by Amanda Cabot
Harrison sighed as he reached for a box marked “glassware.” “It’s all my fault. I don’t know much about children.” He sighed again. “It’s been a long time since I was one. I was the oldest of three boys, and we had no sisters, so I’ve had no experience with little girls.”
Elizabeth was tempted to echo Harrison’s sighs. It was no wonder he scared Rose. He simply didn’t know any better.
“Rose seems frightened by loud voices,” Elizabeth said, deliberately lowering hers. “I know it’s not easy, especially when you’re upset, but you might want to modulate your voice.”
Harrison was silent for a moment. “My brothers used to say that I talked too much, but this is the first time I’ve been told I talk too loudly.” He nodded. “I’ll try to be quieter. It’s important.”
What was important, Elizabeth decided three days later, was for her to start doing something. Just sitting in her office, waiting for patients to appear, was accomplishing nothing. Gwen had warned her that it might take time but claimed that even if Cheyenne’s residents weren’t ready for a woman doctor yet, they soon would be. Gwen was confident. Of course, Gwen had been in a better mood for the past couple days, perhaps because Harrison seemed to be making a special effort to speak softly. Elizabeth could tell that it didn’t come naturally to him. After all, the man had a booming voice. But he was trying, and though Rose was still wary, there had been no further tears. That was good.
What was not good was that Elizabeth spent her days pacing the floor of her office, wondering when the first patient would set foot inside. Her neighbor didn’t have that problem. One of the disadvantages of spending time in her waiting room was that Elizabeth observed an almost constant stream of men entering Jason Nordling’s office. Most stayed less than half an hour, making her wonder whether they were clients or simply people coming to talk. In either case, he wasn’t bored, and he wasn’t lonely.
Like hers, his days had a routine. She’d see him enter his office each morning a few minutes after she opened hers. Toward midday he’d emerge, his step jaunty as he headed somewhere, presumably for dinner. An hour later, he’d return. And then precisely at five each afternoon, he’d lock the door to his office.
When she’d left the apartment this morning, Elizabeth had decided that this afternoon would be different. She was going to pay a visit, and if things went the way she hoped, by the end of the day she might have a partner. Though she hadn’t envisioned working with another doctor, she had wakened with the realization that that was the route many of her classmates had taken. It had proven advantageous for them. Perhaps it would for her too. After all, there was more than one way to succeed, and if one thing was certain, it was that Elizabeth May Harding, MD, was going to succeed.
After tying her hat ribbons and slipping on her gloves, Elizabeth turned the sign in her front window over. Seconds later, the door firmly locked behind her, she headed north. Her destination was only a block away. Elizabeth smiled when she reached it and saw the sign in the front window. This doctor was in. That was good. Even better, she reflected as she opened the door, there were no patients waiting for him. Elizabeth’s smile broadened as she considered the possibility that her lack of patients might be due to an unusually healthy population, not an unwillingness to consult a woman doctor. Keeping her smile firmly fixed, she entered Dr. Worland’s office. Though she knew little about him other than the fact that he had been one of the first physicians to come to Cheyenne and that he was reputed to be a good one, she hoped he would prove amenable to her plan.
Elizabeth looked around, quickly assessing her surroundings. The building that housed Dr. Worland’s office was a bit larger than hers, and so it was no surprise that the interior was larger too. Other than size, his waiting room resembled hers, with benches along one wall and a few chairs in the middle. Unlike hers, his boasted no live plants, and the front window was in need of a good cleaning.
“What can I do for you, miss?” The doctor who emerged from the interior room was older than she had expected—perhaps in his mid-fifties—with hair that had turned completely gray. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and eyes and furrowed his forehead. The crevices and the slumped shoulders told Elizabeth his life had not been an easy one, and she felt an immediate affinity with him. Life in the Harding household had not always been easy, either. Frequent moves had meant that Elizabeth’s only true friends were her sisters, and a perpetual shortage of funds meant the family lacked many of the small luxuries others took for granted. Still, on the opposite side of the scale, she had been surrounded by love. Not once had she doubted either her parents’ or her sisters’ love for her. Elizabeth hoped that Dr. Worland had been as fortunate.
