A Dream to Follow (25 page)

Elizabeth watched the exchange and nodded when Mrs. Josephson glanced her way.

Ambrose returned. “She will meet with you in the dining room in a few minutes.” The right side of Ambrose’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Methinks this meeting was destined. I really do.”

“Do you go around doing things like this all the time?” Elizabeth crossed her hands over the reticule in her lap.

“And what is it that you are referring to as
this
, miss?”

“You know, fix things.”

“Well, miss, I
am
the concierge. That is my job, making things happen for our guests. As to your other errand . . .” He nodded again, the light from the chandeliers glinting in his hair, giving him the appearance of wearing a slightly skewed halo.

Mrs. Josephson crossed to the desk, spoke briefly with a man there, then made her way down the hall, which Elizabeth had already discovered led to the necessaries.

She sat back in her chair and gazed around the busy lobby again. Two small children, so closely resembling each other they might have been twins but for the two-or-so-inch difference in height, followed a young woman who most likely was their nanny. The boy dropped behind, lowered the hoop he had been carrying on his shoulder and, with a flick of the wrist, set it rolling across the polished floor. Before the young woman could stop him, he tapped it with his stick and trotted beside it.

“Tony! Anthony Martin, you stop that this instant.” The young woman grabbed for him, missed, and tripped on the front of her skirt.

The little girl, clad in a sailor dress matching her brother’s suit, giggled into hands splayed across her face, a cloth doll clutched in her arm.

The young woman valiantly tried to right herself but to no avail and ended up in a heap on the floor.

Ambrose snatched up boy and hoop and set both down with a stern look. “Now, Master Anthony, see what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t trip her.” Hoop back on shoulder and hands on hips, the boy glanced from the red-faced woman who, with the offered hand of a young man fighting to keep a solicitous look on his handsome face, was helped to her feet. Hat half over her ear, she shook her skirt into submission, grabbed the little girl, and headed for the boy like a galleon in full sail.

Elizabeth watched the boy, knowing exactly how he felt. Too many times she’d been in the same predicament.

“I just wanted to see if it would roll as well on a shiny floor as on the grass.” He shook his head and allowed her to take his hand, purposely hanging back just enough to cause her to pull him.

Elizabeth glanced up to see Ambrose fighting the smile that twinkled in his eyes. Was that a wink he sent the boy?

Ambrose turned to her. “If you will come with me, miss, I believe Mrs. Josephson is ready for you.”

What am I getting myself into now? But Elizabeth swallowed her question and stood to walk with her escort. Her knees had begun to shake.

CHAPTER TWENTY-One

Chicago, Illinois

“Mrs. Josephson, may I present Miss Rogers?”

“You most certainly may, you old reprobate.” The sparkling clip in her upswept and rolled hair caught the light and drew Elizabeth’s attention. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her clothing, everything perfect as perfect could be but for the sadness in eyes dimming from age. Was it sadness or pain? Elizabeth took the hand offered and felt the tremor.

“I am glad to meet you, ma’am. Mr. . . .” She stumbled to a stop. She didn’t know the man’s name. Turning to him, she caught the look that passed between the two, the kind of look that said in spite of the difference in their stations, they were friends of long standing. Friends who would do each other favors and depend on the judgment of the other in social situations.

“I think, Ambrose, you should tell her your name. I have a feeling . . .” She let her sentence trail off, but her eyes never left Elizabeth’s.

Scalpels could probe no deeper than that steady gaze, and scalpels could not penetrate a soul.

Elizabeth felt as though she’d met the sword of the spirit, that sharp, two-edged sword dividing asunder even soul and spirit. She swallowed, or tried to, an impossible task with no saliva left in her mouth.

“I am Ambrose McKnight, head concierge here at the hotel since as far back as I care to admit.”

“Th-thank you, Mr. McKnight.” Tearing her gaze away would be most rude, and impossible anyway.

“Sit down, please.” Whether an order or an invitation, Elizabeth did exactly that before her knees gave way. Meeting the queen of England could be no more harrowing.

“And you will order the tea?”

“Yes, ma’am, of course. Anything particular that would please you?”

“Hmm.”

While they carried on a discussion of cream puffs and canapés, Elizabeth took the moments to regain her composure. She could remember no time in her life when meeting someone had affected her this way. What was it about Mrs. Josephson? The direct gaze? The regal manner? Or a combination of everything?

Their discussion finished, the man left with a slight bow, and Mrs.

Josephson turned her attention again to Elizabeth.

“Well, my dear, what do you have to say for yourself?” The eyes that peered over her half glasses now twinkled as if a child had come out to play.

Elizabeth could feel herself relax, the tension draining away like water from an unstoppered sink. “I believe I shall tell you two things—”

“Only two things?” Mrs. Josephson quirked an eyebrow. “We will have many hours to share secrets.”

Elizabeth swallowed and snatched the glass of water on the table in front of her to drown her dry throat. Instead of pussyfooting around, she made a decision.
I will be as direct as she unless that offends her. Then I shall be more circumspect
. Having comforted herself with the thought, she returned the twinkling smile.

“I asked Mr. McKnight if you had had an injury lately.”

“And the second?”

“I am studying to be a doctor, and therefore I watch people, trying to learn more about them through visual diagnoses.”

“And your diagnosis in my case brought you to the conclusion that I have had an injury. What made you think injury instead of chronic problem?”

Elizabeth stopped to think and review the picture she had seen. What made her think injury?

“You were refusing to limp.”

A chuckle greeted her statement.

“And I think if it were chronic, you would have no longer paid any attention to it.” Elizabeth waited for anything more, then added, “In spite of pain.”

