Wedded to War (16 page)

His eyes fluttered open and tried to focus on Charlotte. “Mother, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve wanted to see you.” His eyes closed again.

“Yes, it’s me,” Charlotte whispered.
God, if this is a sin, forgive me.
“I’m right here.”

“Oh that air feels so good, it’s like baking in an oven in here.”

Charlotte could feel her own dress darkening with perspiration beneath her arms, her petticoats sticking to her legs. She licked the salty sweat off her upper lip. Still she fanned, switching arms when one became tired, until the sun was directly overhead outside. No ballroom dance, no theater performance, had ever given her more satisfaction than easing the passing of this soldier, whose name she did not even know. She gazed at his face as she fanned him, and thought of his mother. Did she even know he was ill?

Rapid footfalls broke her trance, and her head snapped up to see a short little man with a shiny dome of a head quickly coming toward her. He wore a stethoscope around his neck and frown on his face.

“Just who are you, and what are you doing with that preposterous fan?” The eyes behind the spectacles were bloodshot.

“Nurse Charlotte Waverly.” She kept fanning. “I’m a nurse trained at New York Hospital under the direction of Dr. Blackwell and the Women’s Central Association of Relief.”

“You have no business being here. Nurses are commissioned by the Surgeon General, not the New York Hospital. By whose authority are
you
here?”

“Dr.—Judson, is it? The crucial question here is why this young man, clearly riddled with fever, is still in his wool uniform instead of a cooler cotton dressing gown? Do you lack the supplies necessary? Because if you do, the Sanitary Commission can outfit you immediately.”

The frown deepened on Dr. Judson’s forehead until his eyebrows
nearly overshadowed his eyes. Having no response but anger just then, he turned on his heel and walked away, moments later returning with a reinforcement. Miss Dorothea Dix herself.

“Miss Waverly.” She tilted her head. “How very curious that I should find you here when I distinctly remember
not
telling you to come. And, as we all know, I have the final say in these matters. These patients are not your concern. Not only must you leave at once. You must never return.”

Charlotte’s gaze swept the room, rested on the fever patient for a moment, then returned to Miss Dix and Dr. Judson. “I have ordered my conveyance to return for me at two o’clock. The sun is hot, and I have no intention whatever of walking out into it. I will remain here and fan this poor man. He deserves no less.”

Calmly turning her attention back to her patient, she continued to fan him.

“Say there, ma’am,” one of the soldiers said to Miss Dix. “I mean no disrespect, but it does seem to me like this here soldier wants this Miss Waverly to stay, seeing as she’s keeping the flies off him in his dying moments and all. Sure would be a shame to take away that last comfort for him, now wouldn’t it? Seems like it wouldn’t hurt anybody for this lady to just help him die.”

Silence hung thickly in the air until it was broken by the sound of retreating footsteps.

Charlotte exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and focused on the patient beside her. “There, there,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

But with doctors like Judson and Dragon Dix in charge, she herself didn’t believe it.

A
s Ruby walked up Baxter Street, rollicking voices spilled out of taverns and houses on either side of her. Just ahead, marching around in front of a saloon, women holding signs and Bibles from the American Female Reform Society chanted, “Repent of your sin! Turn to Jesus!”

What is my sin?
Her heart cried out as she tucked her chin to her chest and walked past them.
What am I being punished for?

A clear voice rang out above the rest of the women as a plump woman in a dark blue bonnet read from the small New Testament in her hand: “And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” Ruby lifted her head and listened.

The voice went on. “Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

At this, Ruby did an about-face and marched right up to the woman who had been reading.

“Did I hear that right, missus?” Her voice sounded sharper than she intended it to. “Would you read it again?”

“It’s the gospel of John, chapter eight,” said the woman. “Do you know the story?”

Ruby shook her head.

“Some men brought to Jesus a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery, expecting Jesus to condemn her to death. But instead, He told her accusers that whoever was without sin should be the first to cast a stone at her. No one did, because everyone sins. Jesus asked her then, if any of her accusers remained. That’s where I began reading, at verse eleven.” The woman pointed to her Bible at this point and began reading from it. “No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more. Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

Ruby chewed on her lip for a moment before raising her green eyes again. “I’m not perfect missus, but neither have I been an adulterer or a prostitute. I’m a clean and decent woman, sure, but I can’t make ends meet as hard as I yank on ’em and coax ’em together. I’ve pawned everything I own but the clothes on my back. I don’t want to sell anything else. I don’t want to walk in darkness.”

“I’m glad to hear of it.”

“You and these other ladies here are telling us to not walk in darkness, but where is the way out? Maybe you think I’m some sort of base woman just because you have found me on Baxter Street in Five Points. I’m not here because I want to be, but because all other doors have slammed shut in my face. I’ll say it again: I don’t want to walk in darkness. But show me the way out of here.”

The reformer woman’s gaze raked over Ruby’s body, but not unkindly. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“Today? Mrs. Sullivan’s Lodging House on Baxter Street. But at the
end of the week I’m out on the street, in a flophouse, or in a brothel.” Ruby wondered how often the woman had heard this story before.

The woman nodded. “You want to get away from here?”

“More than anything, if I can do it without selling my soul,” said Ruby. “Problem is, I don’t know that I can stay without selling my soul, either.”

“Do you have any skills?”

“I can sew. But I can’t make a living at it. I keep falling behind in my rent payments. And I already tried the House of Industry—they have no need of me.”

