Sawbones (2 page)

“Everyone at the dinner party was a prominent New York citizen. You are the focus.”

“I am the scapegoat, you mean.”

“You know how corrupt the police are. It will cost Beatrice a pittance to get you arrested and thrown into jail. With her father's judicial connections, a conviction is almost assured.”

“I did not kill Langton.” I turned to the window and we rode in silence for a few minutes. James released my hand.

“You know if you had married me like any right-thinking woman would have done, neither of us would be in this situation.”

“You know if you had not asked—no, expected—me to give up medicine, I would have.”

We stared out our respective windows, nursing past disappointments and present resentments. I wanted someone to love me because of my mind and accomplishments, not despite them.

I had long since resigned myself to being alone.

But being alone had a price. I was unprotected. My father was dead and I had no family in America, save my maid, Maureen, and James, who worked for Langton's lawyers. My English relations would distance themselves as far from me as possible. James's father, Ezra Kline, was in Saint Louis. He would do what he could to help, but a former professor at Syracuse Medical College had no influence with the police or courts. I tried to imagine what advice he, my mentor, would give in this situation and couldn't. The predicament was so absurd as to be unreal. James and Ezra would do what they could, but it would not be much. I could not fight Beatrice Langton and her family alone.

“What should I do?”

“You must leave town.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Catherine—”

“No, James. This whole situation is absurd. I did not kill Langton and I will not leave town as if I'm guilty.”

“You would rather go to the gallows?”

“I have patients who need me. Who rely on me. And, there's Maureen. I cannot leave her.”

“I am trying to help you, Catherine.”

“By encouraging me to act guilty for a crime I did not commit? How is that helping me, James?”

“Do you have an alibi? Can you attest to where you've been?”

I thought of Jonaz Golik's beady little eyes and outstretched hand and knew it for a devastating alibi.

“No.”

James exhaled sharply. “Stay or leave, you will be accused. What will your patients think? How many of them will stand by you?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. The only patients who would support me would be the whores I tended on Twenty-Seventh Street. Their support would ruin my practice as much as the accusations against me.

“Will you leave?”

“No.”

James lifted his fist and brought it down on his thigh. “Your stubbornness will be your downfall, Catherine.”

“Do you want to help me, James?”

“However I can.”

“Then talk to Beatrice Langton. Convince her I didn't kill her husband.”

“She knows we are lifelong friends. I don't know she'll listen to me.”

“You must try. Please. I've worked too hard to lose my life and career over something I did not do.”

James nodded. “I will try. What will you do? You cannot return home.”

“I will stay with a friend.”

“They'll be checking with your friends.”

I smiled and despite having my life upended in the last ten minutes, almost laughed. “Tell the driver to take me to Twenty-Seventh Street.”

James balked. “Catherine, you cannot be serious.”

“No one knows of my clients there. Not even Maureen. Who would expect the doctor of choice for New York's society women of hiding in a brothel?”

He shook his head. “No one.”

“I will wait there until tomorrow night. If I don't hear from you, I will return to my home.” I grasped James's hand. “I know you haven't always agreed with my choice of profession, but I have worked so very hard to be where I am. I do not want to lose it. I am counting on you to save me.”

A flicker of guilt darkened his expression and was gone. He patted my hand. “Rest assured, I will do whatever I can.”

“
Joe Fisher's boarding house at 105 West 27th Street is a second-class establishment. It is asserted that the landlady and her servants are as sour as the wine.”

Camille King looked up from the small black book that detailed the best and worst places in New York City for gentlemen's entertainment. “It is nothing less than slander. I am seriously thinking of taking legal action.”

With the specter of a murder charge hanging over my head, it was difficult for me to join in Camille's distress for her business. Since she was providing my place of refuge, though, I tried. “Against whom?”

“I know exactly who wrote this, the sniveling little twit. To a one my girls hate entertaining him. His pec— Well, I refuse to stoop to his level and denigrate what God cursed him with.”

“Very wise.”

She drummed her fingers on her desk. “The wine wasn't my fault, by the way. I've since changed suppliers, at great cost, I might add. A cost I won't be able to afford if business drops because of this odious little book.” She threw it on the desk.

“I am sure your regulars will stay loyal.”

“Yes, yes. But, it is the travelers who make my profit.”

“Hmm.” I rose from the Queen Anne chair in front of Camille's desk and walked around the well-appointed room. The clock on the mantel said ten after six. “Where is Maureen?”

“She probably stopped off at Saint Patrick's to protect herself with a few Hail Marys before coming to this part of town.”

