“Flanna, dearest,” Roger continued, turning back to the only woman who mattered, “why should we wait to be married? The Confederate States have committed this rebellious action without your participation or your knowledge. You have spent most of the last two years in Boston. Surely you belong to Massachusetts as much as to South Carolina.”
She looked up at him, her eyes large and liquid and as distant as the stars.
“Marry me, Flanna.” He reached out to take her hand. Mrs. Davis cackled and coughed, but Roger ignored her, pressing forward with his suit. “Forget the past and become my wife as soon as you graduate. No one will think ill of you, but they will say I am the luckiest, most fortunate man in all creation.”
“Roger, I can’t marry you!” Her words flew from her like breathless birds released from a cage, and her expression darkened with unreadable emotions. “I won’t be married in Massachusetts! I’ll only be married at home, in Charleston, with my brother nearby and Father standing at my side. Forget the past, my family? How could I? They’re my home, my heritage, and I have promised to make them part of my future!”
“Flanna.” Roger squeezed her hand, his determination like a rock inside him. “Charleston, U.S.A., is gone forever. The city you knew is no more. That place is now a foreign country, populated by Rebels with whom you have nothing in common. They have chosen to leave us, they have stolen American properties and lands, they have scoffed at our liberties and forfeited their claims upon our hearts! I hear the Rebels are even planning to adopt our American constitution, excepting any clauses banning slavery!”
She jerked her hand from his and swallowed hard as tears began to slip down her cheeks. “Roger, don’t talk like that about my family! My father, my brother, and my cousins are not traitors. They have stolen nothing—they are only struggling to keep the things they’ve worked for!”
“Flanna, I—” Roger stopped, swallowing the harsh words that sprang to his tongue. He had to remember that Flanna was living under intense pressure. His news had surprised her. She needed time to think, to reorient herself to a world that had drastically changed over the past month.
“My dear girl,” he said, standing. “I am terribly sorry for any pain my news has brought. I know it was a shock, and I have probably been unwise to spring this news on you without warning. Promise me that we shall meet this Friday night, as always. We will talk again then.”
She had lowered her head to hide her tears, but he saw her nod.
“Till Friday then.” He walked toward her, stooping to pick up his hat, then resisted the urge to run his hand over her silky hair. He nodded briefly at the old woman near the fire.
“Ladies, I wish you a good day,” he said, then left the room.
Roger let himself out, then paused at the steps of the boardinghouse and glanced back toward the lace curtains, half-hoping to see Flanna’s face at the window. He should have predicted her response; he should have known her better. He had suspected she would be upset about the fledgling Confederate States of America, but he had not expected her dismay to spill out on his marriage proposal.
He had been too hasty, but the sands of time would cover his blunder. And as he waited for time to do its assuaging work, he would encourage Flanna to keep up her studies and earn that blasted medical degree, since it seemed important to her. And after she had accepted that diploma of medicine, he’d propose marriage again. She would be caught up in the rapture of the moment, and she’d agree to marry him. Perhaps they could have a summer wedding, as early as June.
As he sauntered down the street, he reminded himself to write Alden and suggest that he plan ahead and request a weekend pass for the month of June.
Roger wanted his brother home for the wedding.
Five
April 12, 1861
Friday night, and I did not allow Roger to visit. My thoughts are far from him, far from Charity, far from everything but my studies and the exam that looms like a steep mountain before me tomorrow. I have never felt lonelier, yet this a self-imposed loneliness, a situation I must endure until my examinations are done.
Will I remember all that I know is true? And will the things I have learned from my father conflict with the things I have been taught here?
My father’s favorite verses come to mind: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto-thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” I know what Papa would say were he here now—“Flanna, me girl, just because you’re not to lean on your understanding doesn’t mean you’re not to use your God-given brain. Use it, darlini’, and work hard. Work like everything depends on you, then pray like everything depends on God.”
I can only pray that God will bless his truth and my efforts. I have worked so hard to please him.
