Later that evening, Marie and Adeline chatted amicably as they washed and dried the dishes, while Sara ushered Johnny and Luc upstairs to bed. Pippa, she guessed, was still playing cards downstairs with her papa. When Sara returned to the parlor to retrieve her, she was surprised to find Philippe reclined on the chaise in stocking feet, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His smooth, square jaw rested tenderly on Pippa’s head as she nestled in the crook of his arm. Pippa’s small hand curled around the stiff cotton of her father’s collar. Both were dozing, and looked blissfully content. Sara’s heart thudded, remembering the daughter she’d lost. She stroked Pippa’s shiny blond hair, saying a silent prayer of gratitude for this girl who was alive, warm and breathing.
Sara sank down on the hassock by the fire, plagued with remorse. Would she have truly left the children last night and traveled all the way to France? In her unsettled state of mind, she very well might have. But it would have been wrong. Her life, and her loyalty, belonged to this family now. And as Philippe had said, they would—they must—find a way through.
When Sara finally peeled Pippa from her father’s embrace, Philippe awoke with a start. “What time is it?” He rubbed his face.
Sara signaled for him to hush, and carried Pippa up to bed. After closing Pippa’s bedroom door, Sara lingered in the hallway. She felt silly, waiting and hoping that Philippe would come to her, when she knew that after last night, he was likely, and understandably, avoiding her. So she made the decision to act. She brushed out her hair, put on a fresh nightdress and slipped downstairs in search of her husband. Philippe stared into the waning fire, its embers popping and hissing their adieu. As she knelt beside him, Philippe threaded his fingers between Sara’s and smiled. “Thank you for today,” he offered contritely.
“It was a good day.” Sara placed her cool hand against his hearth-warmed cheek, but desire soon won over, guiding her fingertips down his neck to the triangular thatch of fair, springy hair peeking through the slit of his open collar.
Philippe sat up. “Sara, you don’t have to—that is to say . . . ,” he stumbled. “What happened between us . . . I know it will take time to—”
Sara drew closer and began to probe his sweet, inviting mouth with her tongue. Philippe’s young beard rasped her swollen lip, yet momentary discomfort soon turned to pleasure. She sighed a short, satisfied moan, and he palmed her breast in response, squeezing her nipple gently.
When she started to unbutton his shirt, Philippe abruptly sat back, feigning indignation. “Is this just because I gave in to what you wanted?” He thumbed her chin softly.
“No,” she replied earnestly. She couldn’t explain why she resented him one minute, and hungered for him the next. Maybe Aurora was right, she thought, blushing.
Philippe studied Sara with intense interest as she continued to undress him. She smoothed a hand down his chest to his navel. He stroked the small of her back. “Here?” he lifted a quizzical brow.
Sara glanced at the dark kitchen. “Marie and Adeline are in their room; everyone else is asleep,” she said, slipping his belt from its buckle.
Philippe removed her hand and kissed her wedding band. “No,” he said firmly, pulling Sara into his warmth. He whispered, “We need a proper bed for what I have in mind, Mrs. Lemieux.” He met her inquiring gaze, smiling. “It’s hard work, you know.” His eyes gleamed with mischief.
“What is? To win me back?” she asked.
“No,” he replied solemnly. “To make you forget why you ever wanted to leave.”
Chapter 27
WINTER 1902
While Philippe and Mac shepherded their wines through the aging process at Sumter’s winery, Sara spent the winter days managing the vineyard workers, caring for Johnny and Pippa, and planning spring events for the club. Philippe had agreed to turn a blind eye to her activities, as long as she didn’t openly lobby for prohibition, which she’d never consider.
With Adeline and Luc at the Las Amigas schoolhouse and the baby napping, Sara had time to teach Pippa. She wrote the letters of the alphabet on her slate with chalk, and Pippa traced each one, twisting her lips to try to make each letter’s sound. Sara had until September to prepare Pippa for kindergarten. Luc had adapted easily enough to the schoolroom, but Pippa was a special case. She would be teased and would have trouble making friends because she couldn’t really form a smile. Sara wanted Miss Howell, the children’s teacher, to see past the child’s defect. The best way to impress the teacher was to show her that Pippa could do all the things a normal kindergartener could—and more.
