“Margaret is learning Italian,” Rosa said, almost under her breath.
“Then I had better catch up,” Anna said.
That got her one of Margaret’s rare wide smiles.
“In the meantime, I don’t want you to have to keep a story to yourself if you only know it in Italian. So go right ahead.”
Aunt Quinlan reached over to put a hand on Lia’s head. “And listen now, my henny. The next time you have a point to make, you can do it without shouting and people will still listen to you.”
Lia wrinkled her nose as if she doubted this bit of wisdom, but she also nodded. Reluctant acceptance, Anna thought. She wondered how long it would last.
“So I’ll need an Italian tutor,” Anna said.
Both girls raised their hands, and so did Jack. She elbowed him, not too gently. “I was hoping you’d volunteer,” she said to the girls. “But I’m going to need more help still. I’ve got somebody in mind. I’ll bring him by for you to approve.”
Jack looked at her doubtfully, and Anna kept her smile to herself.
• • •
THAT NIGHT WHEN they went to bed, Anna told Jack the story of how her parents met.
“My mother went to New Orleans to study medicine with Uncle Ben’s brothers, because they ran a clinic there and took on students. This was long before Dr. Blackwell—the one who founded Woman’s Medical School?—long before she fought the battle to be the first woman admitted to medical school. Women who wanted to study medicine had to apprentice.”
“Have you told me about your uncle Ben?”
Anna pointed to a particular portrait. “Ben Savard. He met Aunt Hannah when she was in New Orleans during the war of 1812, and they settled in Paradise. Ben’s half brother Paul was the head of the clinic, and my mother studied under him. Aunt Hannah thought he would be the best teacher for her because he wouldn’t put up with her nonsense, but he also wouldn’t take offense when she turned out to be smarter than everybody else.”
“Was she?”
“Smarter than most, I think. So Ben’s brother Paul had a son who went to France to study medicine; that was Henry Savard, my father. My mother was two years into her studies in New Orleans when Henry came back from Paris, qualified in medicine and surgery too. He wasn’t happy to find that my mother had taken his place and had won everybody over. My mother took exception to him, too. At first.”
“And they fell in love and got married,” Jack prompted.
“It was a stormy romance, or so the story goes. But yes, they fell in love and got married. By that time my aunt Hannah said there were more people in Paradise than she could doctor, and so my parents decided that they’d move north and practice medicine with her. Which is what they did.”
The tree frogs were making music outside the window. For a long time they lay listening and then Anna roused. She said, “What about your parents?”
He stifled a yawn. “That’s a story they tell every year on their anniversary. I think you should wait to hear it from them.”
“Is that an Italian custom?”
“A family custom, I’d say. You might want to think about the story you’ll tell, when the time comes.”
And then he fell asleep, as if he hadn’t just handed her an assignment to worry over for the next eleven months.
28
NEW YORK POST
Wednesday, May 30, 1883
ARCHER CAMPBELL RETURNS WITHOUT HIS SONS
TESTIMONY GOES ON TWO HOURS
Mr. Archer Campbell, whose wife died under mysterious circumstances last week, has returned home after a fruitless search for his four missing sons, ages two months to five years. He last saw the boys the day before their mother’s death, when she took them away from home and out of the city to a destination and fate as yet undetermined.
The complete and unexplained disappearance of four young boys has occasioned considerable speculation from all quarters. The suggestion that Mrs. Campbell might have harmed her sons was addressed in Tuesday’s testimony taken during the inquiry into her death.
Dr. Sophie Savard Verhoeven, the last physician to treat Mrs. Campbell, contends that her patient did not suffer from puerperal insanity. The medical men on the jury were not all in accordance with this view. In an interview, Dr. Stanton expressed his doubts to the Post.
“Well-brought-up women who become good wives do not break with the habits of a lifetime for no reason. Mrs. Campbell had an excellent husband and a fine home. She was a caring and attentive mother. It is possible that her physicians did not look closely enough to see the evidence of puerperal insanity before it was too late, or that she was unduly influenced in a way not yet discovered.”
• • •
NEW YORK TRIBUNE
Wednesday, May 30, 1883
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Sirs: The coroner’s inquest currently under way in the matter of Mrs. Janine Campbell’s death reveals the true nature of those who campaign for “women’s rights,” and it can be summarized in a few words: they think they know better. In this inquest female doctors have given testimony. They speak in rough terms about unladylike, lewd topics, naysaying their betters simply because they are female and they know better. Nature has decreed a certain division of labor, but they know better. The founders of this great nation set out rights and responsibilities for its citizens, but, the women tell us, they know better. The truth is that gentle, worthy ladies brought up in Christian households have their rights already. Good women have the right to influence the race in the nursery, in the family, in the school, and thus through all the race of life. They have the right to be respected by all the respectable. They have the right to be tenderly loved by all whose love is worth enjoying. They have the right to be protected and provided for by men. Healthy, God-fearing women take pleasure and joy from the rights accorded them by the Almighty. If you doubt the dangers of women’s rights, you have only to observe the way female doctors behave when they are called to give testimony. It is a scandal and a tragedy, for them and for the nation.
