This Golden Land (18 page)

     "I am sure Robert is a very nice young man," Hannah said, "and I do appreciate your efforts at introductions, but I am not looking right now."

     When Hannah saw Molly's cheeky smile, she knew what her friend was thinking: that Hannah had her eye on Dr. Davenport. "He owns his own house," Molly had said only last week over a dinner of Mrs. Throckmorton's steak and kidney pie. "With the entire upstairs for living, and downstairs for his practice. A
doctor
, Hannah, with a good income. And not bad looking, if a bit old."

     Hannah allowed Molly to believe what she wanted, knowing that Molly could not fathom Hannah's true reason for working at Dr. Davenport's office. That she wanted to make a career of healing people.

     Bidding Molly a good day, Hannah left Mrs. Throckmorton's house and struck off into the crisp autumn morning. When she reached the muddy street, she turned and looked up at a third floor window, where Alice was looking down, waving. Hannah waved back and continued on her way.

     Alice was recuperating from the severe beating Lulu had given her a week ago, and she could not go outside until the facial bruising was entirely gone. But Alice, Hannah had discovered, despite her frail looks and shyness, possessed a strong inner fortitude. She was not a girl to languish in self-pity. Alice had promised that when she was better, she was going to look for a job
in town. Her time at Lulu's house had forced her to face and overcome her fear of fire, so that now she could work at any domestic occupation, and be glad of it.

     Thinking that it would aid Alice's recovery, Hannah had persuaded her to come downstairs one evening and sing for the other boarders. They were enraptured. One girl had said, "Alice's voice is like an unexpected break in the clouds sending down a ray of sunshine on a dismally rainy day." Another enthused, "She makes me feel sad and joyous at the same time." And Molly Baker had declared, "She could catch a rich husband with that voice!"

     But out of Alice's hearing, they all agreed that it was such a shame about her facial disfigurement.

     It had been a difficult seven days. First, Hannah had had to lie to Mrs. Throckmorton about Alice's "accident," persuading the landlady to allow the injured girl to share Hannah's room. At the same time, Hannah's conscience had become greatly troubled by the house of ill-repute. Now that she knew the women were held there against their will, and physically abused, she knew must do something about it. But she had no idea what. Alice had begged her to forget it. "The authorities won't do anything. They are Lulu's best customers. I could name judges, bankers, men high up in the colonial government who go to her house on a regular basis. They won't want you making this public. It could backfire on you."

     For a week Hannah had struggled with the moral dilemma, torn between her conscience and the truth of Alice's warning, and now she had come to a decision. She would seek Dr. Davenport's advice. He was a smart man, educated, and wise to the ways of the world. She would take him into her confidence and explain about the house beyond the edge of town—he would undoubtedly be shocked to hear of the existence of such an establishment, and that men in high positions were patronizing it, but Hannah needed counsel on what to do.

     She reached Dr. Davenport's a few minutes later, as Light Square was not far from her boarding house. Going up the front steps of the two-story brick residence sandwiched between a dress shop and a bookstore, Hannah smiled at the shiny brass plaque with Dr. Davenport's name on it. Someday, she knew, her name would be there, too.

     The street door opened onto a tiny foyer that offered two doors. One was labeled
Private
and it led to the kitchen and servants' area in the rear. The other door said
Waiting Room
, and Hannah entered it to find a small crowd already waiting to see the doctor.

     A bench ran along two walls. When a patient came out of the doctor's office, the next person in line got up and went in, and everybody slid along. As she passed through, Hannah smiled at everyone. A few of the men stood, others touched their caps, murmuring, "Good morning, miss." There was Mr. Billingsly, the haberdasher, with an infected toe, and the baker's wife, Mrs. Hudson, with a cough that wouldn't go away. A man with his right arm in a sling was Sammy Usher, a drover who fell off a bullock dray and dislocated his shoulder. Hannah noticed that Mrs. Rembert was back with her arthritis, and Mr. Sanderson had no doubt returned to collect another bottle of the doctor's tonic, which he declared had given him the vitality of a twenty-year-old. There were a few whom Hannah did not recognize. She knew that some came out of curiosity as word had spread of a woman working in a doctor's office, and people came to see for themselves.

