By The Sea, Book One: Tess (22 page)

His attentiveness was political, of course:
Tess Moran had contributed a sizable amount of money to the
institute which was open to all, including the poor—and as a result
chronically pressed for funding. When Tess and her sister ended
their stay at the sanatorium later in the week, he wanted them to
leave with fond memories of the center that had promised, and
delivered, a gratifying improvement to Maggie's health.

Maggie would never be entirely cured; but
then, neither would the doctor himself, or many on his staff,
including a number of nurses. They were members of a
not-so-exclusive club of consumptives whose numbers seemed to be
growing every year; not for nothing was tuberculosis called The
White Plague. But in Saranac Lake its victims were among their own,
in a town filled with enterprising types who were more than happy
to build them cure cottages, or administer to their pharmaceutical
needs, or cater to the lavish but healthy meals that were a
hallmark of taking The Cure.

The overriding message at the Phoenix
Sanatorium was always to think positive—conversations about one's
illness, for example, were strongly discouraged among the
patients—and Henry Whitman had soon discovered that Tess was the
most positive of all. More than anything, she was the reason that
Maggie had thrived over the past year. Theirs was the perfect
example of how having family living with an ill resident could
vastly improve the patient's prospects.

Tess was indeed a wonder: calm, intelligent,
determined, and to boot, the most beautiful woman Whitman had ever
seen. Her own health was robust, despite the handicap that affected
her gait. Entirely in keeping with her character, she seemed
unaware of her disability, and after a while, he was too. Tess
Moran possessed the perfect attitude for dealing with adversity,
and Doctor Henry Whitman was desperately sorry that she was
leaving.

His attentiveness to her, in short, was not
entirely political.

The sisters were bundled in chaise longues
on their wraparound cure porch, their cheeks flushed from the cold
and not from disease—heartening to see. Doctor Whitman greeted them
with the affection he felt for them both. "A very happy new year to
you, young ladies. I trust you slept well after last night's
celebration?"

"Yes, we did—and right here, once again,"
Maggie said in a merry way. "It wasn't so very cold, or else I'm
just used to it, and the stars were so lovely, and besides, I want
to drink in every single breath of Adirondack mountain air that I
can, before we leave. Oh, Doctor Whitman … and won't I be missing
our shivery nights out here? They have brought me such peace … such
sound sleep …." Her voice caught; she was becoming emotional.

"The cure porch has served my sister well,"
Tess said, redirecting her sister's thoughts. "We will never be
without an open porch again—as you can imagine, since Maggie
will
insist on having a dog of her own once we are settled,"
she added with a good-humored roll of her eyes. "A porch should
provide enough clear air for both of them, do you not think?"

"Tess does spoil me," Maggie said
happily.

"So I have noticed." The doctor did not
altogether approve of furry things that might compromise a
patient's lungs, but a pet could also be quite therapeutic. He did
not challenge their plan.

"Do you have time for tea?" Tess asked,
sliding out from under her heavy eiderdown quilt.

"Always." He had a busy schedule, even on
this holiday, but an invitation from Tess Moran was not to be
refused, and for more than one reason.

Tess stood and allowed herself a tiny,
discreet stretch in front of him which Whitman thought simply added
to her charm. He saw hints of the young woman she still was, but he
had come to know her well enough during the past year to realize
that she had the wisdom and acumen of a woman twice her age.

The cure cottage that she had had built for
Maggie and her was proof of that. As he followed Tess inside,
Whitman marveled anew at the thoughtfulness of the design, a
collaborative effort between Tess and a renowned architect from New
York. Open and airy, with windows everywhere that looked out at
beautiful garden structures and carefully chosen evergreens, the
cure cottage—which the sisters had dubbed "Little Wren"—was the
envy of the community, the best of all the cottages, and would be
much sought after, once the sisters vacated it in a few days. The
furniture, simple, cheery and casual, was to remain in the cottage,
all of it a gift to the institute.

As usual, there were flowers in every room.
Only Tess could have managed flowers in the Adirondacks in January.
Fragrant flowers. No gardener, the doctor breathed deep and said,
"Where? Where do you find these in winter?"

