The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (20 page)

Jenny smiled across the table. “Most,” she said, a little shyly. “They probably seem primitive to you, but—”

“Quite the opposite! One of my favorite professors emphasized the roots of contemporary medicines in folk remedies. I expect you know far more about those than I do, but the foxglove you have, for example—”

“Oh, yes,” Jenny said, with more confidence. “Digitalis is made from foxglove.”

“I know that one. I don’t know the uses for a lot of what you have, though. I’d love to learn.”

Jenny made a small gesture with her sunburned hand. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t want to put up with a lecture from someone like me,” she said.

Frank swallowed a huge bite of pie. “Trust me, Ma. If she says it, she means it.”

“Well.” Jenny smiled again, looking pleased and embarrassed at the same time. “If you really are interested, I’ll just do up these dishes, and we can—”

“Pop and I will do them,” Frank said. He made a shooing motion with his right hand. “You ladies run and play.”

So it was that Margot found herself again in the dim pantry, breathing the fragrance of drying herbs and flowers, and following her mother-in-law’s pointing finger as she explained the uses for the herbs and powders and tinctures. She had made every one of them in her own kitchen and stored them against a time they might be necessary.

“Those are marigolds. I dry the flowers and add them to mustard plasters. Worked well on Robert when he had the pneumonia. Also good for bee stings, without the mustard. There’s dandelion, and fennel, and over there is burdock. Good in an infusion of bitters, though it needs ginger, and I haven’t been able to grow that. The old recipe calls for angelica, as well, but I leave it out. Bad for pregnant women, and bitters are what I give them for stomach upset.”

She turned, gesturing toward the labeled jars, listing the contents and their usage without hesitation. Margot listened with increasing respect. When Jenny fell silent, she said, “Frank tells me you inherited a book.”

“Oh, yes, from my grandmother. It’s old, but the advice is still good. Based on Culpeper, but updated, of course. A little hard to read now. I could use a new edition.”

“I’ll write down the title. Maybe I can find you one.”

Jenny glanced up at her. “Mighty kind of you,” she said. “Of course, it’s not like I’ve been to medical school. But what I do can only help. I take care to never hurt anyone.”

“ ‘First, do no harm,’ ” Margot quoted. “That’s the first dictum we learn, but there are lots of doctors who can’t make the same claim.”

“I’ll show you the book,” Jenny said. She led the way out through the kitchen, where the dishes were dried and put away, and the pots were clean, resting on the top of the wood stove to dry. She went into the front room, which was small and rather dark, curtains drawn against the sun. A thick book with a cover gone brown with age rested on an old-fashioned bookstand, the kind meant for a family Bible. When Jenny began to turn the pages, she did so with the same reverence another woman might have used for a holy book, and when it was Margot’s turn, she was careful to do the same. The pages were yellowing and the typeface was archaic, but she could see they held a treasury of information.

“Who comes to you, then, Mother Parrish?” Margot asked, as she traced a drawing of eucalyptus leaves with her finger. Beneath the drawing were instructions for making a tea.

Jenny, shy again, shrugged. “Not a lot, you know. Folks who don’t want to have to drive into Missoula, or can’t afford to. Mostly women with female troubles.”

Margot glanced up at her. “Like what?” She had spoken more sharply than she intended, but it was something that deeply interested her.

Jenny didn’t flinch. “Pregnancy sickness. Pain with their monthlies. Things they don’t want to talk to a man about.”

“There’s no woman doctor?”

“No. We’ve been asking, writing to some of the medical schools. There aren’t enough of you to go around.”

Margot sighed, and turned back to the book. “It’s not easy, being a woman physician. And it’s harder than ever for a woman to get into one of those schools.”

“Why?”

“Have you heard of the Flexner Report?” She turned a page, and then another.

Jenny said, “No. I don’t know what that is.”

