Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  Miss Wright nodded. “Elegant. And remember, Jessie, you’re the equal of any woman there. They’re just women who married men who made money. The Wagstaff name has been respected in Chicago for over thirty years and don’t you forget it!”

  What could Jessie say? But she still felt her head shaking no.

  “Mrs. Wagstaff,” Miss Greenleigh suggested, “why don’t you come up to my room and look at yourself in my full-length mirror. If you only saw yourself, I’m sure—”

  At the idea of seeing herself in anything but black, Jessie panicked. “Oh, no!” The women all stared at her as she flushed, surprised at her own vehemence.

  Then Susan muttered, “One of these days I’m gone burn every black dress in this house.”

  “Amen to that,” Ruby said.

  “Dr. Jones, can’t I say anything to change your mind?” Jessie, clutching her purse with both hands, tried to keep the quaver from her voice as she tried to persuade the fifth doctor.

  The young man with a fair beard shook his head. “I’m sorry. What you suggest is impossible.”

  “But you’ve just opened your practice—”

  “If I take in black patients, my practice will close even more quickly than it opened.”

  “But…” Jessie’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t finish her sentence.

  A bell jingled.

  “My next patient.” He smiled with tight lips and showed her to the door.

  Crushed, Jessie departed without another word. A horse trolley passed her, raising dust from the unpaved street. She pressed a handkerchief to her nose and mouth to filter out the dust as she breathed.

  She walked blindly for several blocks, trying to understand why everyone couldn’t see the obvious. Susan’s people needed medical help regardless of their dark skin. How could people just ignore such a glaring need? She hunched forward as though carrying a heavy burden.

  Coming back to herself, she realized she was only about a half mile from her mother’s home and her stepfather would be at work. She hadn’t seen her mother since Linc’s birthday. The chance of a quiet visit alone with her mother was too inviting to be ignored. She strode down the familiar street and turned up the alley.

  Smiling, she ran lightly up the back steps to her mother’s home. “Mother!”

  “Jessie!” Esther threw open the back door and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “I saw you coming!”

  Tears sprang to Jessie’s eyes. Her mother’s embrace was more than she had hoped for. How many times in the lonely years after losing Will and Margaret had she yearned to feel her mother’s touch?

  “I’m so glad you came,” Esther murmured. “I was afraid after…” Her voice ebbed, then died.

  “Let’s not discuss him,” Jessie replied, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Esther put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and drew her into the kitchen. Jessie sat down at the dark oak kitchen table. Glancing at the stark white walls, she felt a painful tug at her emotions. As long as she could remember, her mother had longed for a blue kitchen, but Hiram Huff decreed the extra charge for tinted paint was an unnecessary extravagance. After all, his mother’s kitchen had been plain white—like a kitchen should be.

  But Jessie wouldn’t let Hiram Huff spoil this rare, private visit with her mother. “How are the twins?”

  Esther set two cups of coffee onto the table. “They’re working hard, preparing for the sixth-grade spelling bee.”

  “That’s nice.” An uncomfortable pause began. Jessie craved sympathy and encouragement in her effort to find a doctor for Susan’s people, but knew—out of a sense of duty—her mother would not voice any opinion that countered her husband’s. The memory of Mr. Smith’s face as he’d agreed to escort Susan’s friends home popped into her mind.

  “Mr. Smith seemed like a very nice man,” Esther said softly, then looked into her daughter’s face.

  How had her mother known she was thinking about Lee Smith? Avoiding her mother’s glance, Jessie sipped her coffee. “He’s been very good to Linc. He comes every evening to play ball and takes him to Saturday games as often as he can.” Again an uneasy, unnatural silence cropped up between them.

  “I was happy Susan’s grandmother found her granddaughter again.” Esther traced the rim of her cup.

  “Yes.” As happy as I would be if I could be close to you, Mother, as I’ve always wanted to be.

  “It must have been a terrible thing to be separated from your only living relative like that.”

  “Yes.” I know how that feels. Tears threatened Jessie again. She regretted coming. Sitting near her mother, trying to chat politely made Jessie’s emotional separation from her mother feel more stark, more cruel than ever.

