Tucked inside her bodice was Neal's monogrammed handkerchief. She felt it there now, a gentle pressure on her bosom, as if Neal himself were touching her, urging her to spread her wings in this land where not even the sky was the limit. But how to do both—reach for her dream and yet hide her light?
She tried not to let her desperation show, but she was growing anxious about her living situation. Hannah wasn't used to a noisy, bustling town, or sharing a house with six women. She had had trouble sleeping during her first days at Mrs. Throckmorton's: the traffic outside seemed never to cease, especially in November and December when great mobs of sheep were driven straight through town to the harbor six miles away. There was the constant clip-clop of horses' hooves beyond her window, the crack of a whip, the driver of a dray shouting at his bullocks. Hannah had been born on the outskirts of sleepy Bayfield in a small whitewashed cottage with four rooms and a patch out front for growing flowers. She had grown up there. It was the life she was used to, the one she aspired to recreating here in South Australia. Hannah hoped that when her practice built up, she could move to a small place of her own farther out of the center of town.
She tried to take the measure of the physician behind the desk. Dr. Davenport was an attractive man in his late thirties with a head of thick black hair that fell over his forehead in a boyish curl. His large nose and arched brows gave him a severe look, yet his tone was kind and his manner polite.
"I'm afraid I don't need a midwife," he finally said in a genuinely apologetic voice, "as I prefer to attend to childbirth myself."
"I can help in other ways. I assisted my father in his office and I accompanied him to see patients in the countryside." Would it sound too pretentious if she added that they had even been called to the bedside of a baroness?
Davenport set the letters down and made a frank study of the young lady. She certainly presented herself well. Attractively dressed, well spoken. A spark of intelligence in her lively eyes. She had said her father was a Quaker, which meant she had been taught honesty. And the letters of recommendation from her teachers at the Lying-In Hospital spoke highly of her (although one professor of obstetrics noted that Miss Conroy was prone to asking too many questions). She was demure without being shy, ladylike but with enough assertiveness to present herself at his office asking for employment.
His practice was growing, and he had in fact been considering taking on an assistant. But not a young woman who was not even married!
Uncomfortable beneath the doctor's scrutiny, and worried that she was going to blurt something that would ruin her chances with him, Hannah looked around the tidy office lined with books, anatomical charts, ferns in brass pots, a human skeleton hanging from a stand, the doctor's desk cluttered with papers, books and journals, and a glass-doored cabinet stocked with medicines, bandages, instruments, sutures, basins and towels. Dr. Davenport's impressive library would be a bonus if he hired her.
Her eye came to a small ivory statue on the doctor's desk. "How lovely," she said.
Dr. Davenport glanced at the statue that stood eight inches tall and glowed ivory-white in the sunshine. He reached for it and smiled in fond memory. "Antiquities is a passion of mine, Miss Conroy. I purchased this statue in a small shop in Athens. The proprietor assured me it is at least two thousand years old."
"May I?"
"Please." He handed it to her.
"She's exquisite. Who is she supposed to be?"
"The goddess Hygeia."
"Oh yes, the daughter of Aesculapius," Hannah said. "An apt addition to a doctor's office."
Davenport's arched brows rose. "You are familiar with Aesculapius?"
Hannah hesitated, then said, "He was the ancient Greek god of medicine, and Hygeia was the goddess of health, cleanliness and sanitation."
Davenport nodded. "She is called upon at the beginning of the Hippocratic oath, when a new physician recites: 'I swear by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygeia, and Panacea, to keep according to my ability and my judgment, the following Oath.' But I'm afraid, Miss Conroy, that despite her standing in the oath, Hygeia wasn't an important goddess in the Greek pantheon. It was her father who worked the cures. But Hygeia prevented disease, which in my mind is more important."
Hannah was amazed at the intricate details of the carving—the goddess's robes, the flowers in her hands, the tiny sandals on her feet. She would have been carried by a woman, Hannah decided. Perhaps a physician herself, because Hannah had read that there were women doctors in ancient Greece. She tried to picture that ancient woman now, with her flowing robes and soft speech as she administered gentle medicines.
