Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (15 page)

As Max stood in the doorway of the visitors’ room and watched Jane and the guard retreat toward the stairs, his mind raced. He could understand Jane’s fear that Flora might run off, but the way she refused hope didn’t make any sense. Taking a deep breath, he gave up trying to decipher Jane’s thought process and focused on her request that he influence the warden to let Vestal’s baby stay with its mother. Was there precedent for anything like that in any United States prison? Max had no idea.
Maybe Nebraska can take the lead.

From what Jane had said, there wasn’t any reason not to let Vestal keep her baby. At least not as long as Pearl Brand was kept in solitary. Of course the warden might have other ideas about it all.
I don’t care what you feel or what you believe,
he’d said earlier.
Tell me what you know from experience.
As a doctor speaking about the matter of a woman and her newborn child, Max knew a lot from experience. Hopefully, the warden would listen. But first, Max had to convince the man to write a letter to the governor about Jane. He had to convince him that his interest was purely in seeing justice done for someone who’d been an upstanding member of the community; had never done anything wrong but marry a violent man; was a wonderful mother; and shouldn’t spend ten years in prison because she’d defended herself against only God knew what. It had nothing to do with the warden’s ridiculous notion that he, Max Zimmer, was in love with Jane Prescott.

When the guard at turnkey hollered at him, Max started, then went through the process of transferring from the secure side to the free side. Still, he looked back toward where he’d last seen Jane. She looked so forlorn, so thin. How he wished he could have held her in his arms for just a moment. Humans needed that kind of thing. And that was a medical fact that had nothing to do with romance.

E
llen had just exited Ian’s office to head home when Dr. Zimmer emerged from the stairwell up the hall. She called a greeting. “I hope your patients are doing well today?”

“I hear they are, although I haven’t seen them.” He nodded toward the office. “Actually, I was just heading in to see your husband—for the second time today—on that very subject.” He cleared his throat. “I spent our first meeting this morning apologizing.” “Whatever for? You saved the day yesterday.” “Thank you, but while I was, as you say ‘saving the day,’ I was also neglecting to inform you or him that I was here to ask your husband to support my petition to the governor for a pardon for Jane Prescott.” He paused. “But I got caught up in the emergency, and then… then I just didn’t.” He put his palm to his heart. “I sincerely apologize. I’ve no use for liars, and yet by not speaking up, I committed what a pastor I know calls a ‘sin of omission.’”

Ellen saw nothing in the handsome man’s open expression but embarrassed honesty. “And when would you have done so, Dr. Zimmer? Before kneeling to check on Vestal’s condition yesterday? While you were helping her bring the baby into the world? During surgery, perhaps?” She smiled. “I’m grateful you were willing to help and grateful I had the sense to offer the house instead of forcing that poor woman to endure a wagon ride to town.”

“If she’d been subjected to the jarring, I don’t know what would have happened. It was hard enough on her as it was. I’ve lost patients who endured less.”

Hearing the doctor say that sent chills up Ellen’s spine. “Well then, let us thank God that things went as well as they did. I will admit I’m surprised that you would know—and champion—a female inmate.”

“My practice is in Plum Creek. I knew the entire family. Owen, Jane, and Rose.”

“Rose?”

“Jane’s daughter.”

“She has a daughter.” Ellen murmured the words, trying to absorb the idea. “Where is she?”

“With Jane’s sister. I’ve been trying to get a pardon since Jane was sentenced. The first governor refused. This one’s agreed to a brief meeting on Monday. I’m hoping your husband will help me make the case that Jane is no danger to anyone and that her child—” He broke off. “I’m sorry. It’s probably highly improper for me to be dragging you into this.” With a nod, he headed toward Ian’s office.

Ellen stopped him. “I’m afraid Ian was called away. Something about another disturbance with that woman who caused all the trouble yesterday.” She paused. “I wonder if I could interest you in lunch over at the house? We can leave word with Mr. Conrad as to where you are.” She smiled. “In fact, you can turn your horse into a stall in the barn. Fresh water and feed for the horse, lunch for you.”

“How can I say no?”

Ellen stepped into Ian’s outer office and left word. Dr. Zimmer was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. They crossed the road, and while the doctor fed and watered the horse, Georgia made lunch. It wasn’t long before they were seated on the front porch where they could watch for Ian, savoring roast beef sandwiches and iced tea.

They chatted about the weather and the way the prairie was beginning to bloom. Ellen did everything a good hostess should before dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a lace-edged napkin and making her own confession. “I suppose I should admit that I didn’t invite you to lunch merely for the sake of hospitality.” She folded her napkin, pressing the crease with her fingertips as she said, “I have a medical… situation I’d like you to advise me about.”

The doctor put his sandwich down. “Should I get my medical bag?”

Ellen laughed. “Goodness, no. Let’s call it a hypothetical situation. In your medical opinion, what would be the ramifications of a mother’s newborn being taken from her and placed in an orphanage? Would you think—medically speaking—a case could be made for that to be an unwise move?”

The doctor swallowed. He took a gulp of tea. “Knowing more particulars would of course be helpful, but assuming the mother is able and willing to perform her duties, I’d have to say the child would be much better off—from a medical standpoint—in the care of its mother.”

Ellen looked off toward the penitentiary and murmured, “Exactly.” She smiled. “And now for the real question: are you willin’ to say that to my husband?”

