9. Percival

9

Percival

I n the early evening, I returned from calling on two of my patients. Robert greeted me, taking my hat and medical bag. "Your mother's in the sitting room. She asked that you come see her upon your return."

"Yes, thank you." I smoothed my hair with my hand and walked down the hallway to the sitting room. Mother was at the desk, writing a letter.

"Good evening," I said.

Mother got up from the desk to greet me, lifting her cheek for me to kiss. "Hello, darling. How were your home visits?"

As we settled into our favorite chairs, I gave her a brief synopsis of each of the patients I'd gone to see that afternoon. One had lost part of his arm in a factory accident. His stump was healing well, but the sadness over his loss had grown worse by the day. "Mrs. Knight is doing well." She'd given birth to twins last week. "Both the babies have gained weight, so I think they're going to be fine." I'd been worried, as they'd been born small, weighing just over four pounds each. However, only a week later, they were gaining weight, and their color was excellent. Because of my experience with my own wife, I was especially solicitous of the mothers who gave birth under my care. The more I did this work, the more convinced I became that one's mental state directly corresponded to healing. Mrs. Knight, however, was a sturdy Irish girl and as tough as they came. Adding twins to her brood was done without complaint, despite the babies being her fourth and fifth children.

"Speaking of babies," Mother said. "I've had a report from Penelope. Our houseguest gave birth recently. Very recently. As in yesterday."

"I suspected," I said. "What happened to the baby?"

"Stillborn," Mother said. "Miss McCord's unmarried—apparently a fiancé died shortly before their wedding. Her family sent her away."

An image of her slumped against in her seat on the train came back to me. It all made sense now. "Poor girl. How is she this afternoon?"

Mother told me she'd been asleep for most of it. "She didn't wake the few times I went in to check on her, and I didn't want to disturb her. I'd like you to look in on her before supper."

"Yes, of course." I poured myself a whiskey and sat across from my mother, crossing one leg over the other. It felt good to sit after a long day. "Did she get any other information from her?"

"Not much. However, she's from a wealthy family. I feel certain of it, even though she didn't give Penelope any details."

"Agreed. She's too well-spoken and sophisticated for us to think otherwise."

"What will become of her?" Mother asked. "How could they just send her away like that? It's unconscionable to send an innocent young woman out to the streets of New York City without any protection."

"She mentioned looking for work and finding a room at a boardinghouse." I stretched my tired legs, absently rubbing a spot just above my left knee. I'd fallen out of a tree as a child and broken my leg. After long days, my knee ached. "She's a fraternal twin, and her parents greatly favored the sister. Now that you've confirmed my suspicions, I expect the pregnancy is what caused her father to send her away."

"How does one just send a young, defenseless woman out on her own?"

"A man afraid of scandal?"

"We'll look after her for now," Mother said. "I can help her find work once she's better."

"I figured you'd react that way." I chuckled to myself. "Which is why I asked her to come home with me."

"Am I so predictable?"

"You're simply good, Mother. Perhaps to a fault."

"Well, anyway, I'm concerned over her health. God only knows who delivered the baby. She felt warm to the touch. I'm afraid she has an infection of some kind." My mother was not a medical doctor, but she helped me enough with my patients that she knew as much as most trained nurses.

"I'll go up and see her now." I set aside my drink and rose to my feet, grabbing my medical bag from the foyer closet before heading upstairs.

I knocked softly on the guest room door but hearing no answer, went inside. Miss Stella McCord slept on her back with her hands folded over her still-round stomach. Protecting a baby who was no longer inside her, I thought sadly. I set aside my bag and went to her side. Red cheeks, clammy skin, and a warm forehead told me she was running a fever.

She stirred at the sound of my bag opening and moaned softly.

"Stella, it's Percival. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at me with fevered, glassy eyes. "Where am I?"

"You're at my home. We met on the train."

She shook her head, mumbling something incoherent under her breath. "Everything hurts. I'm cold. So cold."

She closed her eyes again and did not answer when I asked her if she could tell me more about what hurt.

I listened to her heartbeat with my stethoscope and heard nothing alarming. However, she was running a high fever, which worried me a great deal.

Penelope appeared in the doorway, looking small and frightened. "She's been delirious, Dr. Bancroft. Calling out for someone call Mauve. Other times, Constantine."

"Will you go downstairs and ask my mother to meet me here? Then I need you to go down to the kitchen and bring up a bucket of boiling water. I need it to sanitize my instruments." I was going to have to examine Stella. There was no other way to see if the midwife or whoever delivered the baby had gotten all of the placenta. In my experience, sometimes small pieces remained inside the woman, causing fever and heavy bleeding.

Soon, Mother joined me, sitting by Stella's side as I placed a cool cloth on my patient's forehead. After a few minutes, Penelope arrived with a bucket of boiling water. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and cleaned my duckbill-shaped speculum, forceps, and a retractor in the hot water. Then, Mother and Penelope each held up one of Stella's legs so I could place the speculum inside so that I could do a vaginal examination.

Sure enough, several pieces of the placenta had been left inside her uterus. I removed them and cleaned her up. For her part, Stella remained quiet, other than a soft whimper now and then. We managed to get some aspirin in her to help with the pain. Penelope pinned a new, clean cloth for the bleeding.

"I'll keep close watch on her," I said. "And pray I got everything, and the infection will subside."

"If not, then what happens?" Penelope asked me, wringing her hands.

"We'll address that if we need to. For now, one of us will need to stay with her. We'll have to work in shifts."

"I'll take the first one," Penelope said. "So, you two can have your supper."

We agreed, leaving Penelope with the delirious Stella.