     As she opened the inner door, she prepared herself for another day of learning, and her excitement rose because one never knew what the day was going to hold. Like the case last Monday, when a woman had come running into the office to declare that a neighbor family were dire ill and dying.

     Davenport had gone at once, walking at a fast clip through a light drizzle, as the house was not far. He and Hannah let themselves in and found the father and mother lying ill in one bedroom, five children in the other, all down with severe abdominal pain, vomiting, and weakness. As Dr. Davenport examined the children, Mr. Dykstra had managed to drag himself out of bed and into the children's room. He was dizzy, staggering and giggling, and in fact appeared to be drunk.

     Helping the man back to bed, Dr. Davenport asked for a report on when and how the illness had started. It appeared to have been shortly after breakfast, with the youngest falling ill first. By noon they were all nauseated and stricken with diarrhea and pain.

     "What did you eat for breakfast?" Dr. Davenport asked, and was told of sausage, eggs and tomatoes. Leaving the Dykstras as they lay groaning
under Hannah's watchful eye, Dr. Davenport went through the modest little wooden house and out to the back where he found the typical garden of most Adelaide citizens. Neat rows had been planted with lettuce, carrots and tomatoes. Dr. Davenport looked around and when the found the empty kerosene tins, came back to the bedside and asked, "Mr. Dykstra, did you use lamp oil on your garden?"

     "Had to, Doc. Aphids and spider mites got into my tomatoes again. The plants were young and I knew I'd lose them. So I doused the whole crop with kerosene. It worked."

     "Mr. Smith, kerosene is a poison to humans as well as to insects. Your breakfast tomatoes were poisonous."

     "But my wife washed the tomatoes real good before we ate them."

     "Mr. Dykstra, the kerosene seeped into the soil and was then drawn up by the roots of the young plants. By the time the tomatoes matured, they were full of kerosene. Find another way to kill aphids, Mr. Dykstra."

     Dr. Davenport prescribed large doses of water hourly, to dilute the blood, and peppermint to control the vomiting. That night, Hannah recorded two notes on the case, writing on a small piece of paper: "Unexplained euphoria or giddiness is a symptom of kerosene poisoning," and, "If one poisons pests when plants are young, the poison will be present in the mature plant and make those who eat the plant sick." She slipped the note into her father's portfolio, hoping that it was only the first of many she would add to his already impressive body of observations and knowledge.

     As she entered Dr. Davenport's office on this morning filled with promise, Hannah saw the distraught look on his face, and she was instantly alarmed. "Oh dear, has someone passed away?" Hannah took a seat in the patient chair. "Was it Mrs. Gardener? Her heart was so weak."

     Street sounds drifted through the window as Davenport found his voice. "Miss Conroy, have you been paying visits to a house on the outskirts of town, owned by a Miss Forchette?"

     "Yes, doctor. As a matter of fact I had planned to bring up this very subject with you. You see—"

     "Miss Conroy, what on
earth
possessed you to visit such an establishment?"

     Taken aback by his sudden, uncharacteristic impatience, Hannah described
her encounter with Alice, three months prior, outside Dr. Young's office. "As no other doctor would go out there, I offered to help."

     Davenport released a heavy sigh. "You do realize that this has cast serious doubt upon your integrity? That your reputation has been damaged?" He held up a sheet of stationery. "Someone is upset and is threatening to tell Adelaide society of your connection to that house."

     "Who?"

     He showed her the letter. It was signed,
A Concerned Citizen.
"They didn't sign their real name."

     "No doubt not wishing to admit that they even know of such an establishment."

     "Dr. Davenport, I assure you, I went there for no immoral reasons. I went only to help the girls. Certainly they are as entitled to health care as anyone else."

     "No one denies that. But, Miss Conroy, that is a house of ill-repute. Anyone associating with it is going to come up suspect. Surely you see that?"

     Hannah frowned. "Dr. Young went there regularly. Why didn't this 'concerned citizen' spread the word out about
him
going to Lulu's house?"

