if I’m right.”
It all comes back in a rush. Major Tidewater, then a Lieutenant, recalls the reduction and surrender of Georgia’s Fo
rt Pulaski back in April of ’62. Standing by the fireplace in the Confederate colonel’s set of rooms, he had been privy to Jane Peterson’s interrogation by one of their finest, Union Brigadier General Gillmore. He also remembers the general’s quick decision to rid them of their inconvenience, along with a toothy boy private who was too young to enlist. They sent her home to Savannah.
Larkin expounds, “Those Grays down there were a superstitious lot. While waiting for their transport to a New York Federal prison, some swore the woman appeared out of thin air in a casemate used for supplies. Claimed she’s a bad omen. An apparition.”
“Nurse Peterson? Are you sure, Larkin?” Chester sputters, rather stunned. “You were only there a short while.” He has nothing but respect for the woman who saved their brother’s life.
Vincent interrupts, “If you will excuse me gentlemen, I need to use the privy. Major Tidewater, may I have a word, sir, before we continue?”
Larkin fills his glass again and follows Mr. Paddy into a stuffy dark hallway just big enough for the two men.
When they are out of earshot, Mr. Paddy turns on his heels, “You know, of course, the seriousness of your claim, sir.” His furrowed brows are the only demonstration of distaste and annoyance in a matter he has no time for. How was he supposed to know that Jane’s bright idea to use her maiden name would lead to this ill-fated calamity? His mother’s words ring in his ears, “Take care, son. I know a Jezebel when I see one.”
“An attack on Miss Peterson is an attack on me.” Vincent levels a savage glare that is strengthened by the flickering flame from a single sconce on the wall. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know his ward is as Confederate as they come with a husband detained this very moment in Fort Warren prison. “Miss Peterson makes it perfectly clear she has no loyalty to either side, North or South. She is a nurse. I take it a brilliant one, seeing your brother is recovered.”
The man is so close Larkin can feel his hot breath. A temporary jolt of terror is almost paralyzing, but he manages to hold steady. He runs his finger along his collar and clears his throat. In a transforming second, he is able to muster the discipline and daring of a soldier afield.