At the doorway, I turned to look back at the bed. Penelope was on her knees, praying.

Mother and I stayed with Stella throughout the night, taking shifts to sleep every few hours. Stella continued in delirium, crying out for Mauve and then Mireille and thrashing about. Finally, nearing dawn, her fever broke. She'd quieted then and seemed to fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. Penelope came to relieve us at daybreak, sending us off to bed.

Tired, I crawled into bed and slept until ten. I woke with a start, worried about my patient. I rang for Robert, and he came minutes later, reassuring me that Stella was still sleeping and seemed to be on the mend. "Thank goodness for you, Dr. Bancroft."

I brushed aside his compliment and asked if he could bring a tray of something to eat and a strong pot of coffee.

After he left, I got in the bathtub. While lathering my skin and scrubbing my hair, I thought about Stella McCord. Had I not brought her home, she would have died. Unless by some miracle she'd found her way to a hospital. Regardless, I was glad God had put me in her path.

I ate breakfast and perused the newspaper before going down to the nursery to see Clara. She was on the floor playing with her dollhouse when I appeared. For a moment, I watched her, overcome with the tender, all-consuming love I felt for her.

She jumped to her feet, calling out, "Papa," before throwing herself into my arms.

"Hello, sweetheart."

"You didn't come to church," Clara said, with a note of admonishment in her tone. Her strong ethical code and religious faith, in addition to her bossiness, reminded me of my mother.

Mother and I had decided not to attend, given everything going on here at the house. "We have a houseguest and she's very ill. I had to stay and look after her."

"Grandmama too?"

"That's right." I gathered Clara onto my lap and inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. "I'm sorry we missed church and spending time with you."

"Miss Lisk took me, and she fell asleep. And guess what else? She snored. Very loudly."

"Oh, dear," I said.

Clara giggled. "She made a snorting sound and the people in front of us turned around to look at her. It was mortifying." She dragged out the last word for emphasis.

"Mortifying? Really?" Such a big word for such a little girl. "A lot of people fall asleep in church."

"I can tell you exactly why. The preacher's boring. Today, he droned on and on. So long that I scarcely remember a thing he said."

She even sounded like my mother.

"There was a lady there with a giant hat." Clara held out her hands to demonstrate. "And you won't believe it—there was a peacock feather sticking out of the top and all the little feathers kept dancing around because the windows were open. It was the best that I ever saw. Miss Lisk said she thought it was tacky and boog….boog something."

"Bourgeois."

"Yes, that's it. Miss Lisk said she shouldn't wear something so gaudy to church, but I thought it looked wonderful. Miss Lisk and I do not agree about fashion. She doesn't know anything about Paris and all the dresses that come from there."

"I can't say I know anything about that myself."

She sighed, flashing an indulgent smile. "Oh, Papa, of course you don't."

Of course? Why so emphatic?

"Where is Miss Lisk now?" I asked. "Have you been in here by yourself?"

"Grandmama said she could have the rest of the day off because she looked exhausted, and Miss Lisk said she was unusually tired because someone had kept her very busy all week. I think she was talking about me."

"Yes, I think you're correct."

"I don't know why she would say such a thing, because I don't wear her out on purpose. Anyway, I've been here playing alone without anyone having to correct me or tell me what to do."

"I'm proud of you. It's a good trick to be able to play by yourself."

"Did you play alone? When you were a boy?"

"That's correct. I was an only child just like you. And it was only Grandmama and me."

"Were you lonely?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. I had friends from school. Books too."

"Are you lonesome now?"

"No, goose. I have you and Grandmama. How could I be lonely?"

Her eyes dulled, and she looked down at her hands.

"What's this about?" I asked gently. "Did someone say something to you?"

"I overheard some ladies talking and they said you were lonely and how sad it was that your wife was a nutcracker."

"Nutcracker?" My chest tightened, and a surge of anger warmed my neck. People should be more careful about what they said. Children heard so much more than we thought they did. Especially children like my Clara. "Are you sure that's what they said?"

"Nut something."

"Nutcase?" I asked.

"Yes. That's it. Why would they say that and what does it mean?"

"Remember how we were talking about your mother being unwell?"

"Yes."

"Sometimes when someone is feeling poorly in their head, people call them ugly names like nutcase."

"What kind of nut? Pecans are my favorite."

"It's just slang. They're not really talking about nuts."

"Slang," Clara said, saying it very much the way one would take a bite of a cookie, full of wonder and expectation. She wrapped her skinny arms around my neck. "I'm glad you're not lonely, Papa."

"Thank you, doll." I kissed the top of her head. "I could never be lonely with you around. You make my heart very happy."

"Papa, who is the lady in the guest room? Is she sick?"

Her question startled me. I hadn't realized she had seen Stella. "She's a new friend who needs our help."

"Will she have to go the asylum like my mother?"

"What? No. She's a different kind of sick than your mother, and she's going to be fine. We need to look after her for a little while longer."

"Can I meet her?"

"When she's feeling better, yes."

"I'm glad she doesn't have to go to the asylum," Clara said.

"I am glad about that too."

Clara rested her cheek against my shoulder and played with the lapel of my jacket while I stroked her silky hair. The chaos of my world disappeared in moments such as this, reminding me that the most important thing in my life was right here. My daughter. Every decision must be made for her benefit, including taking care of her mother for however long was needed. What kind of man would I be if I couldn't tell my daughter with assurance that I looked after the woman who had brought her into the world? I had to be a man Clara was proud of. Even if it meant that I was lonely. Deeply so.

Life was cruel. If I could keep Clara from hurt and harm, then I would.