She found her way to the little post office on West Tenth Street and mailed the letter to Amelie, then made a plan.
First, a turn around the market. She bought some boiled sweets, a few yards of silk gauze that she rolled into a sausage shape that fit into her reticule, a card of pretty carved shell buttons. She studied ducks hanging in the butcher’s window and shoes in the cobbler’s. On Greenwich a clerk walked back and forth in front of the milliner’s shop, showing off the newest fashion and trying to draw passersby in for a look.
When she had made a full tour of the market Anna crossed Sixth Avenue again and went straight to Smithson’s.
It had been a very long time since she had last been in the apothecary, but it seemed to Anna that nothing had changed: sets of scales hung from the ceiling, heavy wood counters and glass-fronted cabinets, a wall of small drawers with printed labels, jars arranged in neat rows on deep shelves. Even early on a summer day the gaslights were turned up high, to combat the gloomy, tunnel-like atmosphere of Sixth Avenue over-hung by the elevated train.
A younger man was busy topping up a china canister from a far less attractive stoneware crock. Anna couldn’t see the names from where she stood, but the sweet-sharp tang of bitter orange—Aurantii cortex—hung in the air. There was mint, too, and less pleasant but familiar smells, some chemical, some botanical.
A woman came into the shop from a back room, and here was proof that things had indeed changed.
Not a clerk, by her demeanor or dress. Smithson had sons; this might be a daughter-in-law, or a granddaughter. She was neatly and very fashionably dressed in a suit of dark gray summer-weight wool with a tasteful bustle and a waist cinched down to no more than twenty inches. A black velvet band around her neck was held closed by a jet mourning brooch, small but very pretty.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I hope so.” Anna came closer. “I am trying to get in touch with a midwife who used to work in this neighborhood, but no one seems to know where she’s gone. Do you keep in touch with local midwives?”
“We do. Within limitations.”
Anna skated right by that conversational opening. “Her name is Amelie Savard.”
The cool blue gaze focused on something behind Anna, and then came back to her.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that.” She seemed to remember her manners just that easily. “I’m Nora Smithson. My husband is the apothecary.”
“It’s been a very long time since my last visit,” Anna offered. “I was away in Europe for a good while.”
The secret to successful lying, she had observed over the years, was to stick with just that part of the truth you needed.
Mrs. Smithson said, “You might remember my father-in-law. He retired last year. May I say without presuming—if you are in need of a midwife, there are a number who work with us who have excellent reputations. Would you like a copy of the list we keep?”
Mrs. Smithson smiled at her in the way women sometimes smiled at newly expectant mothers. Anna was glad to be spared the necessity of lying outright.
“I would. Yes, please.”
“If I may suggest,” she went on, her voice lowered. “You might consider a physician. There are specialists in women’s health who also have excellent reputations, and attending privileges at one or more of the local hospitals. Medical science had advanced beyond midwifery.”
“Ah.” Anna hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Would you have names—?”
This earned her a very sincere smile. “Of course. I’ll give you both lists.”
She turned away to take something out of a drawer; turning back, Anna saw that she had more to say, and was looking for an opening.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Well, not exactly. May I ask, where did you hear the name Amelie Savard?”
This Anna had prepared for. “Neighbors are very kind with advice about greengrocers and butchers and dry goods stores, and I heard the name from an elderly lady who lives next door. She said that Mrs. Savard was an excellent midwife.”
Mrs. Smithson was chewing delicately on her lower lip. “Does this neighbor have children?”
Anna paused, thinking, and decided to depart from the truth in this much. “I don’t actually know. They would be middle-aged, if she does.”
Another small nod. “Despite what you were told, Amelie Savard was not a midwife.”
Anna raised a brow, as much invitation as she could trust herself to give.
“She was an abortionist in the model of Madame Restell. You have heard of Madame Restell? She lived in a mansion on Fifth Avenue.”
“Ah,” Anna said. “I haven’t kept up with the laws.”
“There are still abortionists about,” Mrs. Smithson said. “But they don’t come in here. They wouldn’t dare. We alerted Mr. Comstock about the Savard woman, and she left town, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.