by Joy Callaway
I took a breath and met her eyes.
“I didn’t want to say anything for fear of startling you,” I said, biting the inside of my mouth to keep from smiling.
Her eyebrows rose.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I continued. “Then again, remind me of the date today?”
“January fifteenth.”
“Isn’t it . . . well, never mind . . .” I trailed off. “Intelligent women don’t abide such nonsense.”
“What nonsense?”
“Lynette Downey. We all know that she disappeared on March 12, 1862, but during orientation last year, one of the girls I was touring with seemed to know more about her. She mentioned that her birthday was in January, January fifteenth to be exact. That date has haunted me since.”
I shook as though the thought terrified me.
Miss Zephaniah’s wrinkled cheeks seemed to go taut with panic.
“If you’re suggesting that I saw an apparition, that’s ridiculous,” she crowed.
“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort,” I said. “But it is rather coincidental, is it not?”
* * *
I laughed silently as I reached the second floor landing, glancing down once to find Miss Zephaniah in the exact place I’d left her, fingering the brim of her bonnet. I felt a slight bit guilty that I’d frightened her, but then again, I’d diverted her suspicion away from supposing the hooded figure could be me. The thought of my disobedience reminded me of Mr. Richardson, of my agreeing to attend the ball. I didn’t want to tell Lily about it after I’d already betrayed our sisterhood to him, but I couldn’t avoid her. Eventually, I’d have to return to my room.
“Miss Carrington.” Miss Zephaniah’s shrill voice rang up the stairwell one more time. “I forgot to mention that a letter’s come for you. I’ll go fetch it if you’ll be so kind as to come back down.”
I leaned over the railing to tell her that I’d get it later, but she’d already gone to retrieve it. Taking a deep breath of the air tinged with the overbearing scent of nearly two hundred women wearing rosewater perfume and the undercurrent of what I’d come to recognize as the gummy aroma of an old, drafty house, I headed back down the steps. Recently, the only letters I’d received were rejections for apprenticeship requests and a short one from Vera telling me she’d taken the liberty of giving my small attic bedroom in our townhome to Lucas, and asking where the key was.
“Here you are,” Miss Zephaniah said, breezing out of her room with a letter.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it from her. I tipped my head at her and started back toward the stairs. The left-hand corner of the letter held the stamped block insignia of the Cook County Hospital. I stared at it, waiting to feel the anticipation that came with a possible yes, but optimism was difficult after many dismissals. I ran my index finger under the seal, feeling the sharp edge of the paper slice across my skin.
“January seventeenth, Miss Carrington,” Miss Zephaniah called out. I glanced back over the railing. “I took a quick look at the dormitory residents’ log. Lynette’s birthday was the seventeenth.”
“Is that so?” I said. “If I believed in apparitions, I suppose that would confirm she’s haunting us. You know the old saying—three days from birth, three days from death, the spirit roams the earth, longing for its last breath.” I pulled the letter from the envelope and turned away from Miss Zephaniah, but not before I saw her face pale.
Dear Miss Carrington,
Regrettably, our apprenticeships have already been filled.
Sincerely,
Henrietta Rogers, Administrator
I shoved the letter into the envelope and tossed it into a small trash bin. I’d written to request a summer apprenticeship from every major hospital in Illinois, and thus far been turned down by Katherine Shaw Beathea, Swedish Convenant, and Mercy. I was beginning to wonder if I’d graduate with any clinical experience at all. At least Cook County had been polite. Mercy had responded with the sentiments that they found female physicians to be unnatural to the order of creation, and hadn’t I heard the theories of Harvard professor Edward Clarke that women in strenuous courses of study would develop monstrous brains, puny bodies, and weak digestion? I ran my hand along the polished wood railing as I climbed the remaining steps to the fourth floor, to the only room occupying the rafters, refusing to give into the thought that I wouldn’t be accepted anywhere.