Aurora knocked on the kitchen door a half hour after they began. “Philippe here?” she whispered, as Sara invited her inside.
“No, he’s meeting Adeline and Luc at the creek.” Adeline was now comfortable taking Luc to school on the family mule, but still needed help crossing Carneros Creek at the ford. “What is it, Aurora?”
“I have something for you both, but I think—well, I think it’s best if you give it to him.” She handed an envelope to Sara before warming her hands near the firebox. “You’ll say no, but I’m insisting, and that’s the end of it.”
A bank draft slid out of the envelope, made out to Philippe and Sara in the amount of three thousand dollars. Sara’s mouth fell open. Aurora explained, “I’m making an investment in your new winery, and I want it finished by summer, in time for the harvest.”
Sara knew that this money, when added to the insurance money and their meager savings, would finally enable them to build the winery and purchase new fermenting tanks, a crusher, a press and new cooperage. Aurora smiled, and shrugged. “You’re my family. What good is a pile of money if you can’t help those you love?”
Sara hugged her tightly. “You and Philippe can pay me a dividend each month out of your profits, until you’re able to repay me in full.”
“But Philippe—”
“You tell him he’s like a son to me,” Aurora said, her lips quivering with emotion. “You tell him I said that if he doesn’t cash it, I’ll hire an architect and start building the winery myself, whether he likes it or not.”
Sara read the handwriting on the check again: three thousand dollars. When she looked up, Aurora was gone.
Embarrassed by their last encounter in the operating theater, Marie avoided looking at Matthew Donnelly for an entire week once classes started again. This semester, he was teaching her anatomy class. Even when her hand shot up to answer a question, she kept her eyes on the textbook in front of her. When she challenged another student’s comment, she addressed him directly, not her professor. She thought it was an excellent strategy to employ for the balance of the semester—that is, until Donnelly called her up after class.
He sat on his desk, his right leg dangling casually over its edge. “Your name isn’t on the list, Miss Chevreau.”
“What list?” she asked.
Donnelly pointed to a sign-up sheet posted on the board for a two-week internship at his practice on Nob Hill.
“Write your name down,” he commanded, holding out a pencil.
Marie squeezed her books tightly. Something in her bristled at the idea of Matthew Donnelly demanding she work for him in any capacity. Or maybe she worried that she couldn’t work so closely with him without losing her concentration.
“I will think about it, Dr. Donnelly.”
His lips formed a sly smile. “Please do.”
As Marie walked out, she felt him staring. He was so nonchalant. Was it arrogance? His heart couldn’t be racing like hers. Why did he want her to sign up? Did it satisfy him to criticize her at every turn, or did he truly want to help her?
For the next half hour, Marie paced up and down Webster Street near the side entrance of the college, cooling her heels and contemplating her future. She needed all the professional advantages she could get. She had to talk herself out of this infatuation. Donnelly must have flaws, and to discover them, she’d have to spend more time with him. Marie sighed, ducked back inside and signed up.
Philippe didn’t know what to say: a check for three thousand dollars? He couldn’t accept it. Sara, as usual, read his mind. “Aurora insisted we use it. We’ll repay it over time, with dividends,” she suggested.
How could he possibly borrow money from Aurora? But when he looked at Sara’s maddeningly beautiful face and emerald eyes, he couldn’t refuse. “She’s a fine friend,” he said roughly. “I’ll pay her back by the end of the year, if all goes to plan.”
“Picture it, Philippe—a huge stone winery with oak doors and a slate roof. Tasting tables and new barrels. Thirty or forty fermenting tanks, with gardens and a fishpond outside. The children would love a fishpond,” she added wistfully.
Philippe laughed, seized with renewed vigor. “You’ve already spent the money!”
“I had a half hour before you returned with the children,” Sara said lightly. “A girl can dream.”