“It was an assessment of American medical schools that came out in 1910.” Margot carefully pulled out one of the loose sheets that bristled from the pages of the book. She held it to the light in order to see it better. “Flexner concluded there were too many medical colleges, and they weren’t rigid enough. The consequence was that about half the schools either closed or merged, and reduced the number of students accordingly. First to go were the women.” She carefully replaced the handwritten sheet. “There’s a hospital in Missoula, though, isn’t there?”

“St. Patrick’s, yes. Some can’t go because they don’t have the money. Others are too embarrassed. They’ll talk to me, but they won’t tell a male doctor what troubles them.”

“I know how that is.” It was the reason for Margot’s devotion to the Women and Infants Clinic, the same reason Sarah Church labored so hard in it, every day and many nights as well.

Jenny’s eyes were a lighter color than Frank’s, and made rheumy by years of working in rough weather, but glowed with both wisdom and sorrow, in equal measure. In fact, Margot thought, looking into them was like looking into her own eyes as they might be thirty years hence, though their color was so different. She said, as they gazed at each other in understanding, “I wish I could help.”

Jenny broke the moment, turning away, beginning to untie the apron she’d worn all day. “I wish you could, too, dear. Not your problem, of course.”

“It is, though,” Margot said softly. “Mine as much as yours.”

Over her shoulder, Jenny cast her a sympathetic glance. “We can’t heal everyone.”

“No.”

Jenny reached around the kitchen door to hang her apron on a peg, and turned back to Margot with her arms folded. “You would think, with airplanes and X-rays and telephones and so forth, that we might be able to do more for people. For women.” She blew out a breath. “My lands, I’m out on my feet. Didn’t mean to turn gloomy. I’ll say good night now.”

“Good night. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just spend a bit more time with your book.”

“Be my guest. Put out the lamp when you’re done, will you?”

“I will. Good night, Mother Parrish.”

The older woman hesitated a moment. “I’d be happier if you called me Jenny, dear. I’m used to it.”

Margot smiled in return. “Of course. But you have to call me Margot.”

Jenny smiled. “It’s a bargain. Good night, then, Margot.” A twinkle appeared in her tired eyes, and she added, “Dear.” Margot chuckled.

She watched Jenny walk upstairs, and a moment later, Robert followed her. Frank appeared from the back room, and crossed to stand beside her over the bookstand. “Interesting?” he asked.

“Fascinating.” Margot turned a page, and another. She took out another of the handwritten sheets, and held it close to the lamp. “Look at this, Frank. This is about honey as a treatment for allergies.”

“Hard to read.” He bent to squint at the page in the poor light. “This has always been Ma’s little sideline, people showing up once in a while asking her for help. I never thought much about it.”

“There’s a wealth of information here.”

He straightened, shaking his head. “Just country remedies, things folks use when they don’t have a doctor.”

“The thing is, Frank, many of our medicines are based on these same plants.” She smoothed the loose sheet and replaced it in the book. “That’s a recipe for making a tincture from eucalyptus leaves, for someone with asthma. We don’t have a good drug-based therapy for asthma, but we do use something called eucalyptol for bronchitis. I wish I could observe that remedy in actual practice. It might be helpful.”

“Ask Ma.”

She nodded. “I will.”

“Are you finished for now?” He put an arm around her waist, and pulled her close. His body was warm and firm against her, and she smiled up at him.

“You’re trying to get me into bed.”

“Ah ha. Just can’t fool you.”

She laughed, but she bent to put out the lamp, and walked with him to the staircase. It was one of the great pleasures of this time in his old home, going to bed when she wasn’t exhausted, making love with the window open to the night breeze, waking only when she was ready, in a place where there was no telephone to command her. A woman of leisure.

She was pulling her nightdress over her head when she remembered. “Your mother tells me they’ve been asking for a woman physician.”

Frank had already removed his prosthesis and laid it ready on the bureau. He was sitting up in the bed, propped with pillows against the headboard. “Never been one around here that I know of.”

“The women—and the girls—there are things they don’t want to talk about with a man.”

“Not surprising, I guess.”