A Concerned Physician
• • •
ANNA SAID, “OF course you should sail, Sophie. If the district attorney says you are free to go—”
“Wait,” Sophie said. She paced from one side of Anna’s office to the other. “There was something in the paper this morning that has me worried. Did you see Clara’s letter?”
“I haven’t had much time to read the paper these last few days.” She took the clipping that Sophie handed her and looked at it. Another letter to the editor.
Sirs: In his tireless compulsion to rid the city and state of all material he personally finds distasteful, Anthony Comstock of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice seems never to sleep. We note that in two days he has arrested four people for the sale of obscene literature as well as a printer he suspects of printing such materials, raided a reputable and well-respected art dealer, and impounded paintings by one of the greatest artists now living (again because in his superior opinion, they are inappropriate and immoral). In addition to all this, he serves on a coroner’s jury in the tragic case of a young woman’s untimely death, using that opportunity to insult and attempt—note, Sirs, I say attempt—to bully female physicians.
We find it outrageous that Anthony Comstock is permitted to use the justice system to harass people engaged in lawful business, and worse still, to pass judgment on the way qualified physicians treat patients in crisis. Note, too, that Comstock discreetly looks the other way when one of his colleagues on the board of the Society for the Suppression of Vice manufactures, advertises, and sells the contraceptives he—and the society—finds so personally and morally disgusting. It is high time Mr. Comstock’s antics—in and out of the courtroom—be curtailed.
Dr. C. E. Garrison
Secretary
Association for the Advancement of the M
edical Education of Women
Anna looked from the newspaper clipping to Sophie and back again. “I wondered if the papers would allow Samuel Colgate’s name to be printed. Vaseline is the smallest part of what they manufacture, and the papers won’t want to lose the advertising revenue. I realize it’s disappointing—”
“Not that,” Sophie said. “The part about the printer. Comstock has arrested a printer suspected of supplying immoral materials.”
“Oh,” Anna said. “I see.”
“I went to Clara first to see if she had any more information, but she had inquired at the Tombs and couldn’t get a name. Do you think Jack could find out?”
Anna said, “I should think so.”
“I can’t just walk away and leave the Reasons at the mercy of Anthony Comstock.” Her voice wobbled in a way decidedly unlike Sophie’s usual calm appraisal of even catastrophic events.
After a moment’s thought Anna cleared her throat. “But you would trust the matter to us, I hope. With Jack and Oscar, I think we can certainly get to the bottom of this.”
“And if it is Sam Reason who has been arrested, I’ll ask Conrad to represent him. Them.”
“The Reasons might have a lawyer of their own,” Anna said.
“But they shouldn’t have to bear the cost.”
Anna sat down and pointed to the other chair. After a moment Sophie took it. She drew in a deep breath and let it go in a sigh.
“He was terribly rude to me,” Sophie said. “But he was also painfully honest.”
“Sam Reason’s grandson?”
She nodded. “I realize that there is only so much that can be done—who knows what evidence Comstock has. Or thinks he has. But I want to be sure that Sam Reason gets the very best representation. And Anna, this is important.”
Anna waited while Sophie tried to collect her thoughts.
“He is very proud. It’s important to me that he not feel condescended to or patronized.”
“I understand,” Anna said, though she did not, completely.
“So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave a bank draft for expenses. A large bank draft. Use all of it, and if you need more, send me a telegram and I’ll arrange it.”
She got up suddenly, looking at the watch pinned to her bodice. “I need to get home to Cap before the inquest.”
“I think you could reasonably stay away from the Tombs,” Anna said. “Tomorrow at this time you’ll be boarding the Cosimo and there are more urgent things to be done.”
“Absolutely not. I owe Janine Campbell that much. I will see the inquest through to the end.”
Anna got to her feet and hugged her cousin. “And so will I.”
• • •
JACK LISTENED TO the whole story attentively, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. The more Anna saw of him in his professional guise, the more she realized how very much like a doctor he had to conduct himself. He gave nothing away, just as she would give no indication of her findings if she were to examine his mother or one of his sisters.
They were standing on the steps of the Tombs. All around them reporters were trying to get Anna’s attention, but Jack’s posture, his protective stance, kept them from coming closer. The crowd was very large today, no doubt because Archer Campbell was actually here—Anna had caught sight of his red head going into the building—and would give testimony.
Whatever delay had been keeping the entryway blocked suddenly cleared, and Jack propelled her into the lobby. The uniformed officers nodded to him and touched their hats to Anna. She recognized one of the men from their visit to the Brooklyn Bridge, and was glad not to be able to stop, because she knew that questions would be asked, and what she would have to answer. So she let herself be guided down hallways and up the stairs to the courtroom.
Jack leaned over to speak to her without being overheard. “I’ll find out what I can about the printer now. It may take a while, but I’ll be back here as soon as possible.”