The check fluttered in Philippe’s hand as his fingers skimmed her cheek. “No gardens or fishpond,” he said, smiling crookedly. “In fact, no winery, either.”
“No?” Sara was surprised.
“Not before I keep my promise to you.” Sara’s eyes widened with hope as he drew her close. He waited another moment before uttering the words she had waited four long years to hear.
“Place the order. We’ll ship the vine cuttings in March.”
Chapter 28
MARCH 1902, SAN FRANCISCO
Marie stood outside the three-story Queen Anne–style mansion in Nob Hill. The medical boarding house where Matthew Donnelly worked and lived was beautiful. She’d expected a run-down tenement, similar to the rooming houses she’d visited countless times on Mulberry Street in New York. Instead, this beauty’s vast façade was painted pale blue, with ivory-trimmed oriel windows. Marie admired the portico, framed by four ornate columns, then stepped up onto the front porch and shook out her umbrella. The wooden doors reminded Marie of her old home at the Manhattan convent. Their elegant stained glass, however, brought her back to where she was, and she began to shake from top of her head to the soles of her rain-soaked shoes.
At seven in the morning the fog was dense, and the rain pattered softly but steadily. The air had already chilled her bones, causing her to sniffle and her toes to numb. She’d arrived a half-hour early, and although she didn’t want to seem overeager, she thought about knocking and begging to warm herself by the fire.
While she deliberated on the doorstep, she saw a shadow behind the stained glass. The door opened and a tall, middle-aged nurse welcomed her in. She wore a blue cotton gown with a wide turned-down collar, a white apron and a matching muslin cap frilled around the face, the same uniform as the nurses at the Lane Hospital. Clearly, Dr. Donnelly was running a first-class operation.
The nurse gave Marie a once-over and her mouth formed a disapproving frown. “You’ll catch pneumonia standing out there,” she cautioned, ushering Marie into the foyer. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, lifting Marie’s coat from her shoulders and placing it on the nearby coat rack.
“No,” Marie replied, “I’m one of Dr. Donnelly’s students.”
The nurse’s face brightened. “You’re Marie Chevreau, yes?” she asked excitedly. “I’m so pleased to meet the first female medical student at Cooper.” She leaned Marie’s umbrella against the cheerful gold-and-blue papered wall. “Never thought I’d live to see the day!” she added.
“Yes, um, thank you.” Marie grinned awkwardly, fiddling with her gloves before shoving them in her coat pocket.
“I’m Jane Phillips—just Jane to you. You’ll be assigned to me during your rotation. Come, let’s warm you up with a strong coffee before the men get here.” After handing Marie a cup, Jane excused herself to check on a patient. Sitting in the small parlor just off the foyer, Marie could hear the house coming to life. Matthew Donnelly’s voice boomed from the stairwell above, and nurses chirped in answer. Marie’s back straightened, and she clasped her china cup, bracing herself for the week’s work. Even though she was only here to observe, she hoped to outdo the other three students in knowledge and skill. She had to show Matthew Donnelly just how serious she was about becoming a surgeon.
Marie greeted her fellow students—her rivals—and repeated their names in her head. She’d always had difficulty remembering names and devised a game to identify each by his most remarkable feature. John Redman was easy enough: his eyes were bloodshot either from lack of sleep, Marie thought, or an opium habit. The trim of Larry Deaver’s coat looked like the pelt of an unfortunate beaver, and Fitz Greene had a wide, thin smile and drooping eyelids that reminded Marie of a frog. This was an easy lot. Marie had their names committed to memory by noon. Lord only knew what they thought of her.
The first day whizzed by. In the morning, Donnelly performed three surgeries, removing two gallbladders and an inflamed appendix just before it burst. The next day, however, proved more intriguing to Marie. She watched as Donnelly performed a hysterectomy on a twenty-two-year-old ex-prostitute.