Before she could introduce herself and explain the reason for her visit, the doctor gestured toward his examination room. “I can see you’re suffering from female ailments,” he continued as he ushered her into the interior room. Though the furniture arrangement was different, the older doctor’s examining room was remarkably similar to Elizabeth’s.
“I have just the thing to cure you.” He pointed toward a cabinet filled with patent medicine.
And in that moment, Elizabeth knew that her dreams of a partnership with the older doctor were nothing more than that: dreams. She wasn’t certain what offended her more, his casual diagnosis of a nonexistent illness or the fact that he was prescribing bottles of what any respectable practitioner knew was of no more value than snake oil.
“Surely you don’t dispense those.” She took a step closer to the cabinet, frowning when she realized that he had everything from Hostetter’s Celebrated Stomach Bitters, to Faith Whitcomb’s Nerve Bitters and Peruna, to Brandredth’s Vegetable Universal Pills. The only thing celebrated about the vile concoctions was the speed with which patients became dependent on them, for their alcohol content was far greater than whiskey.
“Of course I prescribe them to my patients.” Dr. Worland’s eyes narrowed in what appeared to be suspicion. “Who are you to tell me otherwise, Miss . . . ?” He let his voice trail off in an obvious request for her name.
Elizabeth complied. Though it was clear this would not be a congenial meeting of colleagues, there was no reason for him not to know her identity. “Harding,” she said. “Dr. Harding.”
The annoyance that she’d seen on his face when she’d questioned the patent medicines was replaced by disdain. “Ah yes. I heard there was a pretty little lady who fancied herself a doctor.” Dr. Worland drew himself up to his full height, which was only an inch or two more than Elizabeth’s own five and a half feet. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told those busybodies: you won’t last long. Folks in Cheyenne have no use for a lady doctor.”
The message was the same one Jason Nordling had delivered, and it was no more welcome coming from the lips of a physician than it had been then. Less, in fact, for the doctor should know better. But he didn’t. Elizabeth’s hopes were dashed by the realization that Dr. Worland was as intolerant as her classmates. Intolerant and possibly incompetent.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she told him, her voice low but firm. “It may be that Cheyenne’s residents are unaccustomed to having a woman doctor, but they’ll soon discover that I have much to offer them.”
The older doctor’s upper lip curled, and his voice held more than a note of mockery. “You’re like those young whippersnappers. You think you know more than me.”
“I did not say that.” Although she did know that patent medicines caused more harm than good. “I had hoped we could work together.”
“You did, did you?” This time there was no ignoring the sarcasm. “Exactly what did you think you could do? I already have a gal come in to clean the bedpans.”
Elizabeth had cleaned her share of bedpans. She’d scrubbed operating tables, just in case the new theories that infections were caused by dirt were true. She’d done that, but that was hardly the extent of her experience.
“I assure you that I can do more than that.”
&nb
sp; Dr. Worland shook his head, his doubt obvious. “Those are mighty brave words. Tell me, missy, did you ever have to amputate a leg?”
“I’ve done it.”
It was clear he hadn’t expected that response, and for a second, he said nothing. “Did your patient live?” he demanded.
“She did. I fitted her with a wooden leg. Now she walks with only a slight limp.” That was an exaggeration. Miss Thompson’s limp was more than slight, but she was walking again, and both she and her parents considered that little more than a miracle after her leg had turned gangrenous.
“Harrumph.” Dr. Worland glared at Elizabeth. “Did you ever deal with typhoid?”
Elizabeth wasn’t certain why she didn’t leave. It was clear there would be no partnership, not even a possible sharing of professional experiences. This man’s interrogation told her he wasn’t interested in learning what she had done; he merely wanted to trip her up. But still, she couldn’t stop herself from responding. “I have treated typhoid. Cholera, malaria, and diphtheria too. And before you ask, the mortality rate of my patients was below average.”
