Lethal Remedies

by M. Louisa Locke

  Annie looked up in alarm. “Then Mitchell was right. If Phoebe Truscott does have a serious infection, and she is only being given homeopathic medicine, she could die of that infection. It’s not because of what Dr. Skerry might do, but what she might not do that could prove fatal!”

  Nate came up behind his wife, who was standing ready for bed and unpinning her hair and putting the pins into a small porcelain bowl on the chest of drawers. When she had pulled out the last pin and her hair began to cascade down her back, he picked up a brush and began to pull it gently through her curls, using his fingers to break up any tangles. Annie smiled at him in the mirror above the chest of drawers and pushed lightly against the brush, rather like a cat would when being petted.

  He had planned on discussing what they had learned from Mitchell and Miss Sutton. Who could have predicted that the medical profession was so rife with divisions? Although why he should be surprised, he wasn’t sure. He guessed he had thought that educated men and women who had dedicated their lives to help others would be above squabbles over where a hospital would be located or who would get appointed as a city health inspector.

  Yet, just last spring, having seen what his sister had experienced at the Berkeley campus of the university, he already had a stark glimpse of how far even the leaders of an academic institution could go when they were more worried about their prestige and salaries than the welfare of their students.

  At least, after dinner tonight, he had a much better understanding of the operation that Truscott’s wife had undergone and why the dispensary doctors felt it was necessary. And as far as he could tell from what Mitchell said, everything had been done to ensure Mrs. Truscott’s safety and successful recovery.

  On the other hand, he also had a better appreciation of why the man would be so upset if his wife was feeling ill again. The description of what had been happening to the poor woman, for over nearly two years, had been simply horrific. Nate thought of how helpless he’d felt during the last months of his wife’s pregnancy and the sheer terror he experienced during the long hours of her confinement. How must Richard Truscott have felt, watching as his wife’s stomach got more and more distended in a parody of pregnancy, with all the accompanying discomfort, embarrassment, and unremitting pain? And to be able to do nothing!

  Yes, he now felt ready to send a letter off Monday morning asking Mr. Truscott to meet with him as soon as possible to discuss the concerns he had expressed in his letter to Mrs. Branting.

  Meanwhile, he was sure that Annie had some opinions about how he should approach the man, and he had learned to pay attention to his wife’s ideas. She was one of the most insightful people he’d ever met, particularly when it came to discerning other people’s motivations. With his daughter asleep next door under the watchful care of Kathleen, it would be nice to have a cozy chat before they retired without having to whisper the whole time.

  He put the brush down and was just going to ask Annie what she’d thought of what they’d learned this evening when she turned and kissed him fully on his mouth, her body, clothed only in a thin nightgown, pressed up against his.

  He realized he had a much better idea about what to do with his wife before they went to sleep, and it didn’t involve talking.

  Chapter 16

  Sunday morning, February 26, 1882

  Western Addition, San Francisco

  * * *

  When the sun rose this morning, Ella Blair was exhausted but relieved. The little girl had survived the night and was finally beginning to nurse productively. Whatever had caused the initial digestive upset seemed to have passed, but they would keep the child at the dispensary under observation. The mother had promised to get a relative to take care of her husband’s meals so she could stay with her daughter, nursing her, until she was ready to go home.

  Normally, on a quiet Sunday morning, after a night of interrupted rest, Ella would retire to her room to catch a quick nap before making morning rounds. Today, however, she walked the two blocks to the corner of Van Ness and Market, where she caught a hansom cab that took her to the Truscotts’ house on Post, just a couple of blocks west of Van Ness in the Western Addition.

  She had the exact house number from Mrs. Truscott’s patient records, although she’d never been there. She couldn’t help but notice when the cab passed Geary how close the Truscotts’ house was to Dr. Granger’s. He’d invited her and a number of other graduating medical students over to dinner last year, which was how she had met his two daughters, Lydia, who kept house for him, and Nellie, who lived somewhere on Montgomery, near the studio where she ran her engraving business. Maybe she should take the time to stop by Dr. Granger’s home after leaving the Truscotts, let him know what happened. No, she shouldn’t leave the dispensary any longer than necessary.