  Esther took a deep breath. “I wish—” She broke off at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the wooden back porch steps.

  “Esther—” Hiram stepped into the kitchen and halted. “You’re here?” Her stepfather wore his fire captain’s uniform, blackened with smoke.

  “Yes.” Jessie rose to face him. “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “I didn’t expect you home, Hiram,” Esther said, also rising.

  Jessie silently fumed. How did he manage to make them feel as though they had been caught doing something wrong?

  “Didn’t you hear the alarm bells all night?” he snapped. “My men are exhausted. I had to call the next shift in early.” He pulled off his fire hat and raked soot-blackened hands through his hair.

  Esther murmured, “I’m so sorry—”

  “One small fire after another and then an abandoned warehouse down by the river. Someone’s careless match destroyed it. We barely contained it. Water pressure was dangerously low.”

  He glared at his stepdaughter. “Evidently having a new cook gives you time to gad about, missy.”

  Hot words frothed up inside her throat. She choked them back for her mother’s sake. “Missy” was the childhood name he had used when he’d scolded her. He must know his using it would goad her. He nearly succeeded in making her say something indiscreet, but she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he’d vexed her. “I do need to go,” she said in a carefully colorless voice.

  “Even a few of my men had heard about your colored party. Everyone in your neighborhood is outraged by your ridiculous display, missy. You don’t seem to have any sense about what is proper or how gossip might affect us.”

  Jessie stood stock-still, her face warm with a deep flush. “Stepfather, I don’t dignify gossip by regarding it—or do I regard those who spread it.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her mother’s pained expression.

  If she continued, her mother would suffer for it, not with blows, but with endless hectoring. Her eyes averted, Jessie walked past her stepfather. Without a wave or backward glance, she said, “Good day, Mother.”

  Tense and afraid to sit down and possibly wrinkle her dress, Jessie stood in the middle of her parlor. Earlier Miss Greenleigh had done Jessie’s hair and buffed her nails. She’d loaned Jessie long gloves and a gossamer shawl. Before that, Miss Wright had surprised Jessie by giving Susan the money to buy a pair of shoes of silk dyed the same color as Jessie’s deep amber dress. This occasion had drawn them together in some way.

  “You will do fine,” Miss Wright said gruffly.

  Jessie looked askance at the old woman who kept watch with her. “I’m worried I’ll do something that may reflect poorly on Dr. Gooden.”

  “Be brief. Tell the truth, but don’t explain.”

  “You mean that we’re as poor as church mice?” Jessie managed to smile.

  “We’re not poor, just thrifty. This is America. Remember you’re the equal of any of the ladies you’ll meet tonight.”

  “And I married Will.” Her eyes strayed to his daguerreotype on the mantel. What would Will say to her in this silk dress? She knew. He’d say, “You look beautiful, princess.”

  The sound of the carriage brought both their eyes forward. “He�
�s here,” Jessie croaked. Her skirts whispering around her, she moved slowly toward the table where she laid her long gloves. Then carefully drew them on. The knock at the door came. Susan walked sedately through the hallway to answer it. Jessie heard Susan greet the doctor, then held her breath as he walked toward her.

  “Jessie, how lovely you look tonight.” He took both her hands.

  “Good evening, Doctor.” Miss Wright called his attention to herself.

  The doctor continued to hold Jessie’s hands, but he turned and bowed to the old woman. “Miss Wright.”

  The doctor deftly arranged Jessie’s shawl around the top of her shoulders. As his finger tips brushed the nape of her bare neck, she shivered involuntarily, not appreciating his touch. “Shall we go?” The doctor offered her his arm.

  Jessie nodded and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. As they stepped into the hall, Mrs. Bolt called down to them from the landing, “Don’t you two look charming!”

  Jessie cringed. She’d noticed that Miss Greenleigh had stayed discreetly upstairs in her room. Ruby and Susan had lingered in the dining room while Miss Wright had stayed in the parlor to bolster Jessie’s resolve. Her confederates had tactfully given her the privacy and support she needed to nerve herself to the task at hand. But, of course, Mrs. Bolt had no tact.