He brushed a kiss across her ear and, turning away, disappeared into the crowd in the hall.
The inquest was already being called to order when Anna took her seat next to Sophie. She got out her lap desk and writing paper and pencil, and while the coroner went on about the purpose of the inquest, she wrote Sophie a note: Cap?
Sophie took the pencil and wrote: Looking forward to sailing tomorrow.
Anna could imagine that very well. Cap would be desperate to get away not so much for his own health, but for Sophie’s well-being.
Sophie wrote: The printer? Sam Reason?
Anna thought for a moment and took back the paper to write: Jack has gone to find out.
Sophie gave her a relieved smile and then Archer Campbell was taking the witness seat. He looked drawn, with shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and under his eyes so dark they might have been bruises. His expression was grim and even angry.
“Mr. Campbell,” the coroner began. “My deepest condolences on the sad loss of your wife. You’ve had no success in locating your sons, I take it.”
“None,” Campbell said.
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“If that’s the case, you’ll call an end to this charade and let me get back to the search.”
Hawthorn looked almost startled. Anna thought he was going to challenge Campbell’s less-than-veiled insult, but saw him think better of it.
“We’ll get right to it then. Tell us please about your wife and how you came to marry.”
With obvious displeasure, Campbell told the story in as few words as possible: In Bangor on post office business, he had been introduced to a young lady who worked in the dead-letter office. Her family background was not ideal, but she was healthy, a good Christian, and a hard worker. After two weeks’ courtship, when he had to return to New York, he had decided to marry her.
“She married with her family’s blessing?”
A ghost of sour smile moved across Campbell’s face. “Five unmarried daughters, they were glad to be shut of her.”
“I see. Mr. Campbell, can you shed any light on the events that led to your wife’s death?”
Campbell’s jaw worked silently for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know anything about the particulars.”
“Did you realize that she was with child?”
“No.”
“She didn’t speak to you of it?”
“She never talked about such things. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“When did you first notice something was off?”
Campbell seemed to relax a little. Maybe he had been expecting accusations, and realized now that there were none forthcoming.
“The house,” he said. “It was out of order when I came home from work on Tuesday evening.” Campbell shifted in his chair.
“That was unusual?”
“She knew nothing about keeping house when we married, but then from what I’ve seen of French Canadians, they don’t put much value on cleanliness. I had to teach her what it means to keep a house, the way my mother had. A place for everything and everything in its place. No fingerprints on the windows or anywhere else, for that matter. Floors polished, stove blacked, laundry cleaned and pressed and mended, good plain food on the table when I came through the door. Waste not, want not. Children who know their place, and don’t speak lest they’re spoke to.
“But that day, as soon as I came in the door I knew there was trouble. The boys were sitting at the kitchen table like so many poppets. Big eyes, like they knew they had a hiding due. My oldest boy was holding the baby, trying to keep it quiet.”
“If you’d just go on,” said the coroner. “Tell the story as it comes to you.”
Campbell frowned. “There’s not much to tell. She had lost track of time, she said. She had a headache. She got headaches now and then, but my belief is, you work thro
ugh the pain. Don’t let it get the best of you. But she did. That Tuesday night, she did. Put cold meat and bread out, something I wouldn’t tolerate normally. A man needs a hot meal. But I made do. She cleaned the kitchen, took care of the boys, and sat down with the mending.”
“Did she say anything about arrangements for the next day?”
“She asked if she could take the boys to my brother’s farm.” A flush of color appeared on Campbell’s cheeks. “So she could get the house cleaned proper. I almost said no and by God, I wish I had.”
Anna could almost hear the unease around her in the gallery. Most of the onlookers had been disposed to feel sympathy for Campbell, but his brusque manner was making that difficult. Even Comstock looked unnerved.
“She seemed unwell, that Tuesday evening.”
“As I said.”
“You didn’t call a doctor.”
“Rich people call a doctor for every little thing,” he said. “The rest of us make do. She said she’d be right in the morning, and I believed her. And so she was. Now I’m thinking nothing failed her at all. It was just her way of putting me off the scent, not asking about things being out of order.”
Hawthorn gave a doubtful low hum. “Tell us about that Wednesday morning.”
Campbell didn’t try to hide his impatience. “She went about her business, as she always did. Breakfast and seeing to the boys and so forth. Getting them ready for the train.”
“Did you see her off at the Grand Central Depot?”
“Look,” Campbell said. “It was nothing out of the ordinary. I went to work; she got herself and the boys to Grand Central by omnibus. I don’t hold with cosseting. My mother raised six boys to good men, and she did it with the Bible in one hand and a hickory switch in the other.”
“All right,” said Hawthorn. His tone was short. “Then we’d like to hear about Wednesday evening when you got home.”
“She was in bed,” Campbell said. “Vomiting into a basin, curled up under the covers. So I got my own dinner—cold meat, again—and read the paper like I always do. I heard her moving around some and so I went to check and she was trying to get a bottle of laudanum open. I opened it for her, and I went back to my paper and then to bed. That was at about nine.”