I stared at the tarnished numbers on the mahogany door, 401, before deciding that my best course of action would be to fling it open and come out with my news about the ball as quickly as possible. I clutched the doorknob and paused. I couldn’t bear to look upon Lily’s face shrouded in disappointment again.
I pushed the door open, the wood meeting plaster as the door slammed into the wall. Lily was reclining on her bed, her face eclipsed by a grammar book.
“Mr. Richardson cornered me in Old Main and asked me to be his date for the Iota’s winter ball. I said yes because the president will be there, and I’d like a chance to speak with him about the possibility of a charter.” The words came out in a quick cascade.
“And you couldn’t schedule an appointment to speak with the president on your own?” Lily’s voice was icy. Clearly angry with me, she didn’t even bother to set down her book.
“You’re right,” I said, crossing to the armoire to hang my cloak. “But you know it would take months to get in to see the man by himself. Not to mention that he’d want to know the reason for my visit. Even if I lied to him initially, the minute I started speaking of the fraternity, he’d have me removed.” The president wasn’t known for his kind demeanor. “If I’m Mr. Richardson’s date, perhaps he’ll think—at least until Mr. Richardson tells him otherwise—that he agrees with the idea. He’d at least hear me out.”
“Perhaps,” Lily said. “You’re going to have to tell the others though. Be prepared for more questions. You’re making it hard for me to believe that you don’t secretly admire him.”
I removed my hat and placed it on the hook. I didn’t know if I’d ever pined after anyone. I’d found men handsome of course, and had certainly felt a flutter of nerves when I’d had occasion to dance at balls, but admiration was a strong word, a word far removed from my feelings toward Mr. Richardson.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, unlacing my boots and then plodding toward Lily’s bed, determined to convince her that I was sincere. “Mr. Richardson is so far outside my realm of interest that I—”
I stopped cold when I pulled the book from Lily’s hands to see her face and eyes swollen from crying. In the year and a half that we’d occupied the same quarters, I’d never seen her this upset.
“Lily. What’s happened?”
She refused to look at me. Her thumb ran back and forth over the edge of her quilt, which was tucked and folded in neat precision beneath her, eyes trained on the grammar book in my hand.
“Lily.” I set the book down on the nightstand between our beds. Her tears glistened in the light from a lone oil lamp. “Please tell me.” She remained silent, her head bowed. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.” I clutched her hand, knowing her problem had to be severe. She’d endured more than I could imagine in her life and when she spoke of her past, she was matter-of-fact. Her mother had abandoned her and her father when Lily was still a baby. Until she was four, her aunt took care of her while her father and uncle worked the lines in the Domino Sugar factory. But then her uncle and his family had moved west, and Lily’s father was faced with a choice—cease work and move to the slums or give her a chance in an orphanage. She told me once that he’d visited daily at first, but that the visits quickly dwindled to weekly and then monthly ones. At the start, Lily would often fantasize about her mother returning, reuniting with her father who would immediately come for her, but she knew, the last time he visited, that that possibility was gone. He’d given himself over to the bottle by then and had barely been able to speak, but told her that her mother had run off with one of his fr
iends and that she’d never loved either of them. The following week, she’d received a notice that he’d been found lying outside the door of their old apartment, having died from cirrhosis.
“Lily. Please.” She met my eyes and began to sob, and she suddenly reached out and pulled me to her. Her arms constricted across my back as she buried her head in my shoulder.
“It’s horrible, Beth,” she went on. “I’m such a fool.”
She broke our embrace and looked down again, fingers smoothing the dark blue stars on her quilt. She always tidied when she was out of sorts, a compulsion from her days as a maid at the Schrafft mansion.
“You’re the farthest from a fool, Lily,” I said. “But what is it?”
Lily took a deep breath, then wiped her face and looked at me. “Professor Helms.” Her mouth remained open as if she’d meant to say more, but didn’t have the strength.
“What about him? What did he do?” If he’d failed her, I’d take the case to President Wilson. I’d make him retract his marks . . . somehow.
“Beth, I . . . I think I’m with child.”
