“But I could be,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He’s been at me morning and night. I could be. And if not now, then next week.”
Sophie spread out a hand. “It’s not likely, Mrs. Campbell, but it’s possible. In any case, there isn’t any way for me to diagnose a pregnancy at such an early stage.”
“I know what I know.” There were tears in her eyes.
Women often did know very early that they had conceived, but in this case it was hard to say. Mrs. Campbell might still be feeling the aftereffects of pregnancy and birth, or in her anxiety and fear—because she was terribly afraid, without doubt—she could convince herself of something that simply wasn’t true.
But she could be pregnant. Children born ten months apart were not all that unusual.
“Would you like me to write a letter ordering no intimacies for health reasons, until further notice?”
“He wouldn’t credit it,” Mrs. Campbell said, bitterly.
And that was certainly true; Mr. Campbell would ignore what she had to say. The situation was simple and familiar and heartrending, because Sophie had no solutions to offer. She could not even ask if Mrs. Campbell had received the pamphlet she had sent, because she still could not be absolutely sure of the woman’s true purpose.
Mrs. Campbell spoke under her breath, as if giving Sophie permission to ignore her. “I cannot, I cannot have another baby so soon. It will kill me.”
Sophie could simply send the woman on her way with a few carefully chosen platitudes; it would be the safest and soundest thing to do. But it would also be cowardly and worse, a violation of the oath she had taken. She must try, at least, to pass on information the woman could use to help herself.
For a moment she imagined Anthony Comstock standing out in the hall, a smirk on his face, and then she looked at her patient and all other concerns had to be set aside.
“You realize the importance of attention to hygiene while you are still healing?”
Mrs. Campbell’s expression shifted, something of hope there now. “I have heard something about that, but I don’t know where to start.”
“Let me explain to you about the most effective ways to maintain personal hygiene. If you have time?”
“I do,” Mrs. Campbell said. “For this I do have time.”
? ? ?
AN HOUR LATER as she was getting ready to leave, Janine Campbell paused as if she had something she needed to say but would leave unsaid without encouragement.
“Mrs. Campbell, I can’t promise to have an answer to every question, but I will do what I can for you.”
“If scrupulous attention to personal hygiene is not enough, if I am already pregnant—”
The silence drew out for a long moment.
“Mrs. Campbell,” Sophie said quietly. “I have given you all the information I have to share.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, looking resigned.
“But I can come back to see you?”
“Normally I would be happy to have you as a patient,” Sophie said. “But I am just about to leave on a longer journey. I may be gone a year, or possibly more.” Or far less, she added to herself.
It often fell to Sophie to give a patient very bad news. An imminent stillbirth, malignant tumors that could not be excised, a child who would not survive the night. She had seen all manner of grief and sorrow and anger, raging and tears and those who fell away into unconsciousness rather than face tragedy. She was seeing many of those things on Mrs. Campbell’s face along with a cold resignation, and the force of it struck her.
“I have a number of colleagues who would give you excellent care,” Sophie said. “Shall I give you some names? Female physicians, women I went to school with?”
“No,” Janine Campbell said, her voice low and soft and hoarse. “No. I’ll figure something out. But thank you.”
? ? ?
ANNA GOT TO the hospital at dawn just as a cab pulled up. The door flew open and Sister Mary Augustin jumped down before the cabby could even get off the box. She was so intent on helping Sister Francis Xavier step down safely that she didn’t notice Anna, standing a few feet away.
What Anna saw was that the older nun and the cabby wore almost identical expressions. Crankit, Aunt Quinlan would have called it, a bit of Scots left over from her first marriage.
While Sister Xavier fussed at Mary Augustin, the cabdriver dumped their satchels on the ground and turned to stalk away. Anna called after him.
“Take those inside, please,” she said. “And leave them with the porter.”
He gave her a long and speculative look, which Anna took to mean that he had been paid but not tipped. Nuns might not know about what a working man has coming, his look seemed to say, but you should. Anna produced a quarter dollar from her pocket and held it up; the cabby retrieved the bags with a surly grunt.