Raised brows telegraphed his disbelief. “That’s a fine story, missy. It might convince others, but I’m not so easily taken in. It’s as plain to me as the nose on my face. You’ve got yourself some book learning. Probably some newfangled ideas too. Those won’t sit well with folks out here. Folks expect the basics. Bleed ’em, blister ’em, and purge ’em.”
She should have expected it, given the cabinet filled with patent medicines, and yet Elizabeth was shocked by the doctor’s treatment basics. “You’re joking, of course.”
His eyes narrowed as he took a step closer, his expression threatening. “I most definitely am not joking. I learned my trade as a surgeon during the War Between the States. I saved plenty of men using exactly those techniques. A flighty little lady like you isn’t going to convince me to change my ways.”
“No Eastern doctor would resort to heroic medicine.” Though she had never understood the reason for the term, the now-discredited techniques of bleeding, blistering, and purging were frequently referred to as heroic medicine. “We have much gentler and more efficacious methods of treating our patients.”
His face darkening with anger, Dr. Worland jabbed a finger at Elizabeth. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, with that brand-new diploma and those big words? Let me tell you something, missy. You’ll never be a doctor here. Go back East. There’s no future for you in Cheyenne.”
4
I’m glad you didn’t mind coming early.” Miriam Eberhardt extended both hands in greeting as Richard led Elizabeth into the large parlor that would serve as a ballroom tonight. Like Miriam, the room was dressed in its best, but Elizabeth had expected no less. As Richard had driven her east on 18th Street, he’d pointed out Maple Terrace, the building that contained five three-story town houses. Though there was no question that they were far more spacious than the apartment Elizabeth shared with Gwen, Richard claimed that his and Miriam’s home at Maple Terrace was too small for entertaining. The same complaint could not be made of the Taggerts’ mansion. With a tower on one corner and a turret on another, plus a large circular window over the front entry, the huge sandstone building was the most ornate on 18th east of Central Avenue.
Elizabeth smiled at both her hostess and the beautiful room. Miriam wore a grass-green silk gown that shimmered as she walked, while potted palms and arrangements of fresh flowers graced the parlor. The floor was bare, the carpet having been removed for dancing, and only a few chairs lined one wall. Though at the moment the room was virtually empty, Elizabeth knew that within an hour, it would be filled with the sights, scents, and sounds of guests. Now it was the fragrance of lilacs and the somewhat discordant sounds of musicians tuning their instruments that greeted her.
“I know some people prefer to make an entrance after the other guests have arrived,” Miriam continued, nodding her perfectly coiffed blonde head to punctuate her words, “but Mama and I thought a receiving line would be the best way to introduce you to everyone. That way we’ll know we haven’t missed anyone.”
Elizabeth smiled again. “The thought of a receiving line takes me back to my childhood. Every time we moved to a new town, there was a receiving line at the church. My sisters and I dreaded them, because it seemed that all the ladies wanted to pinch our cheeks.”
“Oh, my!” Miriam laid her hands on her cheeks, as if she were imagining a pinch. Tall and slender with sparkling green eyes, Miriam might not be beautiful, but she was attractive, and her vivacious personality made it easy to understand how she’d become one of Charlotte’s closest friends. “That sounds painful,” Miriam said as she lowered her hands.
“It was.”
“But moving had to be even worse. I hated it when we had to leave Denver because Papa decided Cheyenne needed another newspaper. I pouted for weeks and told him and Mama that they were ruining my life.” She feigned a pout. “They’re now quick to remind me that if I’d stayed in Denver, I’d never have met Richard.” Miriam cast a fond glance at her husband, who stood a few feet away, as if unwilling to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“I’m afraid our moves weren’t my parents’ choice. Papa was a minister—the kindest, godliest man you could imagine—but he had very strong opinions, and they weren’t always what the church fathers wanted to hear. It seemed that we’d no sooner get settled than we’d have to move again. Fortunately, I had my sisters.”