Hannah paused. No, this is not a goddess of healing. Hygeia was the goddess of preventing disease. The woman who carried this would have been a teacher.
As she handed the statuette back, saying, "She's beautiful," Davenport thought: She resembles you. The sudden notion startled him, but it was true. Not the Grecian gown, but the goddess's round head, the thick hair parted in the middle and swept up to an intricate knot at the back, the long graceful neck, even the delicate facial features.
This gave him pause. A widower who had lost his wife on the voyage from England, he had not realized how much he missed female company until now. His own dear Edith had been intelligent and lively, educated and well read, a woman with whom he could discuss all manners of issues, a woman delighting in lively debates and passionate nights.
He had decided not to hire Miss Conroy, but now he found himself saying, "Your duties will involve sweeping and mopping the floor each night. Light dusting. Washing my medical instruments. Rolling bandages as needed. And seeing that my medicinal stores are kept stocked—for that you will need to visit Krüger's Chemist shop once a week. If the patients come to accept you, then I will be glad of your help with frightened children and hysterical woman. And when the need for a midwife arises, you can assist me and we shall see from there."
It was agreed that Hannah would work three mornings a week to begin, for a probationary period of six months with provisions for more hours after that. Hannah was so giddy with joy when she left his office, she could swear her feet did not touch the ground. When I have proven my skills and competence, she thought in excitement, I shall ask Dr. Davenport to add my name to the shingle outside, then I shall place adverts in the newspapers, informing the city of my association with the fine doctor.
As she stood on the wooden sidewalk in front of Dr. Davenport's two-story brick building, with horses trotting by, and carriages kicking up dust, Hannah pressed her hand to her bosom and thought, I shall write to Neal tonight, telling him the good news.
When they had said good-bye at Perth, they had arranged to write to each other in care of General Post. "If the Borealis makes any port, I shall strive to send you a letter," Neal had promised.
He had done more than that. To Hannah's delight, just two weeks after her arrival in Adelaide, she had found a letter awaiting her at the Post Office. Neal had written it the very day after he arrived in Perth.
It started in a formal tone and consisted of dry facts: "The HMS Borealis is a Cherokee class, 10-gun brig-sloop of the Royal Navy, a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, and refitted for scientific survey. I shall be part of a fifteen-man team and the captain is keen to adopt my invention in which the camera will be stabilized for photography from the ship."
But then he had warmed to his task, and the letter grew more personal. "I had dinner yesterday evening at the home of Perth's Lieutenant Governor—not as grand an affair as you might think—and the Merriwethers were also guests. As there were other scientists at the table-members of my expedition—a lively debate on current scientific progress ensued, and I fear I shocked the Reverend and his wife with my confession that I am an atheist and that I believe that someday science is going to explain all mysteries, perhaps even including the mystery of God himself. Dear Hannah, I do believe the well-meaning Merriwethers would have kidnapped me and whisked me off to their Aboriginal mission had they been able to!"
Hannah had been thrilled to find, tucked into the envelope, a small piece of stiff paper, roughly the size and shape of a slice of bread. A black and white image was imprinted on it, Mr. Scott gazing out of the picture with dark soulful eyes. He wore a dark loose jacket over a white shirt, and he sat with one leg crossed over the other. His head was bare, exposing his closely cropped dark hair, and behind him hung a backdrop painted with trees and hills.
But the amused eyes and smiling mouth, that she had come to know on the Caprica, were not evident in this photograph, which actually gave Mr. Scott a melancholy look.
As if anticipating her observation, Neal had written in the letter: "Forgive the seriousness of my aspect. It is hard to hold a smile for fifteen minutes. In fact, my head is fixed in a brace that you cannot see. I'm afraid that, until the process is somehow quickened, photographic portraits will always look serious."
But Hannah liked the serious look, thinking it made him even more handsome, and added a distinguished air, as suited a man of learning and science. What a marvelous invention! A photograph was not at all like a painting that hung on a wall. Neal's small picture went with her everywhere, she could look at him any time she wanted, and at night, before she turned her lamp down, she would gaze at Neal's face and marvel at the strange intimacy, the staggering connection to him that it created.