  “I hear you two are off to a special evening,” the redhead said archly. “Though how a poor widow can afford a silk dress, I’m sure I don’t know.” She finished with a trill of laughter.

  Jessie squeezed the doctor’s arm.

  “I am sorry, ma’am. We do not have time to chat. Good evening.” The doctor swept Jessie outside.

  With a jolt, Jessie saw Linc and Lee at the bottom of the front steps. Earlier Linc had left to go for a walk with Mr. Smith. She’d told her son she was going to a party, but she’d hoped to avoid seeing Mr. Smith. As he looked up the steps at her, she felt exposed, vulnerable.

  “Mother! Where did you get that dress? It isn’t black.” Her son spoke loud enough to alert everyone in the neighborhood.

  More gossip. What trumped-up story would be spread to her stepfather now? “Hello, Linc,” she said as calmly as she could. Dr. Gooden led her down the steps.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wagstaff.” Mr. Smith swept off his hat and bowed low, somehow making this polite gesture a taunting one. He lowered his voice, “Or should I address you as ‘my lady’ this evening?”

  At the subtle mocking in his tone and words, Jessie’s face flamed. As if completely unaware of the other man’s ill temper, Dr. Gooden drew out his watch. “We cannot stay to chat or we will be late.”

  “I wouldn’t want to make you late,” Mr. Smith sneered.

  How did Mr. Smith make her feel the hypocrite? She wanted to shout at him, Yes, I know I don’t belong in this dress or going to this party, but I must. Dr. Gooden has proved he’s a fine man and he needs my help. Avoiding Mr. Smith’s derisive gaze, she looked down at her son. “Be good, Linc. I’ll be home very late. Good night.”

  She hurried past them, but at the last moment, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back at Mr. Smith. The naked chagrin on his face surprised her far more than his scorn. As little as she wanted to encourage either man, she’d have to be a ninny, in Miss Wright’s parlance, not to realize that Mr. Smith resented her going out with Dr. Gooden.

  The doctor helped her into the hired carriage and shut the door. In the dimness and privacy of the carriage, she tried not to dwell on the Dr. Gooden–Mr. Smith complication. The driver “chucked” to the team and they started off, rolling down the street.

  “You look well, Dr. Gooden.”

  He smiled. “Now, Mrs. Wagstaff, I ask you a favor. We have not known each other long. But tonight I wish that you will call me Henry.”

  “Henry?” She edged forward. She remembered him calling her Jessie the night he’d invited her. How had she let their acquaintance move so quickly? Why did I let myself get drawn in like this?

  “Yes, it is better that we seem to have had a longer acquaintance.”

  Her mind went back to Miss Wright’s explanation of why Henry wanted her to accompany him and she relented. “Just for tonight,” she said with determination. This won’t happen again.

  “Good. Mrs. Palmer, our hostess, and Mrs. Field, the wife of Mr. Marshall Field, are the two women most likely to help in my work. Both of them have begun to follow the example set by English ladies in sponsoring charity work.”

  Jessie nodded. She’d come to help the doctor and now she must see it through. No matter what Lee Smith thought. Still, by the time their carriage pulled up in front of the Palmer residence, Jessie felt queasy and shaky. Only a quick prayer gave her legs the strength to carry her toward the house. House? The Palmer mansion loomed above her like a castle of old. A castle alight with gas lamps, but to Jessie it appeared more like a formidable fortress whose battlements she was about to breach.

  Gripping the doctor’s arm like a lifeline, Jessie moved up the red carpeted steps and entered the massive double doors. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Only a childhood spent concealing all emotion from her stepfather came to her rescue. Henry handed an engraved invitation to the butler.

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Gooden,” the man said dourly. “And the lady?”

  “Mrs. Jessie Wagstaff.” Henry patted her hand.

  The butler inclined his head in greeting as they walked down the thickly carpeted hall. Gaslight flames danced in their protective glass globes along the richly papered wall. Jessie, too keyed up, merely absorbed the surroundings in terms of rich color, spaciousness, and elegance. They arrived at last at the drawing room door and were announced.