They were a large part of the reason Elizabeth had chosen Cheyenne for her office. Charlotte had made it her home almost two years ago, and though she and Barrett were currently in the East with Charlotte’s son, David, they expected to return before winter. Just as wonderful, by the end of the year, Abigail and her husband would settle here too. When Ethan’s commitment to the Army ended, Abigail claimed they planned to raise sheep and babies, although she admitted that she expected to have most of the responsibility for the latter. “Ethan can have his smelly sheep,” she’d written. “I’ll take care of the babies.”
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Miriam linked her arm with Elizabeth’s and led her to one of the chairs. “We might as well rest our feet while we can,” she said. “This may be our last chance until dinner is served.” She shook her head, setting her delicate gold earrings to bouncing. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand people. Papa’s strong opinions bring him more subscribers, but your father’s resulted in uprooting your family.”
Elizabeth wished she hadn’t mentioned the moves. It hadn’t been a ploy for sympathy. Unlike Abigail, who had hated the disruption, Elizabeth had considered the family’s moves almost an adventure. It was only now with the perspective of adulthood that she realized how much her sisters had sheltered her. She tried to lighten the mood by grinning. “The pinched cheeks weren’t that bad.”
As she’d hoped, Miriam returned the grin with one of her own. “I can promise you won’t have any of those tonight.”
And she did not, though Richard, who must have heard more than Elizabeth had realized, pretended to pinch her cheek when he rejoined her and Miriam. “You picked an excellent location for your office,” he said as he took his place at Miriam’s side. “You’re next door to a good friend of mine. I understand you’ve met Jason.”
Elizabeth tried not to wince at the thought that, as one of Richard’s close friends, Jason Nordling had probably received an invitation to tonight’s party. It had been unrealistic to think that their paths would not cross again. Cheyenne was not a large enough city to provide anonymity. “Yes, I have met him,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice noncommittal, “but I can’t take credit for choosing the location. My sister and Barrett are responsible for that.”
A few minutes later, Miriam’s parents descended the stairs, apologizing profusely for not having greeted Elizabeth when she arrived. “A piece of lace came loose,” Mrs. Taggert said with a frown at the offending ruffle, “and it took Mary Alice eons to fix it.” Though a couple
inches shorter than Miriam, Amelia Taggert had the same slender build, and it was clear that Miriam had inherited her blonde hair from her. The green eyes, though, were a legacy from her father, a tall, heavyset man with graying brown hair and ordinary features. Were it not for his vividly colored eyes and the impeccably tailored clothing that announced his success, Elizabeth doubted anyone would give him a second look.
“You wouldn’t have loose flounces if you bought your clothes from Elizabeth’s sister,” Miriam told her mother, her expression indicating that this was one subject on which the two women would never agree.
Quick to intervene, Mr. Taggert shook Elizabeth’s hand. “I appreciate your placing your advertisement in the Telegraph. I hope the results have been what you expected.”
Unwilling to admit that she had yet to treat a patient, Elizabeth merely nodded. The results had not been what she had expected, but perhaps her expectations were unrealistic. Everyone from Jason Nordling to Dr. Worland seemed to believe that was the case. But there was no time for introspection, for the guests began to arrive. As the first entered the mansion, Mrs. Taggert arranged the receiving line in the spacious foyer, placing herself at the beginning, followed by her husband, Richard, Miriam, and then Elizabeth. “We’re saving the guest of honor for last,” she explained. The position suited Elizabeth, reminding her of the church receiving lines where, as the youngest child, she had been the last to greet parishioners.
“Yes, I’m delighted to be living in Cheyenne,” Elizabeth said more times than she could count. “Yes,” she told the women who asked, “this is one of my sister’s designs.” Fortunately for Elizabeth, Charlotte had left most of her clothing behind, including this emerald-green silk gown. The scooped neckline highlighted the strand of tiny pearls that Mama and Papa had given Elizabeth for her eighteenth birthday, but the gown’s true beauty came from the artful draping of the overskirt. Dipping below the waist in the front, it was gathered into a bustle that extended into a short train. And, though she had not planned it, the color complemented Miriam’s gown, causing more than one woman to comment on how well Elizabeth and Miriam looked together.