Camille King had been the hostess of Joe Fisher's boarding house for nine years, ever since the eponymous owner died on the stoop with a knife in his chest. The girls not busy entertaining clients, Camille among them, watched the blood pulse out of Joe's fleshy neck, his slick hands alternately trying to staunch the flow of blood and reaching out to his whores for help. None came. Camille, the most beautiful of the entertainers and the only one who could read and write, took over. She was a benevolent dictator, a much better option for the women who worked for her because she did not expect favors in return for protection.

My five-year association with Joe Fisher's was a fortunate accident. Fortunately for me, a female doctor struggling to survive without patients, a client fell down Camille's stoop, dead from a heart attack, as I walked by. Camille did not need my help—men dying in flagrante was a common occurrence I would soon learn—and was well prepared for the eventuality. “At least he has his clothes on,” was all she said before two burly men bore him off to a more appropriate address to die.

She eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I am looking for business.”

She raised her impeccably shaped eyebrows and looked me up and down. “You're pretty but don't seem the type. You will be a raging success. Come on in.”

“You misunderstood me,” I said when we were alone in her parlor. It smelled of fresh paint and new upholstery. “I am not applying to be one of your…”

“Whores?”

“Entertainers. My father did business here.”

“Most men do.”

“Not in that way. Though I guess he probably did partake in the entertainment.”

“He most assuredly did.”

I cleared my throat. I did not want to think of my father being serviced by a prostitute. “My father was a doctor. He took care of women on this street. I cannot remember the address, though. I followed him here as a child.”

Camille's laugh was as beautiful as her face and figure. “I can imagine that was a shock for you.”

“It was. But it also set me on my path.”

“To be a missionary? Are you here to save our immortal souls?”

“God, no. I am a doctor, like my father. I want to help.”

So began my medical career. Treating whores on Twenty-Seventh kept food on the table until I finally, through James's introductions, broke into the closed society of the New York wealthy. It had only taken treating one woman successfully for the calls from other society women to start flooding in. The irony was not lost on me; my first patient in Washington Square was Beatrice Langton.

Camille's voice broke through my reverie.

“Catherine? Are you listening to a word I am saying?”

I turned from the clock. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Camille rose from her clean desk. She opened the center drawer, dropped the small black book in it, and slid it closed. “I said staring at the clock won't make it move.”

“That is not what you said.”

“No, but it's true nonetheless.”

She stood in front of me, a vision of pale green silk and creamy white skin. Her strawberry blonde hair cascaded down her right shoulder to settle on the curve of her pale bosom. My normal visits to Joe Fisher's were timed during the slowest part of the day, so, thankfully, I rarely saw Camille dressed for the evening. There was nothing worse for my own flagging vanity than to stand next to her in my serviceable cotton dress.

“Don't take this the wrong way, Catherine, but you look ghastly.”

“Compared to you, who does not?”

Camille was stunning, much too beautiful to be a whore. Everything about her spoke of good breeding: her carriage, her language, her intelligence, her shrewdness, and her ruthlessness. I had never had the courage to ask her how she ended up at Joe Fisher's, but hoped one day I would.

She shrugged. Camille was not vain though she knew the worth of her beauty. “It's my job to be beautiful.” She took my chin between her thumb and forefinger and turned my face to the side. “I have powder that will cover your black eye, if you'd like.”

I thought of what Maureen's reaction would be to the large purple bruise on my face. “Thank you.”

“Come, sit.” She motioned for me to sit down while she retrieved the powder. She sat on the edge of the divan next to me, turned my face to the side again, and gently patted the soft puff on my cheek.

“You should eat.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You're pale and have dark circles under your eyes. Or eye, I should say.”

“Funny.”

“Not to mention frown lines from thinking so hard all day.”

I balled my hands into fists. “I wish I understood why. Why would Beatrice Langton accuse me? What have I ever done to make her hate me so much?”

Camille sighed and held the puff away from my face. “Oh, Catherine. For someone so intelligent you are very naive. Beatrice Langton doesn't hate you. She feels nothing for you at all. To her, you are little more than a servant.”

I pulled away. “What?”

“Surely you didn't think because they accepted you as their doctor they thought of you as their equal?”

“No, but—”

Camille returned her attention to my cheek. “She is protecting her own.”

“What do you mean?”

“She knows you didn't kill her husband, and most likely knows who did. Hell, she may have done it herself. She needs someone to blame, and you're the logical choice. It's easier to find another doctor than train a new footman or maid.”

I stood abruptly, appalled by what she'd said, but knowing she was correct.

“You said George admired what you'd accomplished? Women like her resent women like you and me. Strong and independent, things they will never be.”

I stared into the fire and tried to square this version of Beatrice with the woman I knew. I never would have said we were friends, but I also never would have imagined a festering resentment for me beneath her starched, uptight exterior. However, my life had been one battle after another with the women Camille described. Why should I be surprised if it was one of these women who might lead to my downfall?