The Boston winter melted into spring, and the day of Flanna’s final examination arrived. On Saturday morning, April 13, she stepped outside the boardinghouse and stared wordlessly at the changed aspect of the street. Trees that had been bare and leafless when she last noticed them had begun to frill themselves like glorious gold-green parasols. The air carried hints of warmer days to come, and brilliant sunlight washed the sidewalk under a clean blue sky.
Flanna glanced at Charity, then laughed softly. “I knew we were working hard,” she said, lifting her skirts as she descended the stairs, “but I had no idea how hard.”
“It will all be over soon,” Charity promised, following with Flanna’s notebooks and medical bag. “Just a few more hours, Miss Flanna, and we’ll be making ready to go home.”
“Right you are,” Flanna answered, moving briskly toward the street. In honor of this auspicious occasion, Roger had arranged for his mother’s closed carriage to drive Flanna and Charity to the college. The driver waited on the street, his eyes lighting in a look of admiration as Flanna approached.
She allowed him to help her into the carriage, then slid to the end of the bench and waited for Charity. She took a deep breath and counted to five, her father’s old trick to calm an unsettled stomach. She would soon stand before a committee of five doctors, all men, and all determined to expose her every weakness.
Charity climbed in, and the door closed. “You ready, Miss Flanna?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to pray for you?”
Flanna reached out and squeezed her maid’s hand. “Please.”
Charity closed her eyes and moved her lips in a soundless prayer. One of the horses whickered as the carriage lurched forward, and the jangling sounds of horse and harness rattled Flanna’s nerves.
She looked down and stared at her hands. For two years she had given her attention to the study of medicine. For the past four months she had invested nearly every waking moment in preparation for this examination council. While the world outside her window raged with news of secession and strife, she had concentrated on anatomy, chemistry, toxicology, physiology, obstetrics, gynecology, and surgery. While the other girls had spent their leisure hours gossiping about “that Carolina girl,” Flanna had given particular attention to the study of hygiene—a discipline not endorsed by current medical experts, but one her father supported and Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell routinely practiced. Clean patients, Flanna believed, were healthier patients.
At last the carriage pulled up outside the college. After asking Charity to wait in the vestibule, Flanna walked immediately to the large lecture hall. The five doctors were already present, and they peered at her curiously as she opened the door and thrust her head into the room.
Dr. John Gulick, chairman of her examination committee, looked up with an unwelcoming, cold, and piercing eye. “Come in, Miss O’Connor, we are nearly ready. It is good of you to appear promptly.”
Flanna took a deep, unsteady breath, then moved toward the empty table in the center of the room. She waited beside it, her hands clasped, as the doctors shuffled papers and skimmed various documents, ignoring her.
She eyed the empty table at her right
hand. One solitary chair sat behind it, and once she had assumed that examination seat she would not rise until she had either proved herself capable or failed completely.
The thought of failure was anathema. How could she go home if she failed her exams? She knew her father regularly boasted of her progress to his patients, and all of Charleston expected her to follow in Elizabeth Blackwell’s hallowed footsteps. That bright daughter of the South had established herself in no less intimidating a place than New York City. The folks at home expected something equally spectacular from Flanna O’Connor.
She shifted from foot to foot, then looked down at the floor and forced her mind to run in mundane, less worrisome channels. Despite the political unrest, mail was flowing between the two nations. Since the news of Texas’s secession and Jefferson Davis’s election as president of the Confederate States of America, Flanna had received one letter from her father. In it, he encouraged her to concentrate on her studies and keep her mind fixed to her task, but he also bragged that South Carolina had seized the former Federal properties of Fort Moultrie, Castle Pickney, and the arsenal at Charleston. “Our eyes turn now to Fort Sumter,” he had written, “which sits off our shore like a beacon in the night. Federal soldiers still guard the garrison, but it will soon be ours. Why should we tolerate the presence of foreign soldiers on South Carolina’s shores?”