Mrs. Josephson straightened her shoulders, if that were at all possible. “One must not give in to pain, or it will take over one’s life, especially as one ages. I refuse to let something so mundane take over my life.”

Elizabeth blinked and blinked again. If only more people had her strength of character. “So is this affliction recent or long term?”

“You were right about a recent injury, but it is only the aggravation of a chronic situation. And there, I refuse to spend more time discussing it. Either way, you would have been correct.” She stared over her glasses again. “Now tell me about your dream of becoming a doctor.”

“It is not a dream. I
will
become a physician. At the moment I attend St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota, and take my science classes at Carleton in the same town. I live at home, and my father owns and publishes the
Northfield News
.” She wasn’t sure why she included that, but for some reason it seemed important.

“What year are you?”

“I will be a junior in the fall.” Another sip of water. “Oh, and I work for the local doctor.”

“And what do you do for him?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Other than hiring his help and keeping his accounts, you mean?
“I assist in his surgery and accompany him on birthings. You see, I want to take care of women and newborns. There is no need for so many to die.” The last was said with a rush of passion.

“Ah. Has there been something in your life that causes such devotion?”

“Yes. My mother died in childbirth. I remember the day clearly even though I was only three.”

“So tragic for such a little one.” Mrs. Josephson paused with a minute shake of her head. “And you have really assisted at birthings?”

“Yes. Dr. Gaskin wants me to learn quickly and take over his practice.”

“Is that what you want?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I want to work in a women’s hospital. That is why I was trying to find out the way to Dr. Morganstein’s hospital. Mr. McKnight was doing all he could to dissuade me.”

“Your tea, ladies.” The announcement came from the concierge, and the tray was carried by a white-clad waiter wearing a tall hat.

“Will this be acceptable, madam?”

Mrs. Josephson glanced over the tray and nodded. “You have outdone yourself, Monsieur Claude.”

“Mais bien sûr.” He pointed to each delicacy, his French fast and fluid.

Elizabeth listened hard and fast, catching some and totally missing others.

“Merci beaucoup.” Her smile held a note of propriety now, not the openness with which she’d greeted Elizabeth. And yet, they obviously knew each other, just on a more formal basis.

The chef, as Elizabeth now realized he was, withdrew, and Mr. McKnight fussed over setting things just right until Mrs. Josephson whispered, “Enough, Ambrose, let us enjoy ourselves undisturbed.”

“Yes, madam, of course.” With that same slight but still appropriate bow, he left, leaving Elizabeth the secret of his wink.

“Do you take milk with your tea?”

“Yes, please, and one cube of sugar.” She accepted the fine bonechina cup and fluted saucer, setting it to the right of her place setting as her mother had drilled into her for years. At least she did know proper etiquette, although she’d never dreamed she would be needing it in a situation like this.

“So are you here in Chicago alone?”

“Oh no. My stepmother is upstairs resting from our journey. She will order tea in our rooms, have a leisurely bath, and finally dress for a late supper, most likely to be served in our rooms also.” She tried to trap a sigh, but the perceptive woman across from her caught it.

“And you did not want to waste a perfectly wonderful evening in Chicago in rooms with curtains drawn and the need to not disturb a sleeping relative.” Mrs. Josephson dropped a cube of sugar into her teacup with the silver tongs. After stirring it, she took a sip and closed her eyes briefly. “Ah, there is nothing like a pot of fine Indian tea shared by an interesting person.”

Elizabeth nodded at the compliment. “Merci.”

“You do speak French. I wondered.”

“Not well enough to keep up with the gentleman, but I can carry on a conversation.” Elizabeth took two of the tiny sandwiches off the crystal salver held out to her. “These look lovely.”

“Claude is an artist, but with food instead of paints.” Mrs. Josephson bit into a sliver of smoked oyster on a tiny cracker. “Delicious. The older one gets, the more one must appreciate every little delight in life. Gratitude is a dying grace, I’m afraid.” After touching her mouth with her napkin, she leaned slightly forward. “I have decided to take you to visit Dr. Morganstein. Althea and I grew up together.”

Elizabeth could not have been more shocked had the woman confessed to . . . she couldn’t think of anything to fit. “Th-thank you.

B-but why?”

“My dear, I do not believe in coincidences. Our meeting is Godordained, like everything else that happens. How else would I be standing at a table where I never pause while you were trying to cajole Ambrose into taking you to see my friend?”

“I just wanted directions.”

“Which you would not have been able to follow unless you had lived in Chicago a good long time, and even then you may not have arrived at your destination.”

“Even in the daylight?” Elizabeth barely rebuked a shudder.

“Lovely young women alone have been known to disappear without a trace.” This last was said simply and without any attempt to frighten, thus making it all the more frightening.

“How can I thank you?”

Mrs. Josephson leaned forward. “By becoming the very best doctor you can be and accomplishing your dream. No amount of money can buy a good enough doctor when needed.”

“And what happened to you to come to this place?” Elizabeth knew she was walking a thin line, but confidence begot confidence.

“My only daughter died in childbirth, the babe with her, due to her doctor’s inexperience, or at least that’s what they called it. I call it criminal negligence, but”—Mrs. Josephson sat back again in her chair—“it shouldn’t have happened.”

Wishing she dared lay her hand over that of her hostess, Elizabeth threw propriety to the chandeliers and did exactly what she felt was right. The woman clenched her fingers with a fierceness born of a soul-stripping need.

“I dream—I pray—she might have been just like you.”

As if nothing had transpired, Mrs. Josephson released Elizabeth’s hand and picked up her teacup, using both hands to control the shaking.

“We will go tomorrow if that is acceptable to your stepmother. And now I suggest that you go ascertain that she is well and enjoy your time together. Chicago and the fair will wait. I will send you a note in the morning.”