City of Light (41 page)

There were no documents to be prepared, no papers to be signed. The arrangement was neither legal nor illegal. In a sense, it didn’t even exist: Everyone participating would pretend it had never happened. The adoptive family had to trust Dr. Perlmutter’s word that the baby was healthy and of good background. The only protection the family would have from Abigail attempting to reclaim her child was the absolute social rejection she would face if she did so.

We wrote the necessary notes, Dr. Perlmutter to the adoptive family, myself to Elbert and the Rushmans. The doctor wanted to wait a week because he believed the baby would do better during the long carriage journey if he were given a bit more time with his original nurse.

We felt no reason to hurry. The plan seemed clear and acceptable on all sides. All the parties agreed to it, or so we believed—although of course it was Abigail who had agreed, and the adoptive parents who had agreed, and the doctor and I who had agreed.

Mrs. Rushman had not agreed and felt no compunction to share her view with any of us.

One week. Not a long time, though time turns long or short depending on what fills it. I worried about the baby—irrationally, I tried to tell myself. Elbert sent me a note saying he was going to Cleveland and Detroit to deliver lectures, but to rest assured—all was well.

Anyway, what could happen in a week? One day Grace and I cruised on Mr. Rumsey’s yacht with his family and friends; we went to Falconwood, a private club on Grand Island in the Niagara River, where we picnicked along the water, liveried servants spreading blankets and unpacking baskets. Another day I took Millicent Talbert to lunch at the Twentieth Century Club. That very week, a Negro was lynched in Elkins, West Virginia, and another in Port Royal, South Carolina. Mary Talbert was spearheading a protest campaign, and I could only imagine the anger and despair she must be suffering. I felt terribly protective of Millicent. We sat on the screened piazza overlooking the fountain gardens—seemingly far from the battles of the nation outside. Although she was quieter and more reflective than before, she seemed very much like herself.

Day upon day I woke to a cool breeze prompting me to pull the sheet over my shoulders. And then the week was over, and the time had come to set our plan in motion.

“Good morning, Mrs. Rushman,” I said, meeting her on the path leading to the Hubbard home. She was coming out as I was going in. “A lovely day for a journey.” The sky was deep blue, the air crisp, more like spring than summer. There’d been rain in the early morning, and now the sun sparkled over the wet lawns.

“Your intervention is no longer needed, Miss Barrett.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Two days ago I took the creature to the Infant Asylum in town. Or rather, I dropped it off in the dark at the door.” She gave a self-satisfied smirk. “Took it when Abigail was asleep. She didn’t even know! Luckily your friend Mr. Hubbard was away giving lectures, so he couldn’t interfere. Abigail was beside herself when she found out. She keeps ordering me to go to the asylum to find the creature! Hysterical, that’s what she is. But she’ll come around, sooner or later. What choice does she have, eh?” Mrs. Rushman made a little laugh. “We fed the creature a good dose of brandy to keep it quiet on the trip. I pinned a note to its blanket, saying it was Polish. I even wrote the note on the bottom margin of some Polish newspaper Fritz found. That should throw them off the trail!”

“But the Infant Asylum—how could you!”

“That’s what it’s there for.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of your plan in advance?”

“Why should you be? You’re not a party to this.”

“But you asked for my help!”

“You protected Abigail very nicely, I’ll grant you that. But I don’t believe in this business of adoption. You probably think I’m cruel, Miss Barrett, but when you’re not the one involved, it’s easy to think you’re better than everyone else. I’m telling you, we can’t have some little urchin wandering around the drawing rooms who looks like Abigail—she’ll be disgraced. And what if the creature turns up in twenty years and wants money from us? Or tries to blackmail us? I won’t allow it.”

“But the child will
die
at the Infant Asylum.”

“That is in the Lord’s hands,” she responded with determined sincerity.

“But I found a good family!” I called uselessly as she mounted her carriage. Her driver wore formal regalia.

“Good day to you, Miss Barrett,” she said as she closed the carriage door. She stressed the “Miss” as if it were a badge of my inferiority; a scarlet letter that I wore.