  The cab pulled up in front of a tall, elegant home, with a steeply pitched roof, numerous gables, and a short flight of stairs that led to the portico over the front door. Ella, whose family’s home and dry goods shop was up near Russian Hill on Hyde, remembered when everything west of Van Ness had been empty sand dunes and scattered dairy farms. But in the past five years, as the depression finally began to lose its grip on the city, these mansions had begun to spring up like colorful wildflowers.

  During Phoebe Truscott’s long month of convalescence at the dispensary, she had confided much of her history to Ella. And this house, which she and her husband had built right after their marriage, featured largely in that story. She told of how she and her husband had chosen the furnishings together, describing carpets and curtains, the specially monogrammed linens, the difficult decisions over special occasion china and glassware, and room after room of custom-designed furniture. Ella confessed to herself as she got down from the cab that she was curious to see the inside of this home that was the best that money could buy.

  From what Phoebe had said, the money for the house came from her inheritance. She had been orphaned when her parents were killed in a steamship accident when she was only sixteen, and initially the great wealth she inherited had been controlled by a guardian. Soon after her parents died, she started attending Vassar, an all-female college in New York State. Her reminiscences about the weekend excursions the Vassar students took to town made Ella think that Phoebe had been more interested in her social life than her studies.

  The young woman went on to tell about how, over the summer break, she went to stay with a friend in New York City, and there she met Richard, who was also visiting the family. After a summer spent in carriage rides in the park, weekend parties at the seaside, and champagne dinners at midnight, Richard Truscott had proposed and Phoebe had said yes. The day after she turned eighteen, they got married in a civil ceremony and then boarded the train to San Francisco.

  Phoebe’s telling of the story turned it into a romantic fairy-tale, with Richard as the handsome Prince Charming and her guardian as the wicked uncle who had sent angry telegrams to follow them across the continent. Richard’s Aunt Ruby was the good witch, who opened up her arms to embrace the couple as they got off the train at the Oakland terminal.

  The wicked uncle was subsequently defeated, Phoebe’s great wealth transferred to the Bank of California, and a wonderful year commenced with the building and decorating their Western Addition castle. Then followed an extravagant winter ball as her formal introduction to the San Francisco elite, many of whose sons were her husband’s fraternity brothers.

  Phoebe had wistfully told Ella that that first year had been magical, with Aunt Ruby running the house so that Phoebe could spend the afternoon visiting her new friends or shopping at exclusive stores like the City of Paris and the Silver Strike Bazaar. She and Richard spent every evening going to exclusive dinner parties, fancy dress balls, and the theatre, seldom arriving home before midnight.

  Phoebe’s face had then crumpled, as she shared how, after a year of marriage, everything began to fall apart. First came the fact that her monthlies became erratic, sending her through successive waves of e
motions. She would feel both elation at the thought she was pregnant, followed by disappointment when the next month would bring confirmation that she wasn’t yet with child.

  Next came the increasingly uncomfortable periods. The increasing pain seemed to engulf more and more of her days, forcing her to cancel her afternoon shopping trips at the last minute or ask that her husband bring her home early from their evening engagements.

  Then came the embarrassment of her swollen stomach that even the best dressmaker couldn’t hide. She started withdrawing from society completely, never leaving the house, turning away visitors, and taking to her bed in a darkened room, unwilling to let her husband see her in this pitiful condition.

  Finally, at the entreaty of her husband, she agreed to go see a doctor, Dr. Granger, someone a neighbor had recommended. Phoebe told Ella what a relief it had been to discover that there was a medical explanation for what was happening to her. And that there was something that could be done. The first time the cysts were drained, she thought she had finally regained her normal life. Then it all started again, the pain, the swelling, the pitying looks.

  As Phoebe had recounted her tale of woe, Ella didn’t question that the young woman had been glad to risk the very real dangers that an operation posed. She once said that she had come to believe that death was preferable to living the way she had been forced to live over the previous year.

  What Ella didn’t know, however, was if Phoebe’s husband felt the same way.

  Ella had chosen Sunday morning to visit the Truscotts because she hoped that Mr. Truscott and his aunt would be at church at this time in the morning and, conversely, if Phoebe was indeed ill, she would be home. She thought that if this were true, she would have more success than Dr. Granger had on Friday in getting in to see Phoebe.

  A young maid answered the door, bobbed a curtsy, and informed Ella that, “The master and mistress are not at home,” and she then asked if she would like to leave a card.

  Ella, wishing she’d thought to bring one of the business cards Dr. Brown had encouraged her to have printed up, said, “I had understood that Mrs. Truscott had been ill, but I am glad to hear that she is feeling well enough to leave the house.”

  The maid looked flustered and said, “Oh, I thought you meant Miss Prentise, the master’s aunt. The young mistress is still here. But I’m sorry, she isn’t entertaining any visitors.”

  Ella, who’d brought her black doctor’s bag with her, just in case she did get to see Phoebe and could give her at least a cursory examination, pointed to this bag and said, “I’m Dr. Ella Blair, and I’ve been asked to come by and check on Mrs. Truscott.”

  Ella hoped the maid wouldn’t think to question just exactly who had asked her to come, so she said quickly, “Could I please come in and at least write her a note for you to give to her? See if she would make an exception for me?”

  The maid gave a tiny shrug and let her into a massive front hall. Ella stared at the polished wainscoting made of oak, the high ceilings decorated with elaborate moldings, and the stately staircase carpeted in a rich blue oriental pattern that Phoebe had described so vividly.

  The maid hesitated then quickly ushered her into a small, albeit elaborately furnished, drawing room that had a small desk by the window.

  Ella felt sorry for the young maid, who clearly didn’t quite know how to handle this unexpected visitor. Where did you put a female doctor? Not with the tradesmen, certainly, but neither could she be shown into the more formal parlor where ladies would be asked to sit and be given refreshment.

  The chill in this room’s air, the lack of any flowers, and the fact that there wasn’t any sign of opened envelopes or invitation cards on the desk on one side of the room suggested that the room wasn’t currently in use. Ella wondered which room Dr. Skerry rated when she visited.

  * * *

  She moved towards the desk, which did hold the requisite writing implements, and her attention was arrested by the large portrait of Phoebe that hung over the unlit fireplace. The artist had painted Phoebe as the very fairy-tale princess Ella had imagined as the young woman told of her romantic marriage to the exciting man who’d come out of the west and swept her off her feet. In the portrait, thick brown hair, threaded with pearls, framed a lovely face, and the artist had captured a kind of innocence in her dark brown eyes and a tremulous sweetness in her rosy smile. Her overdress was of white lace and seed pearls, which accented her long neck and slim figure, while the underdress was made of soft pleats, festooned with pale pink rosettes.

  Ella couldn’t help but contrast the portrait to the real woman she knew during Phoebe’s time at the dispensary. After years of illness, Phoebe’s hair had become thin and brittle, her face gaunt, and what Ella saw most often in the young woman’s eyes was bewilderment. Yet, when Phoebe smiled, you couldn’t help but think how lovely she was. Ella had been glad to see some fullness return to her patient’s face, as well as hope in her eyes, by the time she had left the dispensary.

  It would be such a shame if Phoebe Truscott had not continued to blossom.

  A voice from behind her said, “Isn’t she lovely? The portrait was a gift from her husband to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.”

  Ella turned quickly and saw that Phoebe’s personal maid, Joan Carpenter, had come silently into the room. Joan, a plain-faced woman in her late thirties or early forties, had mouse-colored hair, pale skin, gray eyes, and a thin body that was “more bones than meat,” as Ella’s mother would say.