“Have you any family responsibilities that require your time?”

Fleeting images of Meghan and Fiona passed in front of her eyes, followed by Matthew. He should be home by now. Or he should have at least tried to find her. But if he came home now, he wouldn’t even know where to look. Maybe that’s the way he wanted it.

“Miss?”

Ruby blinked and shook her head. “No, no family responsibilities.”

The woman pressed her lips together. “I know of an opening for a domestic servant in a smart brownstone on West Twenty-first Street. The help just left, and the mistress wants a replacement right away. Can’t seem to keep up with this one—but first I need to know about your character. Have you references?”

Ruby sighed. “None that will help you. But I swear on my father’s grave, I am as upright and moral as I can be. I never have a drop of liquor, I don’t make sport with my body. I work hard, and I’d never give you a reason to regret placing me. I swear it.”

Another reforming woman sidled over and whispered loudly, “But Bertha, is she ‘the worthy poor’? How do we know she is worth our charity?”

Bertha took a deep breath. “Ethel, we’ve been over this before. Charity and justice are two different things. If we are about the work of charity, it’s not our place to mete out just consequences for the destitute’s choices. And look at this one.” She gestured to Ruby. “No bloodshot
eyes from liquor, her clothing is not that of a prostitute, her posture tells us she has spent years bent over her needlework. She’s asking about the Bible, Ethel, for heaven’s sake. What else do you want from her?”

“References.”

“Please missus, I can’t give you that, but I have to get away from here. Would I have approached you on my own if I weren’t serious?”

Bertha sighed. “I hope you’re right. I prefer to trust the good in people, although that has landed me in trouble on more than one occasion.”

“Get me out of here,” Ruby pleaded. “I have no pride. I’m an honest woman, I am. Just give me honest work and I’ll do it.”
Dear God, if You care at all …

Bertha and Ethel looked at each other then, unblinking.

Finally, it was Bertha who spoke. “All right. Let’s get you cleaned up and into some decent clothes before the stink of this place soaks into you any more than it already has. If Jesus gave the adulterous woman another chance, we should be able to give you one, too.”

The letter in Phineas Hastings’s hand was nearly damp with perspiration by the time he dropped it into a post office box. He had tried to forget Charlotte after she had rejected his proposal that humiliating day in Central Park, but it was no use. He had never met anyone else nearly as beautiful and refined. The war would be over by Christmas, this nursing nonsense would come to an end, and they could begin their new life together. Phineas hoped his letter’s deep apology and romantic overtures would hit their mark in Charlotte’s heart.

Now under the shade of an elm tree on West Twenty-first Street, he ran a finger around his neck, separating it from the stiff white collar constantly sticking to it. The high-pitched hum of cicadas throbbed in his ears as he scanned the street in both directions. No one was coming.

He crossed quickly in long strides before letting himself in the door at number 301 with his key. The strong smells of perfume and silver polish assaulted his senses as he hung his grey bowler hat on the hall stand and combed his black hair in front of the mirror.

“Mother?” he called out, now straightening the red cravat at his neck.

“Parlor!” Fanny Hatch’s New York accent dropped the
r
’s from her words, irritating Phineas’s sensitivity for proper diction, but he held his tongue and put on a smile as he walked toward her voice and the sound of clicking knitting needles.

“How are you feeling today, Mother?” He kissed her cheek and pulled up a low armless chair, upholstered in red velvet, to sit at her arthritic feet. The joints in her legs had become so painful she rarely moved from her chosen sitting position all day.

“Ah, Pottsy—”

“It’s Phineas, Mother,” he said, wincing at the sound of the name from another class and another life. “It’s been Phineas for quite some time now.”

“I don’t care what you call yourself, your name is Potter. Always has been, always will be, and you’ll always be my Pottsy. So. I was saying? Oh. My health, thank you for asking. It’s not good, not good at all. My head aches so constantly, my nerves are so frayed. This city heat is not good for me. And did I tell you the help left?”

“Oh? Which one this time?”

“Bridget. No, Barbara. No, Bridget. Fidgetty Bridget.”

“I see. And what was the cause?”

“I fired her.”

“Ah. For good reason, I am sure.”

“Any reason is a good reason, am I right, Potts?” She chortled and slapped a veiny hand upon a darkly draped knee. Not that she was a widow. Or maybe she was, but no one knew. Regardless, it was much easier to play the role of widow rather than that of the abandoned woman. Phineas pinched the bridge of his nose. Any hint of guilt he ever felt for telling people his parents were dead was swept
away every time he visited his mother. If anyone learned the truth about his background, his social standing would plummet. His chances as Charlotte’s suitor would certainly be over.

“I was saying? Oh yes. Bridget. What a sack of lazy bones, between you and me, Potts, and good riddance. Absolutely no gratitude whatsoever, that one. Kept wanting time off. Lazybones.”

Phineas grimaced. She knew how he hated that name, and she still insisted on using it. Without thinking, he reached into the pocket of his suit, pulled out the gold watch, and felt the reassuring weight of it in his palm.

“Well, you must have a replacement, Mother. Have you found anyone yet?”

“As a matter of fact, they sent me some fresh blood already.”

“Who’s they, pray tell?”

“Well I’ll
pray tell
you.” She snorted at her joke. “The Female Reform Society. You know, the group of uppity women who say they’re trying to prevent the worthy poor from falling into the pit of prostitution. They find girls who are willing to work for very little, as long as room and board are paid for. Usually Irish.”