“Not at all.” She took a moment to run a brush through her hair, and to dash water on her face from the basin on the washstand, then went to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. He stroked her hair with his right hand. “It’s worrisome, though, Frank. Young women might not get the help they need. Some illnesses only get worse if they’re not treated.”

“You’re taking the world on your shoulders again,” he said softly. He reached out to extinguish the bedside lamp. “Come to bed, Mrs. Parrish. You can take on the problems of the world tomorrow.”

Margot sighed, but she knew he was right. She rose, and walked around to her side of the bed. She slipped under the comforter, and nestled close to him. He turned to kiss her, and she put the matter out of her mind.

When she woke later in the night, though, it was the first thing she thought of. She lay watching the undimmed stars wheel above the Bitterroot Valley, pondering the surprise that was Jenny Parrish, and wondering what she could do to help her.

C
HAPTER
19

Union Station in Portland hummed with trains coming in and out, crowds of people surging this way and that, and porters and conductors shouting commands over the hubbub. Bronwyn felt shaky with fatigue and anxiety, but Mrs. Benedict seemed charged with energy over their mission. “This way!” she exclaimed as they stepped down from the train. “We have to change lines, but we have time for a sandwich. I’m starved, aren’t you, dear?”

Bronwyn stumbled after her as she led the way across the busy concourse. The high-ceilinged lobby had a curved wall at the front, where shelves of a newsstand stretched from one side to the other. Through the two tiers of windows she saw a circular drive filled with touring cars and sedans and an occasional horse and buggy. She had been here before, with her mother and father, but that time she had been rested, unworried, comfortable under her parents’ protection. At this moment she felt less secure than she had dashing home late at night from the Cellar, with Johnnie’s angry shouts following her.

Everything about Edith Benedict seemed unreliable. She had been silent to the point of rudeness at dinner the night before, and so still that if her eyes had not been open, Bronwyn could have believed she had fallen asleep at the table. Today she was talkative, restless in her movements, fixated on her purpose. She glanced over her shoulder repeatedly to see that Bronwyn was following, and each time she flashed her an eager smile.

She trailed after Mrs. Benedict into the small café at the far side of the lobby. She had no choice, now, but to see this through.

Her parents must know, by now, what had happened and what she had done. When they learned at Benedict Hall that she and Mrs. Benedict had both disappeared in the night, they would surely telephone to Morgan House, but Bronwyn was too exhausted to think about that. She had trouble keeping her thoughts consecutive. Her mind flitted from one thing to another, as random as a foraging bird.

She didn’t hear Mrs. Benedict ordering food. She blinked, and roused herself to see that someone had served her a ham-and-cheese sandwich on a china plate, with an enormous pickle at one side. “Coffee?” Mrs. Benedict asked cheerfully.

“Yes, please,” Bronwyn said. She hoped coffee would help to clear her muddled brain.

“Do eat something now, dear,” Mrs. Benedict said in motherly fashion. “We still have quite a long journey in front of us.” She picked up her own sandwich, and took a delicate bite.

Bronwyn did the same, and discovered all at once that she was ravenous. The ham was rich and savory, and the bread was fresh, spread with sweet butter and tart mustard. Her sandwich was half gone by the time the coffee arrived.

She did, in fact, feel better as they left the café. She would watch over Mrs. Benedict until she had achieved her goal—whatever that might be—and see her safely returned to Seattle. Then she would go home.

Her attempt at independence was at an end. She had surely lost her place with Mother Ryther, and she could hardly stay on in Benedict Hall. Mrs. Benedict might forgive her indiscretion. No one else would, once they knew of her connection to Preston. And Dr. Benedict knew her as Betty Jones.

She was a fallen angel, and she was a liar. When they found her out, it would all be over.

 

Dickson withdrew to his cramped study to make hasty notes for his son to take to the office. “An hour, Blake,” he said gruffly. “Do you think Mrs. Ramona and Hattie can hold things together here? We’ll be gone at least three days. There’s no help for it.”