“We are ready, Miss O’Connor.” Flanna flinched at the sound of Dr. Gulick’s raspy voice. “Please relax and be seated. You may take your time as you answer these questions.”
Flanna smiled to cover her embarrassment and moved to the chair. Graceflxlly maneuvering her expansive skirts around the legs of the table, she took her seat, then folded her hands atop the table.
A balding man she did not recognize lifted a bushy brow. “I hope you did not misunderstand, Miss O’Connor. You are allowed to use notes. Have you forgotten to bring them?”
“No sir.” Her voice, like her nerves, was in tatters, and she took a deep breath to strengthen it. “No sir, I did not forget. But I believe I can best prove my abilities and readiness without notes. After all, not every doctor has access to his notes and journals when he or she encounters an emergency situation.”
Dr. Gulick’s full mouth dipped into a deeper frown. “Perhaps you are unaware that the purpose of this college is to encourage women. It is our belief that no woman can pass this examination without notes.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across the paunch at his belly. “We would be pleased to recess for the space of a few moments if you wish to fetch yours.”
For a moment Flanna was tempted to ask Charity to bring her notebook, but the look of malign satisfaction on Dr. John Gulick’s face quelled that urge. She had never liked him as a teacher, for when he wasn’t half-drunk he patronized his students, talking to them as if they were children. Her father had treated her with more dignity when she was ten years old.
She would not reinforce Dr. Gulick’s prejudices.
“With all due respect, gentlemen,” she said, keeping all expression from her voice, “I am ready to proceed without notes. I would not want to waste your time fetching props I do not need.”
A thunderous scowl darkened Dr. Gulick’s brow; another doctor laughed. “All right then.” Gulick spat out the words as he lifted a sheet of questions. “Shall we begin?” He hesitated, seeming to measure her for a moment. “Tell me, Miss O’Connor, in full detail, what implements you will carry in your medical bag if this committee is inclined to award you a degree.”
Flanna mentally listed the items in her father’s medical bag, then took a deep breath and began to recite them: “Castor oil, calomel, jalap, Peruvian bark or cinchona, nux vomica, splints, forceps, and my stethoscope. I, sir, would also carry a scalpel, with an adult dose of either chloroform or ether, in case I had to perform a surgical procedure.”
“On what occasions would you use jalap as treatment?” the bald doctor asked.
“Whenever a powerful cathartic is needed.” She returned his gaze. “What else may I answer for you, gentlemen?”
“I have read your paper on aseptic techniques.” Dr. Gulick’s eyes darkened and shone with an unpleasant light. “Why would you waste time with such foolishness? Why would you splash your patients with cold water and insist that physicians wash their hands before surgery?” He held up his burly hand, displaying veins that squirmed across the skin like fat blue worms. “Is there something on my hand that will harm a patient? Do you believe in hexes and superstitions, Miss O’Connor? If not, why would you resort to all this foolish hocus-pocus?”
Flanna’s pulse began to beat erratically at the threatening tone in his deep voice, but she inhaled deeply and counted to five. She had been expecting this attack. Her views on cleanliness were unconventional, but her father had practiced hygiene for years with great success. One of his medical professors had been a devout Jew, and that doctor insisted that his students follow the ritual cleansing practices outlined in the Old Testament.
“Oy, if God himself tells us to wash our hands, shall we not trust him?” Flanna murmured, mimicking her father’s oft-repeated motto.
“What’s that?” Dr. Gulick asked. “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
As casually as she could manage, Flanna began to frame her answer. “Sirs, I base my opinion about hygiene on two things: God’s Holy Word, which you would not want to refute, and my father’s record of success. He has been using water to clean wounds and instruments for years.”
“I’ll not accept the record of any Confederate doctor,” Gulick snapped, his voice sharp with fury.
Flanna turned her gaze toward another examiner, the pleasant fellow who had laughed earlier. “Consider, then, the record of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell of New York. She follows the techniques of cleanliness advocated by Trotula and Hildegard, who outlined such practices in ancient times. The rate of puerperal fever among Dr. Blackwell’s patients is far lower than the rate of a similarly located New York hospital where doctors do not wash their hands between patients. Dr. Marie Zakrzewska has established similar good results with hygienic methods.”