The operating room, located in the rear annex off the first floor, contained all the most modern equipment: a steel operating table, bright oil lamps, linoleum floors and clean linen shirts and operating gowns hanging from pegs on the far wall. There was a rhythm to preparing the room before surgery. Donnelly would scrub his arms and hands with antiseptic, put on his operating gown and sterile gloves, then douse and cleanse his instruments with carbolic acid. The smell reminded Marie of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Meanwhile, the nurses washed the patient’s skin and administered chloroform through the mask covering his or her mouth and nose. Marie and the other students stood aside until the preparations were complete and the doctor and nurses closed in around the patient.
Marie found the boarding house a much more exciting venue in which to observe surgery than the Lane Hospital operating amphitheatre. Here she could see everything up close, and pose questions. Donnelly spoke almost the entire time, designating one student to take notes and the others to watch and answer his questions.
At the start of the hysterectomy, Marie’s hopes were dashed when Donnelly relegated her to the post of note taker, charging her with the task of inscribing every step of the procedure. Fitz Greene would hand him instruments. None of them were as qualified as she was to assist in this type of surgery. Had they delivered a thousand babies or studied the anatomy of a woman’s reproductive organs like she had?
Before the surgery began, Donnelly explained that the young woman suffered from inflammation of the pelvic organs caused by a gonorrheal infection and painful fibroids. After treating her unsuccessfully for several months, he believed surgery was the only option.
Though the woman’s pulse weakened during the two-hour surgery, Donnelly worked quickly to remove the uterus, flush the abdomen with a saline solution and close the incision with layer suturing. Donnelly instructed the nurse to monitor her progress—specifically her respiration, pulse and temperature—every hour following.
After the surgery, the students waited in the parlor for Donnelly to assign them tasks for the afternoon before he left to teach a class. Redman, the Beaver and the Frog chatted with nervous excitement about the possible outcomes of the surgery, and the perils, not to mention scandal, of their patient’s former profession.
“How many do you think?” Deaver whispered.
Redman ogled Marie. “Hundreds, thousands, maybe more than one at a time,” he suggested lewdly.
“C’mon. There’s a lady present,” Greene chided them. “Sorry, Miss Chevreau.” Marie didn’t acknowledge them.
Deaver smacked his lips. “Mmm. There’s nothing I like more than a buttered bun, gents.” Redman jabbed him with an elbow and the two convulsed in laughter.
If they hoped to shock Marie with their crassness, they would be disappointed. She had worked for years in the Manhattan slums, and to her they sounded like a bunch of naive schoolboys.
Marie remained silent, reviewing the notes she’d taken. A few minutes later, fo
ur men pushed through the front door, lugging the inert body of a young man. They shouted for the doctor. Two nurses ran forward with a stretcher, and Donnelly rushed down the stairs.
“What do we have?” he asked, pressing two fingers to the man’s neck.
“Knife wound to the heart,” Jane answered. Marie watched wide-eyed as small spurts of blood erupted from the man’s chest wound. His complexion was ashen and his breathing shallow.
“How long ago?” Donnelly persisted.
“Ten minutes,” one of the burly men said. “It happened in the alley.”
“Name?”
“Tom Adler.” He looked to be twenty-five or so, with a young beard, trim physique and chapped hands.
On bended knee, Donnelly listened to the man’s chest, watching its rise and fall. Adler’s eyes fluttered open, then shut again. “Tom, can you hear me? This is Dr. Donnelly. Are you in much pain?”
What an absurd question, Marie thought. Tom Adler groaned and nodded in answer. Donnelly placed his hand over the wound. “Tom, the knife went very deep, but we’re going to try to repair it,” he said loudly.
Adler had drifted back into unconsciousness. Donnelly looked around, asking, “Where’s his family? Wife?” Marie knew then that he had decided to operate on Tom Adler’s beating heart and wanted to obtain permission.
“Doesn’t have any—he’s a loner, that one.”
“Let’s bring him back.” Donnelly gestured in the direction of the operating room as he hoisted his end of the stretcher, while another man lifted from behind. Donnelly searched the room before locking eyes with Marie. “I need you for this one,” he said, his tone brusque and businesslike. She removed her jacket and followed the men into the operating theater.
The California Wife Page 23