Her shrug was offhand. "I know someone."

That was another thing. Tess Moran knew men
who mattered, and as a result she was able to coax generous
contributions from them to the sanatorium. The funds were earmarked
for the upkeep of cure cottages intended expressly for the servant
class, and among the servant class, preference was to be given
those who had worked in the brutal conditions of the laundry.

Laundry maids, Tess and her sister! And look
at them now. Henry Whitman knew at least the broad outlines of the
scandal in which Tess had been so intimately involved. He was not
one to judge, but it seemed clear to him that Tess was no
femme
fatale
. She was a young woman wronged, like thousands of
others, only she had managed to rise above it all and become a
force to be reckoned with.

He watched her move easily through the small
but efficient space, preparing the tea and laying out a plate of
fresh scones. In a corner of the kitchen stood her cane, unused for
months.

The conversation turned, as it always did at
the sanatorium, to the menu for the day. Even for The Phoenix,
today's feast was special: "Fried filet of sole, tenderloin of
beef, roast goose," the doctor began. "Creamed onions, of course.
Sweet potatoes—"

"—and dessert, what for dessert?" Maggie
interrupted as she came inside.

The doctor smiled. "Christmas pie, just for
you. And ice cream. A new flavor. You will be surprised and
delighted."

Maggie clapped her hands with glee, and
Whitman wondered again at her childlike nature. She was
impressionable and easily led, the perfect patient to be guided
through an illness. It was hard to believe that she was Tess's
older sister.

She said, "I weighed last night. And will
you not be pleased to know that I have added nearly a stone and
one-half to these frail bones since my arrival here?" She turned in
a tight, quick circle, arms out, for his professional
appraisal.

Definitely, Maggie was winning the battle
against the insidious weight loss that so often accompanied her
disease. The doctor was pleased, and he let her know that.

Just then a baby's cry came from one of the
bedrooms, and Tess said quickly, "I'll see to him. Excuse me one
moment." She left them to their tea.

It was a risk, having an infant in the same
house with a consumptive, and Whitman had warned Tess of it, and
what precautions to take to avoid infection for either her or her
child. He had no doubt that Tess followed them to the letter.

In a moment or two Tess returned. "Wet
nappy; he's back to sleep already."

But Maggie was looking a bit wistful now.
"Will ever I be able to hold Aaron, Doctor Whitman? To cradle him
in my arms?"

"Well, we'll have to see. Are you
coughing?"

"No."

"Sneezing?"

"No. I feel ever so well, really I do," she
insisted.

"Well, keep up the good work, and we shall
see."

It was the best he could offer. He knew that
Tess would see to it that they lived in widely separated and
well-ventilated rooms wherever they chose to move, and there would
certainly be a time when young Aaron would be able to play
cautiously with his devoted aunt, but that time had not yet
arrived.

Maggie remembered, suddenly, that she had a
gift for the sanatorium that had given her a new lease on life.
"I'll be right back. I wanted to wrap it first, but since you're
here … or maybe I
will
wrap it! It won't take long. Don't go
yet, please!"

She dashed away to her bedroom, and that
left Whitman free to express a thought that was constantly on his
mind.

"'Don't go yet.' Your sister has phrased my
thought exactly," he said softly. "Must you move on, Tess? You
could do so much for the institute. For its patients. For me: I can
think of no more able assistant to be at my side. Must you go?"

There was a warmth in her emerald eyes that
he had not seen before; it gave him hope.

"If I could, I would. You know that, Doctor
Whit—"

"Tess! For pity's sake, call me Henry."

"Henry, then. I will never, ever forget The
Phoenix. The center has given me back my sister; can you doubt that
I will be forever grateful for that, or for all of your personal
attention to Maggie? I'm overwhelmed to think of it."

He added a second sugar to his tea. "But not
quite overwhelmed enough, hey?" he said in a rueful voice, stirring
his cup.