And each time she looked at his face, she remembered the kiss during the storm—her first kiss, and one so desperate and passionate that reliving it overwhelmed her with desire and the terrible ache to be kissed by him again.
Neal had closed his letter with well wishes and a cryptic, "There is so much more I wish to say," and the promise to meet her in Adelaide in a year's time. Hannah had written back, telling him of her new life at Mrs. Throckmorton's boarding house, her eagerness to get her practice started, and had ended with the hope to see him next October.
Now it was only eight months away, and Hannah felt so good that she decided to try for an additional employment position, something to fill in her alternate days so that she would work a full week. Next on her list was Dr. Young on Waymouth Street.
When she neared the address of the small, white bungalow set between two empty lots, with a yellowing lawn in the front, Hannah saw a beautiful carriage with two horses waiting in the street. Coming down the path from the front door was a distraught young woman. She wore the black dress, white apron and white mob cap of a house maid, and when she reached the carriage, she came to a standstill, wringing her hands.
"Are you all right?" Hannah asked, noticing now that the girl was on the verge of tears. Hannah noticed also that there was something wrong with her face.
"I don't know what to do, miss. Dr. Young's housekeeper said he's gone to Sydney and might not come back and there's something awful wrong with Miss Magenta—they can't wake her up!"
Hannah glanced toward the small house, and saw that someone had hung a cloth over the doctor's brass plaque. She looked at the carriage—clearly the possession of a wealthy family. Finally she looked at the maid whose face was pinched and pink, her blue eyes wide with fear.
"I work for Dr. Davenport," Hannah began.
But the girl said, "He won't come! Dr. Young was the only one who would come! What shall I do? I can't go back alone."
"Perhaps I can be of help," Hannah offered, wondering why the girl was so certain Dr. Davenport would not take the call. "My name is Hannah Conroy, and I do have some experience taking care of people."
The blue eyes widened. "You, miss?" The maid looked up and down the street, wringing her hands savagely as if she were trying to dislocate her fingers.
"What's your name?" Hannah asked in a soothing tone.
"I'm Alice. And Miss Magenta needs a doctor bad!"
"What happened?"
"We don't know. She said she wasn't feeling well and now she won't wake up."
"Are you sure you don't want to see Dr. Davenport? His office is just—"
"None of the doctors will come," Alice cried, adding, "It's Lulu Forchette's house," as if that explained everything.
Glancing up at the coachman, who was smoking a cigarette in complete disinterest, Hannah said, "I'll go with you, Alice. I might be of help."
The drive took them beyond the city limits and out into the countryside, which Hannah had not yet visited. As the coach raced along the rutted road, and Hannah held onto her bonnet and her carpetbag, with dust and grit flying through the open window, she looked out and saw green rolling hills patched with farmland and sheep paddocks, barns and shearing sheds. Cottages and houses lay far apart, and once, in the light of the setting sun, she thought she spotted a church steeple through the gum trees. As they passed under a canopy of tall eucalyptus, Hannah saw a flock of white cockatoos fly up, turning pink and orange as they flew off into the sunset. And as the carriage slowed to cross a narrow bridge over a creek, Hannah was startled to see a large, dark-orange animal, impossibly tall with tiny forelegs, jump gracefully out of the way. Hannah's eyes widened. It was her first kangaroo.
Alice didn't speak during the thirty-minute journey, but sat rocking with the carriage, chewing her lip and twisting her hands. Hannah thought the girl, who she guessed was around twenty, was on the verge of terror, as if she were more worried about her own safety than that of the mysterious Miss Magenta. Hannah tried not to stare at Alice's face, but she was curious. Her left cheek was puckered with scarring. She had no left eyebrow, and from what Hannah could discern beneath the mob cap and yellow curls, Alice seemed to be missing some scalp and her left ear. It was a tragedy because, when Alice turned her head to look out the window, Hannah saw that in her right profile, Alice was actually quite pretty. She wondered what had caused such an unfortunate disfigurement.