I froze. Confusion overtook me.
“How? I mean, what do you mean? Who?” I stumbled over the words. Lily had always been firm in her belief that romantic gestures were reserved for marriage, a view I agreed with, and she hadn’t told me of any feelings for anyone, let alone a connection so strong it had the power to render her with child.
“My cycle is late,” she said dully, “going on a week. Beth, do you know how to tell for sure? You must have gone over it in your courses.”
I heard the hum of her words, but couldn’t believe them. How could it be?
“Surely it’s nothing but a fluke, Lily. You’ve barely eaten as of late. Perhaps you’ve lost weight and your cycle is adjusting.” I spoke quickly, sure that she was mistaken.
“I pray that that’s the reason Beth, but I—”
“In any case, you’ve yet to tell me about the man you love, though I’ll admit I’m not fond already given the knowledge he’s compromised you.”
Her face paled.
“I’ve told you already, Beth,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Professor Helms.”
Shock struck me through, and I stood gaping at her before anger took over.
“What? How . . . how did this happen?” It couldn’t have been voluntary. He was at least thirty years her senior.
“It was right before break. He took me aside to tell me that he knew I was failing and could help.” Lily pulled her knees into her chest. “He asked me to meet him after class. I-I thought he was going to tutor me.”
“He’s going to answer for this,” I said. Without thinking, I stepped forward and slammed my fist into the bedside table. The small purple vase I’d bought her for her birthday last year swayed and she reached out and steadied it.
The disgusting vision of his advances crept into my imagination and I nearly gagged. I wanted her to tell me exactly how he’d ruined her so that I could have him fired or locked up, but Lily burst into tears before I could get more from her. I couldn’t bear the thought that Helms was free, unscathed by the atrocity of what he’d done.
“It was my decision.” Her voice was soft.
“Look at me and tell me that.” I forced calm, knowing my outrage was only making matters worse. I scooted a pile of books toward the foot of her bed, and sat down to listen.
She sighed.
“It was my decision.”
“Are you in love with him?” I asked. As much as I couldn’t fathom it, perhaps she’d fallen for him. She’d never had a beau and I knew she was fairly shy when it came to men. Perhaps Professor Helms had wooed her and she been so taken aback by the attention that she’d agreed.
“Are you insane?” She half-laughed, half-barked the question. “Have you spoken to the man? He’s about as dull as an ox and equally as attractive. When I met him that day, he told me that he was going to fail me. He said that I wasn’t making the grades to pass grammar, that he had no other choice but to fail me and recommend my removal from the college . . . unless I would allow him to . . .” Her face burned, lips pinching shut as though she couldn’t bear to complete the sentence. “I agreed. I . . . I didn’t see another choice. But, in the end, he didn’t . . . we didn’t . . . he was pressed against me when . . . when he heard someone coming to the door. It was a classmate, Mitchell King, and . . . and he asked so many questions that I was able to leave before . . .”
Fury sparked within me.
“He blackmailed you. And you didn’t think it wise to tell me, tell anyone else, what he’d offered before you decided to do it?” I snapped. The moment I said it, I regretted my tone and knelt down beside her. Why hadn’t I recognized her fear or anger before this? I’d seen her that evening. Had I been so absorbed in myself that I’d overlooked her despair? “I’m sorry, Lily, and I really doubt you’re with child if he didn’t . . .”
“He was turning in the marks that night,” she said. “My final exam wasn’t good enough to bring my grade higher. I didn’t have time to consider it; I just did it. I thought I was saving my future, not jeopardizing it. Right before Mr. King came in, he made me swear I’d never tell anyone and that if I did, he’d deny it and fail me anyway. He said no one would believe me regardless . . . save my handful of friends, and that they didn’t matter. I hadn’t any father or relatives to threaten him.” She began to cry again—silent tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I know you say I can’t be expecting, but . . . but he was so close. Surely things like this have happened before.”