“I will discuss it with them,” Blake said. “Since needs must, I’m sure they can manage.”

Blake knew the drive would be long and sometimes arduous. It hadn’t been so many years since it took a team of horses to pull an automobile over the mountain pass. Even now, the journey to Walla Walla meant a rough ride on the graded gravel of the Sunset Highway, the motor roaring on the steepest climbs. It would run more smoothly on the descent. They would drive south through the Yakima Valley, then east to the farthest corner of the state. In many places the roads had no pavement. In others they were rutted and broken by weather. Filling stations could be hard to find, and sometimes when they did come upon one, there was no motor fuel for sale. Against that eventuality, Blake stocked the Cadillac with cans of gasoline, but they made him uneasy, rattling and banging together when the road was rough. He had advised Mr. Dickson long ago that there should be no cigars in a motorcar, and received no argument.

Blake hastily packed a valise, and stowed it in the back of the Cadillac along with the two gasoline cans. He spoke to Hattie, and she assured him she could manage the maids, and that she and Mrs. Ramona would see that Mr. Dick had what he needed.

Blake was already putting on his driving coat when he suddenly remembered Sarah. A chill ran through him, and he stopped with one arm in a sleeve and the other still out. The disappearance of Mrs. Edith, and the urgency of preparing for the drive across the state, had driven the Churches’ crisis right out of his mind.

He had promised Sarah. And he knew what Dr. Margot would want.

He stood in the hallway, frozen with horror. He could hardly speak to Mr. Dickson about it now. He was too upset about Mrs. Edith to take on anyone else’s problems, and he would only growl impatiently that it would have to wait.

Blake glanced at the big clock in the corner, and saw that he had perhaps fifteen minutes until their departure. An idea formed in his mind, slowly, the parts of it falling into place like jigsaw pieces. It wasn’t a good idea, nor even an ethical one, but it was all he had. The risk of his being caught out was high. He could lose his position—if his idea even worked—but it would buy the Churches some time until someone had a better plan.

He pulled his arm out of the sleeve of his coat, and hung it on the coatrack in the hall. Smoothing his shirtsleeves, he started up the stairs, and when he reached the second floor he turned to the back of the house, where Dr. Margot and Major Parrish had their apartment. He heard Louisa’s piping voice from the nursery, and the answers from Mrs. Ramona and Nurse. Downstairs, Hattie and the twins were working in the kitchen. He hoped he wouldn’t find Thelma in one of the upstairs rooms. At least the Parrishes’ apartment wasn’t due to be cleaned until just before they returned.

He opened the door, and found their small sitting area empty. The bedroom beyond looked orderly. He closed the door to the hall before he went to make certain. The bedroom was also empty. He had the apartment to himself for the moment, and very little time to accomplish his goal.

He turned back to the sitting room, where Dr. Margot’s private telephone rested on a small table under an oval mirror. As he picked up the receiver and held the handset to his ear, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his brow furrowed with anxiety, his lips pressed so tight they had gone pale. He didn’t often look in a mirror, other than to shave, and catching sight of his face this way was a bit of a shock. His hair had gone white almost without his noticing it. He didn’t feel particularly old, as a rule, but this glimpse of his worried features, when he wasn’t prepared to see them, reminded him how far in the past were the days of his youth.

Blake straightened, and turned his back to the mirror. He cleared his throat in preparation. His voice and Mr. Dickson’s weren’t all that different, though he would never have presumed to share such a thought with anyone else. He remembered Mayor Brown’s last visit to Benedict Hall quite clearly. Mr. Dickson addressed His Honor in a familiar way, as if they were great friends. He recalled the mayor’s pleasant, rather youthful demeanor, his thick dark hair, the round glasses that gave him the air of a schoolboy.

Mayor Brown was, at least, a Democrat. He might be sympathetic.

Blake lifted the handset from the receiver, and waited for the operator. He asked for the mayor’s office, and when he was connected, he told the secretary who answered that he was calling from Benedict Hall. He didn’t say who was speaking, but the secretary made an assumption, and put him through immediately.