Tess sighed, then rested her chin on the
palm of her hand, her elbow on the table. She gave him a long,
thoughtful, appraising look that had something in him turning over.
She sighed again. And then she began to speak, hesitantly at first,
and then with more emotion, in a way that he'd never heard
before.

"Have you ever been brought so … low, been
so humiliated, before all of those who fancy themselves above you,
that you wanted the earth to open and swallow you whole? I have,"
she admitted.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from
cold nor disease but from raw recollection of the event. Whitman
said quickly, "You obviously were young, Tess. Such moments are
often blown much out of proportion when—"

"This moment was not!" she said, slapping
her hand on the table. "I was mocked and demeaned by people I
despise! I was Irish, a servant in Newport, less than nothing in
their eyes! How can I forget that?"

Taken aback by her vehemence, Whitman said
soothingly, "But if you despise them, what does it matter how they
regarded you? Their opinion is not worth considering."

"Oh-h-h, it is, Doctor Whitman," she said in
a dangerous voice. "It is. They understand one thing, and one thing
only: money. Crushing amounts of it. That, they respect. I do not
intend to beg for their respect; I intend to demand it."

He wanted to smile but did not. She was not
yet twenty, but he knew her well enough to know that she would
follow through on her threat. Or try to. Could she really take on
Newport society? Even he was well enough acquainted with the town
to know that a small coterie of women ruled there with iron fists.
They would never permit an upstart maid to climb over the
ramparts.

Impulsively he laid his hand over hers.
"Tess … don't. Don't do this to yourself. Use your remarkable
talents to do good for others. Don't throw them away on the
unworthy."

She began to draw her hand away from his,
then left it. Some of the fierceness left her face. She became,
once again, the most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen. She
pressed her full lips together almost sheepishly and said, "I'm
sorry. The memory smarts. But in any case, I think—I know—that I
can do both."

"Both?"

"Demand their respect, and do good for
others."

He had no hope of making her stay, he could
see that now. So he ventured in a resigned and yet jaunty way, "And
how exactly will you do that?"

She lowered her lashes almost modestly, and
then returned his look with one that was as calm as it was
confident. "I'm going to buy a mill."

"A mill." The way some people go to buy a
pair of shoes. A mill. He had to take that one in for a moment.
"Any particular kind of mill?" he asked.

"Well, I do understand textiles. And I do
understand hats. So a mill that produces millinery." She said the
words slowly, as if she were explaining something obvious like how
to boil potatoes to a slow-witted student.

He smiled at her patience with him, but it
was impossible for him not to imagine what the price of a mill
could do for the sanatorium. Immediately he dismissed the thought.
Tess had been and would be generous. And besides, she "knew
people." With their help, who was to say that she couldn't make a
go of it?

"I wish you well, then, Tess," he said,
squeezing her hand. It occurred to him that he wanted to do more
than squeeze her hand; he dismissed that thought, too.

She seemed to read his mind. "Will Mrs.
Whitman and the boys be attending today's feast, then?" she asked,
moving the talk onto safer ground. "The sledding is supposed to be
particularly fast this week."

Releasing her hand, he sat back in his chair
and matched her pleasantly conversational tone. "Yes, the twins
have brought their Christmas sleds with them up from the City. No
doubt they're risking life and limb even as we speak."

"They're fine young lads. How old are they
now? Seven?"

"On the first of next month." He glanced at
his watch and then at Maggie's bedroom door. "Ah, the time. I
really ought to be—"

"Here I am!" Maggie said, bursting through
the door with obvious excitement. "For you," she said, presenting
him with a rectangular package wrapped in bright paper and tied
with different strands of colored yarn. "Well … for the gallery
outside the dining room, I mean. If you like it, I mean. I worked
ever so hard on it. Tess had to teach me. I'll never have her
skill, but … I did work ever so hard." She stepped back in shy
anticipation and waited for him to open her gift.

"So prettily wrapped," the doctor said,
prepared absolutely to love whatever it was. From between the
wrapping he slid a framed piece of needlework about a foot square:
of a russet-red cottage with a sign that said "Little Wren" above
its dark-green door and the sentiment "Home Sweet Home" picked out
in bright colors in its front-yard grass.