“A baby boy,” Francesca was explaining to Chief Nurse Clarkson. The Infants’ Ward felt dank. Because I’d had no choice, I’d confided Abigail’s misery to Francesca, who’d immediately become practical and forthright, bringing us here. “We’ve come to find a baby boy. Dropped off the day before yesterday. By mistake. His mother wants him back. Her family was misinformed, to bring him here. My friend has seen the baby and will make the identification.”

Chief Nurse Clarkson, in her well-starched, well-pressed uniform, wanted to help. She was a gray-haired, thick-waisted woman, but quick-footed. She wore an unpretentious gold cross around her neck. Fetching her record book from her alcove office at the end of the ward, she found the proper page. Six infant boys had been dropped off the day before yesterday, she reported.

“This one was left on the doorstep, at night,” Francesca said.

Four of the six had been left on the doorstep at night.

“Where are the four?”

“Well, well, two have died already, Miss Coatsworth. You see this mark in my book? The check mark?” She showed us her carefully prepared records, her printing small and precise. “That means the little varmint died. It’s the will of the Lord.” Her accent was Scottish, like that of Mrs. Houghton, the wet nurse at Elbert’s, although Mrs. Houghton’s accent was mellifluous and this woman’s was as starched as her uniform.

“Where are the other two?”

“Well, well, let me see, I need to check the numbers on the cribs, it’s a complicated system.”

She walked down the ward, comparing her records with the numbers on the cribs. But the babies were taken in and out of the cribs to be fed and changed. Who could tell if they were always put back in the proper place? I glanced at Francesca.

“Nurse Clarkson,” Francesca said, catching up with her, “shouldn’t these babies have identification tags on their wrists or ankles?”

“Forgive me for saying so, miss, but that would never work. For sure it would kill them. Rubbing the tags into their mouths and choking, rubbing them against their legs, getting cuts and infections.”

“Ah. I see.”

Nurse Clarkson nodded in affirmation. She continued to walk down the ward conducting her mathematical reckoning. I wandered away from her, studying the babies, searching for the one I had seen just a week before swaddled in hand-loomed blankets, rocked in an oaken crib. The stench; the pitiful, mewling whimpers; the sheen of incipient death—all these I tried to ignore in my search.

Swiftly Nurse Clarkson was before me. “You are certainly free to look for this baby too, ma’am,” she said tightly, her voice indicating the opposite. “Look all you like.” She gestured widely. “We are always open to inspection, whether Miss Coatsworth is here or not. Nothing is hidden. We are not ashamed of the work we do.”

Francesca joined us. “We don’t ask for your shame, Nurse Clarkson,” she said pointedly. “We ask only for the baby.”

Nurse Clarkson glanced at her guardedly before turning away to continue her tour of the cribs, leaving Francesca and me to search together.

Each baby was more pitiful than the last. By the window there was a wet nurse, holding an infant at each breast. The woman appeared as scrawny as the babies. I hesitated to examine too closely, but Francesca had no such compunction and walked right over to the woman, speaking to her in Italian, only to learn that both infants were girls.

“Oh, Miss Coatsworth, here’s a boy who came in the day before yesterday,” Nurse Clarkson called, excitement transforming her face. “I knew we’d find one.” We hurried to her side.

The boy was strong and crying robustly. But he had dark hair.

“The child we want is Scandinavian-looking,” Francesca said.

“Everyone says they’re here for a Scandinavian-type baby,” Nurse Clarkson observed with brisk condescension.

Unruffled, Francesca said, “There may have been an indication on his blankets that his family was Polish.”

“Polish,” Nurse Clarkson repeated flatly.

After a moment’s pause, Francesca and I left her and resumed our own search. Suddenly Francesca gripped my arm.

“Here’s one,” she whispered.

I looked closely. It could be. The child was listless but blonde. Very blonde. It lay on its back beside three other infants.

“Nurse Clarkson?” Francesca called. When she joined us, Francesca pointed to the blonde baby.

“Oh, that one. That one came in, let me see”—she flipped through her record book—“he’s been here awhile. Number 3/247—that one came in two weeks ago. Poor dear, he’s not looking as good as he did when he first arrived. That happens. They just waste away. He’s not the one you want, I’m afraid.” She moved on.

Could Abigail’s baby actually be dead after only two days? Surely God could not allow such a thing to happen; not after what Abigail had suffered already. I had to find a way to help her. Maybe we should just choose a baby….

