The two lady physicians are distant cousins who grew up together on Waverly Place. Sophie Savard Verhoeven, a mulatto, was born in New Orleans and came to New York as an orphan in 1865. Both women are graduates of Woman’s Medical School and properly registered at Sanitary Headquarters.
Drs. Savard and Verhoeven met with Coroner Lorenzo Hawthorn at his offices this afternoon, accompanied by their attorney, Conrad Belmont, Esq., to answer questions arising from an autopsy performed by Dr. Donald Manderston of Women’s Hospital. Subsequent to that meeting Coroner Hawthorn announced he will convene a jury. Jurors will decide if Mrs. Campbell’s death can be attributed to criminal malpractice on the part of one of the doctors who treated her. Such a finding would cause the doctors to be bound over to the grand jury to determine whether indictments are called for.
? ? ?
NEW YORK WORLD
Friday, May 25, 1883
EVENING EDITION
MULATTO BRIDE TO FACE CORONER’S JURY
As reported in the early morning edition of the Post, Sophie E. Savard, married this morning to Peter Verhoeven, Esq., the wealthy son of one of the city’s most noble families, has been instructed to appear before a coroner’s jury on Monday. The deceased is Mrs. Janine Campbell, a young woman who was in Dr. Savard Verhoeven’s care at the time of her death by malpractice. Also being questioned is Dr. Anna Savard, the last physician to treat the victim on the day of her death.
Accordingly Mr. and Mrs. Verhoeven have postponed their departure for Marseilles.
? ? ?
ANNA TOOK A cab to the Staten Island Ferry at the foot of Whitehall Street early Saturday morning, where Jack was waiting. He kissed her cheek and took her Gladstone bag and valise, bought tickets, and found seats quickly and without fuss. Anna, ill at ease and out of sorts after a poor night’s sleep, took exception. He seemed untouched by the events of the previous day, good and bad both. It set her teeth on edge.
When they had settled in for the journey Anna thought that he would raise the subject of the inquest, and was both relieved and irritated when he did not. Instead he talked of a letter from his mother and an ongoing rivalry between two sisters-in-law that had to do with what he called tomato gravy, Uncle Alfonso’s complaints about the utter lack of logic in the way English was spelled, and Oscar’s landlady’s dog who had produced six puppies in the middle of the night without uttering a sound. Or maybe, Jack suggested, Oscar’s consumption of beer had had something to do with his undisturbed sleep. Comforting, easy conversation that had nothing to do with death or postmortems or the Comstock Act. There was no talk of Sophie or Cap, and really, she reminded herself, hadn’t she just this morning wished to have a day she could spend with Jack alone?
When there was a pause in his storytelling Anna pointed something out. “You’re trying to rob me of my mood.”
Jack stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, put his hands behind his head, and tilted his face to the salt breeze. He grinned without looking at her.
“How am I doing?”
Anna bit back her own smile but conceded defeat; it was too fine a summer morning to fret over things that could not be changed or even prepared for. It all had to be left to Conrad Belmont, for the moment at least.
“Surprisingly well.”
“That’s a relief. It’s bad luck to scowl on your birthday.”
Anna closed her eyes and put her head back. “Sophie has been telling tales.”
“It’s not your birthday?”
Anna hummed.
“You don’t want any presents, she told me. You dislike birthdays.”
“True.”
“I like presents,” Jack said.
“Is it your birthday?”
“It is not, but if you’re not using yours—”
Anna turned toward him. “So what is it you want for your not-birthday?”
“I’ll think of something,” he said. Then he roused himself to take a wrapped package from his valise while he talked about progress he had made arranging repairs to the old Greber house. Except he didn’t call it the old Greber house or my new house or even our new house, but Weeds.
The Russo girls had given the new house that very odd name to distinguish it from Aunt Quinlan’s, now renamed Roses, as in We’re going over to Weeds to play, or They’ll be wondering about us at Roses. Without comment or discussion, everyone had taken up the new names. Anna feared that even after Mr. Lee had transformed the neglected garden into a showpiece the name would stick. In fifty years, quite likely, few people would remember why.
He handed her the package wrapped in brown paper.
“Not a birthday present,” he said. “Wallpaper samples. My sisters want to know what appeals to you.”
Anna unfolded the samples and spread them out on her lap. Huge fussy sunflowers against a background of maroon and brown, scrolling agapanthus in olive greens and grays, cabbage roses in pink and red rioting over a trellis interrupted here and there with blue globules that were meant, she thought, to be songbirds. She folded the samples and retied the bundle while she thought.