“A confounded waste of time and effort,” Gulick countered, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the examiner Flanna had addressed cut the professor off.
“Dr. Gulick, when are you going to give the rest of us an opportunity to learn from this remarkable young lady?” he asked. When Gulick remained silent, the pleasant doctor gave Flanna a look of faint amusement. “Thank you, my dear, for explaining why you believe cleanliness is important. If you want to bathe your patients, I’ve no doubt that it will do many of them good. Now”—he paused and looked down at his notes—“can you please explain for me the function of the human circulatory system? Take your time, my dear. Even the most advanced healers do not fully understand it.”
Flanna took a deep breath, then began. “The circulation of blood, Doctors, originates with the human heart…”
Two hours later, Flanna thanked the committee and moved toward the doorway. Once she reached the hallway, she closed the door and leaned against it, her heart beating in a staccato rhythm. She had passed! Try though they might—and they had tried, most sincerely, to trip her up—they could find no fault in her preparation. Even dour Dr. Gulick had awarded her a passing score. Soon she would receive a diploma with her name etched in broad, black strokes—Dr. Flanna O’Connor!
She looked around, anxious to share her news. Charity was waiting downstairs in the vestibule, no doubt, and Roger might have arrived by now. Flanna hurried down the stairs with a quick step and a light heart, feeling as though her feet might begin to dance at any moment. She had succeeded!
Charity lay curled on a sofa in the entry, her knees drawn up on the cushions, her head pillowed on her hand. Flanna stooped and woke the girl with a fierce hug.
“Gracious, Miss Flanna, what’s come over you?”
“We did it, Charity.” Flanna felt a blush of pleasure rise to her c
heeks. “I passed my exams. You are looking at the youngest doctor in the family.”
“Sakes alive, you really did it?” Charity’s arms slipped around Flanna’s neck, and they shared a tight embrace, one triumphant heart beating against another. “Oh, Miss Flanna, your papa will be so proud!”
“I can’t wait to write him.” Flanna pulled out of Charity’s embrace and wiped a tear of joy from her cheek. “Or should I wire him? We could stop by the telegraph office on the way home.” She looked around the small vestibule. “Have you seen Roger? He said he would be here when my exams were done.”
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mister Roger.” Charity shook her head for emphasis. “Not a glimpse, and I’ve been sitting on that sofa nearly all day.”
“Well then.” Flanna tried to smile, then closed her eyes as a flash of loneliness stabbed at her heart. A woman ought to have friends around when she had good news to share, but the people who mattered most to her were far away. Papa and Wesley would hear her announcement through an impersonal telegram, then they’d run across the street to share the news with Marsali and her boys. While Roger, who ought to be here, had undoubtedly been detained by some fascinating political gossip spilling in a tavern somewhere.
Flanna opened her eyes and gripped Charity’s arm. Her maid, at least, was near, and if Charity’s was the only friendly face in town, so be it. “Let’s go to the telegraph office immediately.” Flanna pushed her dark thoughts aside. “And tonight we’ll ask Mrs. Davis for some of that delicious ham she keeps squirreled away in the larder. We’ll have a feast.”
“Miss Flanna?”
About to stand, Flanna stopped short, caught off guard by the expectant expression on her maid’s face. “Yes, Charity?”
“Does this mean we can go home now? I’m awful tired of living here with these Yankees. I want to go home and see my folks.”
Flanna paused and looked out the window. Boston and all its glory lay outside, cobbled streets crowded with fancy buggies, busy people, and prosperous traders. Roger had nearly convinced her that this city might hold the promise of her future, but in the last few weeks she had felt the sting of its scorn. Her fellow students, her landlady, and the members of society who had once enthused over her dresses, her slender waist, and her wit—none of them had spoken to or inquired about her in past weeks.
The Velvet Shadow Page 7