“Louisa,” Francesca whispered, holding my shoulder, stepping close to me. Her closeness, our closeness, the way our thoughts converged: These were my only comfort. “Why don’t we just choose one. Save one. That blonde one—it’s scrawny, but let’s take it.”

I nodded.

Francesca went to the nurse. “Excuse me, Nurse Clarkson, there must be some mistake. Two babies have been confused. They don’t have tags—confusions can happen. The baby that you say was brought in last week, we’re certain that’s the baby we’re looking for.”

“It cannot possibly be. The numbers don’t lie, Miss Coatsworth. We do not get confused, no matter what you think.” She swelled with indignation. “Number 3/247—I distinctly remember him. He’s an Alsatian baby, not a Polish baby.” She spoke with the venom of those for whom such ethnic distinctions mattered. “You have told me the baby came in the day before yesterday. Although it’s against the rules, I would give that baby back to you, upon your detailed description, knowing how such things sometimes happen. But to give you a totally different baby, a baby you have no relation to at all, to let you simply walk out with it—absolutely not.” She talked on and on, filled with righteousness. Possibly she had been lax about such matters in the past and had been reprimanded. Or perhaps she wanted money.

Once more Francesca’s thoughts followed mine. She glanced around surreptitiously, making sure we were apart from the other nurses. Only the infants heard her words. “It’s difficult work you do here, Nurse Clarkson. You must need many things. Things which are not covered by the regular budget. As head nurse, you know better than anyone, what is needed.”

Nurse Clarkson flushed, but said nothing.

Francesca continued. “I for one would be pleased to entrust you with certain … discretionary funds, to use as you see fit. For the betterment of your patients, of course.”

Nurse Clarkson regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Certainly we need many things here, Miss Coatsworth. I would accept with gratitude any donation you’d like to make on behalf of the Infants’ Ward. But even so you cannot simply take a baby.”

And that was the end of our search. As we went outside, I felt as if I were falling into the sunshine, falling into the sky, with only Francesca’s hand on my shoulder to hold me steady.

“What are we to do, Francesca?” I asked, filled with the image, not of Abigail’s child, but of Grace—of what would have happened to her if I’d been forced to bring her to a place like this.

“You must tell the girl—”

I tried to focus on her words but they disintegrated around me.

“Louisa, listen.” She shook my shoulders. “Stop it.”

I felt like a rag doll in her hands.

“Louisa, look at me.” She held my chin so that I had to look. “You’ve got to think about this rationally.” Of course Francesca didn’t know why I had to struggle to be rational. “You must tell the girl that you found the child and turned him over to the doctor as you had planned. You must tell her that he’s gone to a good home, otherwise she’ll never be able to forgive her mother. She’ll never be able to live with herself.”

That evening, I sat at my desk to write to Abigail. I was calm, finally. Drained. Able to calculate. To weigh the cause and effect that I controlled. Regret filled me that I’d ever taken on this burden. Abigail was my student, nothing more. Was it within my rights to shape her future?

You must tell her that he’s gone to a good home, Francesca had said. So she can live with herself. So she will stay in Buffalo forever, hoping to see the child, hoping to be there if he needs her. Most likely never marrying, because a husband and legitimate children would interfere with her devotion, her godlike watch over a child she can identify only through suspicion. Could I condemn her to that?

What would be gained if I told her that her baby was most probably dead? And if not dead, certainly lost forever. She would know that her child had died because of her own mother, her child’s grandmother. Could there be forgiveness? I would never forgive such a thing—yet that was blithely felt on my part, for I had little recollection of my own mother. But knowing the child to be dead, at least Abigail would be able to get on with her life, continue her education, start a profession, I hoped, without worrying about finding her mirror image at a garden party. Without searching, always, every drawing room, every picnic, every sleigh race, for her child.

And yet … what if the truth unhinged her? What if it unleashed passions that led her into public revelations? Such revelations could destroy not only herself, but others as well. And why not, she might think. With her child dead, she would have nothing left to protect.

I tried to put myself in her shoes. How easy it was, to see my own life spread before me. All that I had done, and not done, as the result of decisions I had made long ago. How would I feel now, if I had chosen differently? Which of Abigail’s two choices would I rather have had?