  Joan had attended Phoebe every day of her convalescence in the dispensary, taking upon herself to help her mistress in all the little personal services that usually fell to the nurse—taking her to the bathroom, bathing her, brushing and braiding her hair. She even read aloud to her when Phoebe had trouble sleeping, and she was quick to alert the nurses if she felt her mistress needed something. Phoebe wasn’t the first paying patient Ella had come across that used the services of one of their servants while they were convalescing. Joan Carpenter, however, was more attentive than most patients’ relatives.

  Joan confided once to Mrs. McClellan that when Phoebe was born, she was already working as a young parlor maid in her family’s home. Since that time, she had only been apart from her mistress the year Phoebe attended Vassar. Ella wondered if she agreed with Phoebe’s assessment of Richard Truscott as a prince charming and if she had helped Phoebe in her escape from the wicked uncle.

  If anyone could tell her how Phoebe Truscott was really doing, it was Joan, so Ella said, without preamble, “Miss Carpenter, I was just about to write your mistress a note. I had hoped I would be able to visit her. I understand she is unwell.”

  Joan turned to the young maid and dismissed her. When they were alone, she said stiffly, “I am sorry, she is still in bed, and the master left instructions that she not be disturbed.” Her voice softening, she said, “However, I will be glad to give her your note. I think there is a good possibility she would countermand that order if she knew you were here to see her.”

  Ella nodded and went quickly over to the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. The pen hadn’t been cleaned recently, so the ink splotched, but she felt she needed to hurry, in case someone with more authority than Joan came into the room.

  When she finished the hasty note, she blotted it, folded it in half, and stood.

  “Can you tell me how your mistress is faring? I was concerned when I learned that she hasn’t come to see Dr. Granger or Dr. Brown since the operation. Follow-up care is important in such post-surgical cases. Even when the exterior stitches are completely healed, this doesn’t always mean that the interior stitches have been reabsorbed as well.”

  Joan frowned and nodded sharply, as if Ella was confirming something she suspected. She said, “The mistress was feeling so much better; I’m afraid she may have overdone things. About a month ago, she had this spell, and she hasn’t been the same since.”

  “What sort of spell, Miss Carpenter?”

  “Nausea,
shooting pains in her legs, dizzy.”

  “Did she have a fever?”

  “I don’t think so. Although when the spell came on her, she did complain of feeling hot then cold, but that seemed to go away once she vomited.”

  Ella thought this sounded more like an attack of food poisoning than an infection, so she asked, “Could it have been something she ate?”

  “Joan, I’ll not have you gossiping about my wife. Go upstairs immediately and tend to your mistress,” Richard Truscott said sharply as he stood in the doorway.

  Richard Truscott was a conventionally handsome man, with thick dark hair, a strong jaw, and a charming laugh. Today, however, Ella found the harshness of his tone and the way his mustache bristled above a mouth pursed in anger particularly unappealing.

  Truscott turned to Ella and said, “And you can leave right now. I can assure you that my wife will not be seeing you or anyone else from the dispensary, and you won’t get another penny out of me.”

  Suddenly, a white-haired woman in her sixties appeared at Truscott’s side, saying, “Now, now, Richard, there is no reason to be rude. I am sure that this young woman was doing what she sees as her duty. And Joan, what I would like you to do is first go down to the kitchen. See that the cook has started on lunch for your mistress.”

  Ella saw Joan’s mouth tighten, but she quietly said, “Yes, miss,” and left the room.

  Ella guessed that this must be Richard Truscott’s Aunt Ruby, who Phoebe had described as a motherly person. Ella had never met her because she never visited the dispensary during Phoebe’s time there. Phoebe explained that Richard’s aunt had too many responsibilities running the house to come. But the woman had sent cheerful notes and little presents by way of her nephew, who did visit daily.