It would not do to show emotion at this moment, no matter how blatant the lies and misrepresentations about her cousin. But neither could she leave it completely alone.
“I wonder what a lady does when she has too many children, and no way to feed them. Do the physicians on your list help in that kind of situation?”
Color rushed up Mrs. Smithson’s face so quickly that Anna was taken aback.
“If you came here for that purpose, you have indeed come to the wrong apothecary. I suggest you leave now.”
She reached out to take back the two sheets of paper in Anna’s hands, but Anna saw her purpose and stepped back from the counter.
“You mistake me,” she said, firmly. “I am not looking for an abortionist. I asked a question, and you have insulted me on that basis. Do you regularly abuse and condescend to your customers?”
“I—I—” A hand crept up to her face and then pressed into her mouth. Through her fingers she said, “I apologize. Most sincerely. I overreacted and I apologize.”
Anna stayed where she was, her expression frozen.
“It’s a sensitive subject. I do apologize, Mrs.—”
“Apology accepted.” Anna made her voice as cold as she could. “And now I wish you a good day.”
? ? ?
ANNA HATED WISHING people a good day. She found it insipid and insincere, and never used the expression. Except just now. Because if she hadn’t said I wish you a good day she would have said something far more colorful. She would have called Mrs. Smithson a lying, sanctimonious bitch. Anna said it now in her head.
Now at least she understood why Amelie had given up her midwifery practice. Hundreds and hundreds of children delivered safely, mothers sustained and kept healthy, and all that was left of the goodwill accumulated over those years was this one idea. If Mrs. Smithson had started talking about the color of Amelie’s skin Anna would have called her a bitch, and worse.
As soon as she was around the corner and out of sight, she began to shake. Her hands trembled so that at first she couldn’t even get the lists she had been given into her reticule. Then she stood quietly and made herself take three deep breaths.
When she looked up she saw the little coffeehouse that sat on the corner where Greenwich, Christopher, and Sixth Avenue converged opposite the Jefferson Market. Before the war she had come here sometimes with Uncle Quinlan. He liked the tobacconist on the next block, and so she would come along first thing and they would have breakfast together. As far as Anna knew, the place had no name, and never had. She sometimes heard it called the Jefferson Market coffeehouse or the blue coffeehouse, and sometimes the French coffeehouse, because the owners had moved down from Montreal and spoke French to each other.
The idea of going home to more chamomile tea was insupportable. Anna crossed Sixth Avenue once again, stepping quickly out of the way of a dray and then a cab, waiting while a stream of people descended from the elevated train platform. She thought again of home. She thought of coffee, and was newly resolved.
It was a small place, very busy, very plain. The wife took her order—coffee and toast—and didn’t seem to recognize Anna, which was what she had hoped. It would be very unfortunate if Mrs. Smithson came in here at exactly the wrong moment and heard someone call her Dr. Savard.
The coffee was served in the French way, in a cup like a bowl, milky and slightly sweet. Anna sipped and watched people coming and going, up and down the stairs to the train, across Greenwich to the market, across Sixth to the shops. Two roundsmen came in and were greeted congenially; news and a few bad puns were traded. There was talk of a robbery on the next block, windows broken but little of worth taken. An old man found dead in Knucklebone Alley, another man had lost his job at the refinery, and a third, disgusted with the city, had packed up his family and moved to Ohio.
In the half hour she took to drink her coffee people came and went: more police, shoppers, a doctor she recognized from the Northern Dispensary just down the street. He didn’t notice her and she couldn’t remember his name.