“Dickson!” the mayor exclaimed. “Good of you to call.” This, Blake understood, was what substantial political donations earned for their donors. Access. Courtesy.

Power.

“Ed,” he said, with what he hoped and prayed was Mr. Dickson’s usual growl. “Good to talk to you.”

“Any time, Dickson. You know you can reach me any time.”

Blake blew out a breath in relief. He tried to imagine himself as Mr. Dickson, a cigar jutting from his mouth, his feet propped up on his desk. He said, in a gravelly tone he could only pray was convincing, “Good, good to hear. Need a favor, Mr. Mayor.”

 

By the time the two Benedict men emerged from Dickson’s study, Blake was properly attired in his driving coat, black gloves, and cap. The Cadillac, with its motor running, waited at the end of the walk. Hattie had come out onto the porch with a hamper of sandwiches and several Blue Bottles with various liquids to sustain them through the long drive. Blake got out of the car to come and meet her.

“Now, you listen to me, Blake,” Hattie said as she handed over the hamper. Her eyes were red, and he was sure she had been weeping in the kitchen. He heard the aftermath in her voice. “You drive careful. Won’t help nobody if you go and crash that motorcar because you hurryin’.”

“I know, Hattie. I promise.” He stood with the hamper in his hands. Hattie had packed enough to sustain an army.

“When you find her—poor Mrs. Edith, I mean—” Hattie broke off, and twisted her hands in her apron. More tears rose in her eyes, glistening in the morning light.

Blake said as gently as he could, “Don’t worry, Hattie. We’ll find Mrs. Edith. We’ll bring her safely home.”

“She can’t help it, you know, Blake. You explain that to Mr. Dickson. Mrs. Edith just can’t help it. She loves her boy, and whatever he tells her, she figures it’s God’s honest truth.”

“I know that.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile as he turned to go down the walk. He opened the passenger door of the automobile, and secured the hamper in the front seat. Through the open door he heard Mr. Dickson’s step in the hall. Mr. Dick shook his father’s hand, nodded to Blake, and set off for the streetcar. Mr. Dickson climbed into the backseat, and Blake into the front. A moment later they were on their way.

The mayor, to Blake’s relief, had promised to intervene in the matter of the Churches’ home. He had said he couldn’t do anything about neighbors being unpleasant, but he had leverage in the matter of the developers. If the Goodwin Company wanted to go on acquiring permits for excavation, plumbing, and building, it couldn’t afford to ignore a direct request from the mayoral office. Blake had thanked him, but tersely, the way he thought Mr. Dickson would. He had kept the conversation short, agreed that the two men should dine together soon, and broken the connection with a brief good-bye.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Blake supposed. He picked up the telephone once again and spoke briefly to Sarah.

When he had hung the earpiece back on the receiver, he stared at it for a moment, marveling at his own daring. It was a good thing, he thought, that he had no time to worry about what fate this act of deception might bring about.

As he negotiated the turn down Aloha, then south on Broadway, Blake estimated how long their trip would take, and how long—assuming they found Mrs. Edith with ease and smoothed things over at the sanitarium, if necessary—it would take for them to return. By the time those things were done, and if Mayor Brown was as good as his word, the Klan meeting should be over, and the Church home should be safe. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before his trick was exposed.

It was even possible, he told himself, as he turned the Cadillac onto Rainier Avenue toward Renton, that Mr. Dickson would never know. He hoped that would be the case. Regardless, it was done now. He would confess everything to Dr. Margot, and she could rule on whether Mr. Dickson should be told.

He tried to put it out of his mind. It was a bridge to be crossed in its own time. He faced bridges aplenty already.

In the backseat, Mr. Dickson leaned back with his hat brim turned far down against the hot sun. Blake glanced at the oil and fuel gauge to reassure himself, adjusted his own cap to shade his eyes from the glare, and settled in for the grueling drive.