The Velvet Shadow (10 page)

“Oy, if God himself tells us to wash our hands, shall we not trust him?” Flanna murmured, mimicking her father’s oft-repeated motto.

“What’s that?” Dr. Gulick asked. “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

As casually as she could manage, Flanna began to frame her answer. “Sirs, I base my opinion about hygiene on two things: God’s Holy Word, which you would not want to refute, and my father’s record of success. He has been using water to clean wounds and instruments for years.”

“I’ll not accept the record of any Confederate doctor,” Gulick snapped, his voice sharp with fury.

Flanna turned her gaze toward another examiner, the pleasant fellow who had laughed earlier. “Consider, then, the record of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell of New York. She follows the techniques of cleanliness advocated by Trotula and Hildegard, who outlined such practices in ancient times. The rate of puerperal fever among Dr. Blackwell’s patients is far lower than the rate of a similarly located New York hospital where doctors do not wash their hands between patients. Dr. Marie Zakrzewska has established similar good results with hygienic methods.”

“A confounded waste of time and effort,” Gulick countered, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the examiner Flanna had addressed cut the professor off.

“Dr. Gulick, when are you going to give the rest of us an opportunity to learn from this remarkable young lady?” he asked. When Gulick remained silent, the pleasant doctor gave Flanna a look of faint amusement. “Thank you, my dear, for explaining why you believe cleanliness is important. If you want to bathe your patients, I’ve no doubt that it will do many of them good. Now”—he paused and looked down at his notes—“can you please explain for me the function of the human circulatory system? Take your time, my dear. Even the most advanced healers do not fully understand it.”

Flanna took a deep breath, then began. “The circulation of blood, Doctors, originates with the human heart…”

Two hours later, Flanna thanked the committee and moved toward the doorway. Once she reached the hallway, she closed the door and leaned against it, her heart beating in a staccato rhythm. She had passed! Try though they might—and they had tried, most sincerely, to trip her up—they could find no fault in her preparation. Even dour Dr. Gulick had awarded her a passing score. Soon she would receive a diploma with her name etched in broad, black strokes—Dr. Flanna O’Connor!

She looked around, anxious to share her news. Charity was waiting downstairs in the vestibule, no doubt, and Roger might have arrived by now. Flanna hurried down the stairs with a quick step and a light heart, feeling as though her feet might begin to dance at any moment. She had succeeded!

Charity lay curled on a sofa in the entry, her knees drawn up on the cushions, her head pillowed on her hand. Flanna stooped and woke the girl with a fierce hug.

“Gracious, Miss Flanna, what’s come over you?”

“We did it, Charity.” Flanna felt a blush of pleasure rise to her cheeks. “I passed my exams. You are looking at the youngest doctor in the family.”

“Sakes alive, you really did it?” Charity’s arms slipped around Flanna’s neck, and they shared a tight embrace, one triumphant heart beating against another. “Oh, Miss Flanna, your papa will be so proud!”

“I can’t wait to write him.” Flanna pulled out of Charity’s embrace and wiped a tear of joy from her cheek. “Or should I wire him? We could stop by the telegraph office on the way home.” She looked around the small vestibule. “Have you seen Roger? He said he would be here when my exams were done.”

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mister Roger.” Charity shook her head for emphasis. “Not a glimpse, and I’ve been sitting on that sofa nearly all day.”

“Well then.” Flanna tried to smile, then closed her eyes as a flash
of loneliness stabbed at her heart. A woman ought to have friends around when she had good news to share, but the people who mattered most to her were far away. Papa and Wesley would hear her announcement through an impersonal telegram, then they’d run across the street to share the news with Marsali and her boys. While Roger, who ought to be here, had undoubtedly been detained by some fascinating political gossip spilling in a tavern somewhere.

Flanna opened her eyes and gripped Charity’s arm. Her maid, at least, was near, and if Charity’s was the only friendly face in town, so be it. “Let’s go to the telegraph office immediately.” Flanna pushed her dark thoughts aside. “And tonight we’ll ask Mrs. Davis for some of that delicious ham she keeps squirreled away in the larder. We’ll have a feast.”

“Miss Flanna?”

About to stand, Flanna stopped short, caught off guard by the expectant expression on her maid’s face. “Yes, Charity?”

“Does this mean we can go home now? I’m awful tired of living here with these Yankees. I want to go home and see my folks.”

Flanna paused and looked out the window. Boston and all its glory lay outside, cobbled streets crowded with fancy buggies, busy people, and prosperous traders. Roger had nearly convinced her that this city might hold the promise of her future, but in the last few weeks she had felt the sting of its scorn. Her fellow students, her landlady, and the members of society who had once enthused over her dresses, her slender waist, and her wit—none of them had spoken to or inquired about her in past weeks.