Dr. Zimmer grinned. “Great minds run in the same channels, Mrs. McKenna. I was already going to do exactly that. When I met with Jane this morning, she was much more interested in convincing me to come up with a medical argument for Vestal’s keeping the baby than she was in discussing her own situation.”

“Well isn’t that… kind of her.”

“She is kind. She knows the heartache involved. Her separation from Rose is unavoidable. Vestal’s might not be.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how old is Rose?”

“She was eight when Jane… when she went to live with her aunt Flora. I just learned today that apparently the aunt’s promises to bring Rose to visit haven’t been kept. She’s broken off all contact. Jane hasn’t seen Rose in four years.”

“But that’s terrible!”

Dr. Zimmer nodded. “I can’t imagine it. I offered to try and do something, but Jane said not to.” He sighed. “It almost seems as if she resents my attempts to get her pardoned.”

“Why would she?”

“She’s afraid to hope. The last time I tried, I failed. She says she’s found a way to handle ‘what is’ and I should let it be. She wants me to help Vestal if I can, but she insists I leave her situation alone.”

“She doesn’t seem… hard, if that’s the right word.”

“She isn’t. She’s a good woman who was caught in an impossible marriage to a violent man. I don’t know what happened the night Owen died, because I wasn’t there, but I saw the aftermath.” He looked away. Shook his head. “A ten-year sentence doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s as if the judge expected Jane to just lie down and let that son of—” He broke off. “And again, I must apologize. I tend to get ‘riled up,’ as they say, in matters pertaining to Jane.”

Ellen reached for his empty plate. “She is very fortunate to have a loyal friend. Now… can I tempt you with a piece of raisin cream pie? Georgia just took it out of the oven.”

Raisin cream pie was the doctor’s favorite. Excusing herself, Ellen headed toward the kitchen, cutting two pieces and sliding them onto dessert plates while Georgia rinsed the lunch dishes.

“He was already planning to speak to Ian about the baby—because Jane Prescott asked him to. Apparently they were friends—or at least acquaintances—before.” Ellen paused. “It all seems so strange. Who’d expect a woman in prison to have a friend like Dr. Zimmer?”

“There’s more to most people than meets the eye,” Georgia said.

“Do you think I’m being foolish to get involved this way?”

“In helping a mother keep her child? I don’t mean any disrespect to Mr. McKenna. He’s a good man. But to my mind, the only foolishness in the whole affair is that he needs convincing.”

Ellen put a fork on Dr. Zimmer’s plate. Then she smiled. “Wrap up another piece, won’t you? Ian just loves your raisin cream pie. It can’t hurt to take a piece across the road.”

Georgia chuckled. “Pie can go a long way toward getting a man to see reason.”

For Mamie, Friday flew by in a wave of baby cries and coos, chores and more chores. Agnes and Susan suggested laundry facilities in the bathroom so they could wash and hang diapers to dry. Together they came up with a system, but not before more than one guard grumbled about hauling “enough water to float a battleship” up to the second floor. When Martin heard the complaints, he suggested Mamie carry the baby down to the kitchen.

“What good will that do?” Mamie groused.

“Maybe none. On the other hand, I know at least one of those cooks has a soft spot for little ones. He’s been hand-feeding a litter of kittens. He’d enjoy seeing the little nubbin’.”

To Mamie’s amazement, when she followed Martin’s suggestion and carried Vestal’s baby girl down to the basement kitchen and Martin mentioned the grumbling about hauling water to keep the baby in clean diapers, the cook named Harry Butler suggested they send diapers down to him via the dumbwaiter. “I can boil ’em on that stove back in the corner. Nobody uses it for cooking now that we got the steam vats.”

“Won’t the staff complain?”

Butler shrugged. “And who will care if they do? Not me.”

Back up on the ward, Mamie announced the possibility of instruction in arithmetic and reading and was gratified when half a dozen women said they’d welcome a chance to “do some learning.” She and Jane Prescott—who seemed thrilled at the prospect of sewing more—surveyed the parlor with an eye to installing sewing machines.

Late in the afternoon, Martin and J. B. asked her to pace off the outlines of the flower beds so the trustees could get to digging. Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and still Mamie had not met with Martin to discuss the security measures that would be needed once the women began a sewing industry, Martin offered to forgo supper to work on it.

“I won’t have you skipping meals to help me,” Mamie said.

“Then let’s talk over supper.” When Mamie hesitated, he added, “No one has to know. I mean—I realize you wouldn’t want anyone thinking—” He ducked his head. “Never mind. I was just trying to think of a way you could have a nice weekend without worrying over things. We can have our meeting at a more respectable time.” Head bowed, shoulders rounded, Martin turned away. He reminded Mamie of a puppy that had learned to expect boxed ears or a swift kick.

Mamie called his name. When he looked back, she heard herself inviting him to join her for supper. “I’d suggest my apartment, but I don’t think either of us wants that being noised about. The kitchen, perhaps? Do you think Mr. Butler would mind? He’s already doing above and beyond.”

“Mind? Harry’s a good sort. He’ll put out a feast.”

“Then I’ll meet you in the kitchen as soon as I’ve sent the women’s trays down the dumbwaiter and gotten them settled. Shall we say seven?”

She would have thought she’d told the man he’d just won the finest racehorse in the land. He nodded and headed on downstairs, but a joyful whistle echoed up from the stairwell.
Oh dear. What if the kitchen staff think…? What if they noise it about?
Mamie realized she didn’t care. When it came to gentleman friends, a woman could do worse than Martin Underhill.