     "Because he went there as a doctor, to see to health issues."

     "As did I. Dr. Davenport, I was called to wrapped sprained ankles, to suture wounds, to treat rashes. Why is that different from what Dr. Young did?"

     "That is because a doctor takes care of myriad ailments, from sprains to fractures to fevers. A midwife, on the other hand, is concerned with but one function of the human body. No one could possibly know that you went to that house for other reasons. You are not, after all, a doctor. You are a
midwife
, and midwives visit such houses for only one purpose."

     "And what is that? Surely the author of that letter doesn't think I delivered babies there."

     His eyes widened. Did she truly not know? "Miss Conroy," he said, choosing his words carefully, "what other reason might a midwife be called to an establishment like Miss Forchette's?"

     "I have no idea."

     Dr. Davenport saw the genuine innocence in her eyes, the lack of guile
on her face. He looked at the delicate throb of pulse at her pale neck, her gloved hands clasped patiently in her lap, and he was rocked with a nameless emotion. "Miss Conroy, there is a certain secret and illegal treatment which midwives are known to practice on occasion." He said no more, hoping she would finally grasp his meaning.

     It was Hannah's turn to stare, and as she looked at handsome Dr. Davenport with the boyish curls dropping over his forehead, despite the gleam of pomade that was intended to tame such curls, and as she saw the embarrassment on his face, his obvious discomfort with the subject, the full meaning of his words sank in.

     Hannah gasped. "I assure you, Dr. Davenport, I performed no—" She could not say the word.

     "I know that, Miss Conroy," he said, "but the rest of the world does not. If you were not a midwife, the allegations would not be so severe. In fact, there might be no allegations at all, but a simple questioning of your character. Unfortunately, if word gets out, this will have serious ramifications for me and my medical practice. The fact that I hired an abortionist . . ." he let his words trail off.

     Hannah closed her eyes. "I had no idea."

     "I know that, but the damage is done and cannot be undone." He lifted eyes so bereft that it took her aback. "I'm afraid I must discharge you."

     She stared at him. "Discharge me—" The breath caught in her throat. "But I have broken off my association with that house."

     "It doesn't matter. The harm has been done. If I do not terminate your employment here, I risk losing every patient I have. And if my practice closes, people who have come to depend on me might end up going to doctors of dubious credentials."

     "I am so sorry," she whispered.

     When he saw the tears sparkle in her gray eyes, Gonville Davenport had to fight the impulse to dash around the desk and gather her into his arms. She looked so
vulnerable.
He wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be all right, that he didn't care what the citizens of Adelaide thought, that he would protect her and help her through this.

     But he knew he could do no such thing. He had to think of his patients.

     Davenport blamed himself for this mess. Hannah was only twenty years old, fresh from England and without family. Her maturity and capabilities had blinded him to the innocent girl underneath. He knew now that he should have taken better charge of her, inquired into her off-hours activities, ask about friends and associates. But it was too late now. Her naiveté had done irreparable damage. The horse race at Chester Downs, the German sausage and beer, and the Frenchmen with their hot air balloon flight would carry on without him.

     As Hannah started for the door, Davenport said, "Just a moment, Miss Conroy." Reaching for the ivory statuette of Hygeia that had stood on his desk since his honeymoon in Athens, he held it out and said, "I want you to have this."

     Hannah barely saw the traffic and pedestrians of Adelaide as she made her way back home. How could she have been so blind? Of
course
people would think of only one reason why a midwife would visit a house of ill-repute. How could she not have realized it herself? Tears blinded her as she dodged carts and horses to cross the street. This was not Bayfield. She was not assisting her father, protected by his wisdom and experience. She was a green girl who had possibly made the worst blunder in her life!

     Hannah was met in the downstairs parlor by a grim-faced Mrs. Throckmorton. Alice was also there, looking whey-faced and frightened. And then Hannah noticed that her trunk was there as well. "I am sorry, my dear," the elderly landlady said in genuine sadness. "You have been a good tenant and I hate to see you go. But I received this letter . . ."