“Lily,” I said. “Unless he reached a certain advanced state in the act . . . a state he clearly couldn’t have achieved without . . . without actually engaging you, there’s no way you could’ve fallen pregnant.”
I was basing this on what I’d read in my midwifery textbook. The only things I knew about reproduction came from that course. My mother had only briefly mentioned it and Father had certainly never enlightened me on the subject. “It must be your worry muddling your cycle. And he’s absolutely wrong. You have me; you have my family. I could tell my father. I could have him report Helms to the board.”
I started toward the dressing table, toward the drawer full of paper. I would send my father a telegram. As distant as we were from each other, he’d be disgusted by what Helms had done to Lily. He’d have to help her.
“No. It would still be my word against his.”
I paused. She was right.
“Then I’ll tell Will,” I said, the answer suddenly dawning on me. “I’ll have him find Helms. He’ll make him regret what he’s done.”
Will wasn’t opposed to solving problems with fists, in fact I thought he likely enjoyed them. He’d been involved in several fights back home in Chicago, most a result of his quick temper, and had always left the offender worse for the wear.
“No,” she said evenly. “You won’t do that either. You won’t tell anyone.” I started toward the door, thinking I’d disregard her, but she lunged for my wrist. “Beth, I said no.”
“Then what will you have me do? Sit by while he goes along with his life?”
“Yes. And you may as well know that if I find that I’m with child, I’m planning to raise the child myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I already told you that that possibility is highly unlikely,” I said, but I worried that despite what I’d read in my textbook, I was wrong. None of us knew much about the ins and outs of having children. Most of us had only been provided with the understanding that a proper woman practiced self-reverence, modesty, and self-control.
At once a solution dawned on me. I’d heard whispers of women taking a mixture of herbs to restore the menses. The actual dosages hadn’t been published anywhere, of course, but I recalled overhearing my mother speaking to a neighbor about her daughter’s recent rebellion and the abortifacient solution that cured her “situation.”
“Lily, I’d have to do a bit of research, and like I said, I doubt you�
�ll need it, but I believe that with a mixture of ergot of rye, pennyroyal, slippery elm, and rue, you could—”
“No. I know you’re going to be a physician and I know that until quickening life isn’t present, but if I find out for sure that I’m in a way, I’ll not do that.” She glared at me. “Have you ever been witness to a termination? I have. My roommate when I was fourteen fell pregnant by her employer’s son. Our headmaster forced her to take a solution of pennyroyal, tansy, and cotton root bark. She came in the middle of the night for my roommate. Held her down with leather straps while a nurse pried her mouth open and forced in the solution. For a week and a half she remained in bed vomiting and soiling herself and fainting. She cried through it all, begging me to help her, begging anyone to ease the pain. She was never the same after that.”
As horrible as it all sounded, I wasn’t sure which was worse—to raise a child out of wedlock or undergo the temporary pain.
Lily plucked her book from the bedside table as though she meant the conversation to cease. “If it comes to it, I’m going to raise the child, Beth. I’ve made up my mind. I don’t have a family and I’ve searched my whole life looking for an anchor that isn’t there. As much as I loathe my mother at times, I know that if she returned, I’d accept her. I love her even though I don’t know her. I could never abandon any child of mine, even if that meant I’d be ostracized by everyone else.” She ran her hand down her braid, fingers tangling in the loose bit at the end.
“All right,” I said. I was angry, so angry at Professor Helms. I couldn’t understand why she’d not want to punish him, but there was nothing I could do. “We’ll wait and see, but come what may, we’ll do this together. I’ll help you.”
“I know.” She opened her book and began to read as though the issue had been resolved. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Of course,” I whispered. All of my strength seemed to flee from my body in the course of those two words, and I felt my shoulders slump.
“When you go out for dinner, request that the campus courier bring me a meal. I’m not feeling up for going down.” I nodded and opened my armoire, surveying my two evening dresses before selecting the one I’d worn the least—a brown wool costume with a bit of Chantilly lace on the hem.