"Here we are, miss!" Alice said as the coach slowed and an elegant house came into view.
Three stories tall, with verandahs and balconies, intricate lattice work and eye-pleasing columns, the home of Alice's obviously rich employer was set amid lawns and gardens, at the end of a long drive that turned off the main road. The ornamental ironwork was a trifle gaudy, the verandahs and balconies crowded with too many plants, and there was an array of imported weather vanes on the roof, giving the effect of the occupant showing off new wealth. The only neighbors were a sheep station a mile back, and what appeared to be a dairy farm up ahead, so that the elegant mansion stood alone amid gum and pepper trees, and country wilderness that fanned out to low hills and dappled brooks.
It seemed a strange place for so posh a residence, especially as there seemed to be no significant outbuildings, no crops or livestock. Just a house, big and beautiful, in the middle of nowhere.
As the coachman gave her a hand down to the dusty path, Hannah heard music and laughter pour from the open windows, and now that the sun had dipped behind the trees, she saw that lamps had been lit in all the rooms. When she saw, around the side of the house, the saddled horses tied up, and the various carriages and conveyances, she realized there must be a grand party going on.
Alice quickly led Hannah around to the rear and into a brightly lit, very noisy kitchen where pots boiled and ovens gave off tremendous heat. "This way," Alice said as cooks and maids looked at Hannah in curiosity. Alice led her to a back staircase where she found, at the top, several ladies anxiously milling about. They were young, two of them attired in night gowns and peignoirs, the third in knee-length drawers and a camisole of white eyelet cotton. All three had their hair undone and streaming over their shoulders, as if they had just wakened from afternoon naps. As Alice explained to the nervous young ladies that Dr. Young wasn't coming, and Hannah heard murmured words about Miss Forchette being terribly angry, she followed the young ladies into a bedroom cluttered with gowns
and shoes, a dressing table laden with jewelry and cosmetics, and a rumpled bed with a scarlet counterpane upon which a young lady in a lacy nightgown lay sprawled, shockingly white and deathly still.
As Hannah rushed to the bedside and lifted the young woman's wrist, and as she heard the piano music down below, accompanied by men's deep laughter, Hannah realized that this was no ordinary residence. Although she had never visited such an establishment, had never accompanied her father to a certain cottage on the road out of Bayfield, where a family of women were known for their hospitality, Hannah had no doubt what sort of house this was.
"What happened?" she asked as she searched for a pulse at the girl's neck and found it dangerously weak and irregular.
"She complained of a headache," said one of the girls. "She also said she was nauseated."
Hannah lifted Magenta's eyelids and saw dilated pupils.
"And she was terribly thirsty but couldn't drink any water," added another.
So Magenta had a dry mouth, Hannah thought, and difficulty swallowing. Hannah had seen this before. But it wasn't one of her father's Bayfield patients. The unfortunate victim had been one of Hannah's fellow students at the Lying-In Hospital. She had, in fact, occupied the dormitory cot next to Hannah's, and one night had dosed herself with tincture of belladonna to alleviate severe menstrual cramps. Like Miss Magenta, the poor girl had ingested too much, and although the students had sent for a doctor, it was too late.
"We have to wake her up," Hannah said. "We have to make her vomit."
"We've tried to wake her up, miss. Smelling salts don't do it."
But Hannah still had Dr. Applewhite's supply. She retrieved the tiny vial from her carpetbag, removed the stopper, and moved the vial back and forth under the girl's nose.
Magenta gasped, her eyes flying open. Working quickly, Hannah said, "Help me turn her onto her side." As the others rolled Magenta over, Hannah pried open the girl's mouth and thrust her fingers in, causing Magenta to gag. "Get me a basin, quickly!" Hannah said, and the bowl was produced just in time. Everything Magenta had consumed in the past two hours came up. The girls watched with held breath as their friend retched into the basin until her stomach was empty. Then Hannah said, "Help me get her to her feet. We have to walk her as much as she will tolerate. Fill that glass with water, please. We need to dilute her blood."
This Golden Land Page 9