  A tall woman, wearing a dress of gray silk and a rope of silvery pearls, stood up and swept toward them. “Dr. Gooden, welcome to our home.”

  Henry stepped forward and kissed the woman’s gloved hand. “Mrs. Palmer, thank you again for the kind invitation. May I introduce you to my friend, Mrs. Jessie Wagstaff?”

  Mrs. Palmer and Jessie curtseyed to one another. Then the lady took both of them around the ornate gold and maroon room, which could have held the whole first floor of Jesse’s house twice, to introduce them to her husband and eight other couples.

  Mrs. Palmer ended by saying, “So you see it’s an intimate group really. I didn’t want either you or the good doctor to feel overwhelmed.”

  Jessie felt overwhelmed. But she smiled and nodded. The only names and faces which had stuck in her mind were Mr. and Mrs. Palmer and Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Field because Henry had mentioned them.

  The women’s gowns glittered, shimmered, frilled. I must seem a sober red hen. If only the ladies back at home could see how her own amber silk dress and simple pearls were overshadowed in this lavish setting.

  The butler approached Mrs. Palmer. “Dinner is served, Madame.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Palmer led the way into the dining room. Glittering crystal, gleaming silver, flickering candles, glinting golden candlesticks, sparkling chandeliers. Jessie blinked her eyes, trying to accustom them to the golden light—reflected and multiplied.

  She saw name cards at each place. Dr. Gooden was already drawing Jessie to two seats side by side near the middle of the table. He pulled out her chair and seated her.

  Glancing down, Jessie glimpsed a heart-stopping row of forks and spoons flanking the gilt china setting. She closed her eyes, then opened them. The array of silverware stared back at her with a contemptuous gleam.

  A footman stepped over and with a flourish placed a large white napkin in her lap. She swallowed a small gasp. “I’ve kept the menu very light this evening,” Mrs. Palmer’s voice fluted over the genteel conversation. “I don’t believe in heavy meals in this dreadful heat.”

  Jessie nodded politely. But eyeing sideboards covered in white linen, laden with serving dishes, Jessie doubted Mrs. Palmer’s concept of a light meal would agree with her own. Unfortunately, Susan’s extra tug on Jessie’s corset strings would prevent Jessie from doing any real eati
ng tonight.

  Listening carefully to the discussion about the mechanics of changing the course of the Chicago River, Jessie ate tiny bites of only a few foods. It was all too much.

  Without warning, Mr. Palmer addressed her, “Mrs. Wagstaff, yours is a name I know. You’re related to old Will Wagstaff?”

  Jessie steadied herself. “He was my husband’s father.”

  “The man was an artist. He designed the sideboard behind you.”

  Jessie glanced at it. “Yes, that looks like his work.”

  “He was a master. Do you know a duke tried to buy that sideboard from me?” At this sentence, every head at the table turned toward the sideboard. “The duke told me to name my price. The one in his castle had been damaged in a fire. He said he hadn’t seen such workmanship in years. You were married to his son?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard he fell in the war. He had shown great promise as a wood craftsman, too, I believe. A sad loss.”

  Jessie nodded. The mention of Will and his father made sitting at this table even more unbelievable.

  “Indeed the war left a sad harvest.” Mrs. Palmer motioned the butler to begin the dessert course.

  A woman whose name Jessie couldn’t recall said, “Yes, how wonderful that he left you well provided for.” From a footman the woman accepted a dessert plate, trimmed with a doily. “Some poor widows have even been reduced to taking in boarders.”

  Jessie stiffened. She sensed that Dr. Gooden had become completely still beside her. Jessie struggled with feelings of outrage over this woman’s easy condescension. Miss Wright, for once, had been correct. She was their equal, and if she were here not for Dr. Gooden’s benefit, she would have told them what she thought. But she would tell them nothing of her true feelings. Perhaps this was why Mr. Smith had sneered at her foray into society.

  Chapter 10

  With the back of her hand, Jessie wiped away perspiration trickling down her forehead, even though it was barely an hour since sunrise. She then returned to scrubbing at the washboard. In the shade of the back porch, Susan stirred the simmering pot of white laundry with a broom handle.