“Please relax. Maureen will be here soon with a note from your friend that all is well.”

I turned to Camille. “If it is not?”

“Then you start over. Pretend to be someone else. You have experience with that.”

“Yes, well, that was a temporary arrangement, as you very well know. The idea of pretending to be a man for the rest of my life is hardly appealing.”

“Why? The opportunities you have to fight for as a woman would fall into your lap as a man.”

I shook my head. “I could not carry it off in everyday life. The reason I was able to do it so easily during the war is because everyone was too distracted by all of the death and destruction around us to pay too close attention to Dr. Bennett's baby-faced orderly.”

Camille shrugged. “You can still start over. A new place. A new name. A new life.”

I laughed. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is. Ten of my girls have done exactly that.”

“Unfortunately for me, there are far fewer women doctors than whores. I will stand out no matter where I go.”

“Say you are a midwife.”

“I cannot imagine only delivering babies for the rest of my life.” I looked out the window for the hundredth time. “It is snowing again.”

“There are worse things, you know.”

“Than snow?”

“Than being a midwife,” Camille said, disapproval and anger written on her face.

My stomach clenched with shame. “Of course there are. I apologize, Camille. What a thoughtless thing to say.”

Though there were many madams who treated their girls well, Camille was the only one who was determined her girls would have a future outside of prostitution. Each learned to read and write, and depending on their interest, were taught a trade: cooking, sewing, teaching, accounting. Joe Fisher's seemed to be a finishing school as much as a house of prostitution. When a girl saved enough money to leave, Camille gave her a letter of recommendation, claiming to be a rich widow living on Washington Square, and sent the girl on her way. Most girls went west, found a job, and soon after found a husband. Some answered ads for wives, which were becoming increasingly common in the Eastern papers. The West was overflowing with single men out to make their fortunes and in desperate need of women to make their homes. Camille did more to save women from prostitution than any missionary I ever knew, and for that she earned my respect. As a result, as my society practice increased and I whittled down my patients on Twenty-Seventh, only Joe Fisher's remained.

“Please don't suggest I answer some ad to be a frontier farmer's wife.”

“I was going to suggest a miner, actually.”

I saw the humor in her eyes and knew I was forgiven. I managed a laugh.

“There are an increasing number of ads in the paper for doctors in the West. Towns are desperate for them.”

“Are you suggesting I pretend to be a male doctor on the frontier?”

“Not a bad idea, Catherine. I wish I had thought of it. Be a midwife for a few years, until Catherine Bennett is a distant memory. Move to a larger city and put up your shingle. I have contacts who could help you.”

“Let's hope I don't need them.”

I twisted my hands together and paced, deciding to finally voice an idea that had been nagging me all day. “Camille, do you think my attack last night had anything to do with George Langton's death?”

The madam lounged back on the divan and studied me for a full minute. Finally, I continued. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but how coincidental I am attacked for the first time on the street the same night I'm accused of murder.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “You're right. It does sound ridiculous.” Camille stood and walked to me. She stroked my hair and turned my face to inspect her handiwork. “Catherine, you knew the risk you took walking alone at night. The streets are full of toughs. You just so happened to cross paths with one.”

There was a knock on the door, and Maureen entered looking scandalized and very cold. She held her shopping basket close to her chest.

“Maureen, give me that and come by the fire,” I said.

I took the heavy basket from her hand. “What do you have in here?” I lifted the towel covering the basket and found apples, nuts, and potatoes. “What are you carrying this around for?” I placed the basket on the hearth.

“Katie,” Maureen whispered, “what is this place?” She eyed Camille with a good deal of suspicion.

Camille smiled. “I'll leave you alone to talk.”

She glided across the room and left, closing the door softly behind her.

“Is this a house of assignation?”

“Yes, Maureen. It is.”

Maureen crossed herself. “Katie, how could you come to a place like this?”

“Can we talk about that later, please? What did you find out?”

“No, we will talk about it now. How do you even know these people?”

“They are patients of mine.”

“Patients!”

“Yes, patients. If it were not for these women and others like them, you and I would have starved a few years ago. Now, please tell me what James said.”

I could tell from her expression that we would revisit this conversation at a later date. She pulled a note from her coat pocket and handed it to me. There was no greeting or salutation.

You must leave town at once. A $500 reward for your capture will be in the evening paper.

Camille entered the room, holding the offending paper.

“Master James told me to go to the house and get whatever valuables I could carry and to get to you at once. He also said I was probably being followed. Which I was.”

“Were you followed here?” Camille asked.

“'Course not. I went to five-o'clock mass, then asked to see the priest after. Slipped out the side door.”

Camille gave me a significant look and a coy smile. “Clever woman.” She handed me a broadsheet, wet from snow. “You have made the evening paper.”