She had hidden herself away, to be sure, but she had kept her weekends free, and not a single invitation had been delivered. She suspected her lack of social acceptance had more to do with her origins than her study habits. And if Boston society thrust her out, Roger would soon desert her too. In the heart of Massachusetts, how popular could a Rebel-loving politician be?

It was time to go home. Now that she’d accomplished her goals, she could be the doctor she had always wanted to be. She had made
her father a promise, and she fully intended to keep it.

Turning from the window, she stood and gave her maid a broad smile. “Yes, Charity. We’ll go home just as soon as we settle things in Boston.”

“Flanna!” Roger burst through the doorway, his eyes blazing and his body as tense as a bowstring. Flanna lifted her chin, ready to brace herself against his list of excuses and rationalizations.

“Flanna, dearest!” His eyes brimmed with emotion as he came forward and grasped her elbows. “I came as soon as I heard. I knew you’d want me to be with you.”

“How could you hear so soon?” Flanna asked. “I’ve only just learned the news myself.”

A tremor passed over Roger’s face. “You’ve heard already?”

“Of course I’ve heard. I was there.” She repressed the urge to stamp her foot in exasperation. “You weren’t. You promised you’d be here when I came out of the examination room, but—”

“Your exams!” A sudden spasm of grief knit his brows. “I’m sorry, dearest, but this is far more important than your test!” His grip on her arms tightened. “Darling, the Confederates have fired on Fort Sumter! At four-thirty in the morning yesterday the Rebels opened fire, and the garrison surrendered! The Union flag was lowered in defeat, dishonored!”

Flanna hesitated, blinking with bafflement. “So this means—?”

“War, darling.” Roger relaxed his hold on her arms and brought his hands to her cheeks. “It’s unavoidable. So kiss me now, before I go see Mother. She’s certain to be in a dither at this news, and she can never find her smelling salts when she needs them.”

Before Flanna could protest or answer, his mouth covered hers hungrily, taking the kiss he had sought for months. When he pulled away, he patted her cheek. “I’ll make arrangements for you, Flanna, before I go. You can stay with Mother while we put an end to the trouble, then we’ll be married in the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.”

“Roger—” She tried to speak, but words would not come. Her anger had evaporated, leaving only confusion, and Roger was moving
away, toward the door and the bustling street.

“I’ll come to you tonight,” he promised, walking out the door. “Wait for me.”

While she watched through the window, Roger climbed into the waiting carriage and ordered the driver to go.

Mixed feelings surged through Flanna as she and Charity walked back to the boardinghouse. The major event of the morning—her examination—seemed a lifetime removed, like an event from a distant past. The breaking news about Fort Sumter traveled through Boston like a wind-whipped grassfire; drivers called out to one another, and women gasped in delighted horror as they greeted each other with the news. In a sudden epidemic of patriotic fervor, merchants rifled their storage rooms for bolts of red, white, and blue bunting. The storefronts along Washington Street seemed to have bloomed in a patriotic frenzy since breakfast.

“Miss Flanna,” Charity whispered, edging closer to her mistress’s side, “I’m scared. If those Yankee girls at the boardinghouse were mean to us before this, how mean are they gonna be now?”

“I don’t know, Charity.” Flanna lowered her head as they quickened their steps. “But I don’t want to tarry and find out.”

Outside of T. R. Burnham’s, Flanna caught sight of Mrs. Gower, a close friend of Mrs. Haynes’s. Since Flanna had welcomed the new year at Mrs. Gower’s holiday ball, she smiled and attempted to greet the lady, but Mrs. Gower stared right through her. Flanna felt the pressure of the woman’s hard gaze as she and Charity passed.

“Law sakes, did you see the look that woman gave you?” Charity’s voice rose to a screeching pitch as they hurried down Washington Street. “If she’d had an egg in that shopping basket, she’d a thrown it at you, Miss Flanna. We’ve got to go home, as quick as we can.”

“I know.” The serpent of anxiety curled around Flanna’s heart slithered lower, to twist around her stomach.
Could
they go home?
Now that fighting had broken out, could they travel safely?

She breathed a huge sigh of relief when they finally reached the boardinghouse. Mrs. Davis opened the door without comment, but the two girls they passed in the hall stared at Flanna as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.

Flanna and Charity raced up the stairs, ducked into their room, and slammed the door. Flanna tensed at the sight of a letter on her bed, then nearly wept with joy. Though the ink was smudged, she recognized her fathers handwriting.

Falling on her bed, she ripped open the seal and began to read: