Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (14 page)

She pushed those thoughts down, to consider at a better time. She turned to Allison, thinking perhaps it would be good to have this distraction. “Tell me what we need to do,” she said. “Do you think you can manage? Speak to Hattie, perhaps order flowers or whatever you do for such events?”

“I should come to see the clinic,” Allison said. “To know what the space is like, see if we need to rent a table—”

Ramona gave a tinkling laugh. “I knew you had an eye for detail, Cousin Allison! What fun! Do let me be your assistant in this project, and tell me everything Emily Post says.”

Allison’s pretty smile broke out again, and Margot wondered that her parents didn’t do more to encourage it. When she was happy—which she so rarely seemed to be—she was lovely, bright and youthful and pink-cheeked.

Margot looked around the table at her family and smiled. “Thank you all. I guess I’ll—I’ll just put myself in your hands!”

Only Edith said nothing. She sat pushing a bit of biscuit around on her plate with her fork, not seeming to hear the conversation around her. Margot noticed that no one, not even Allison, suggested that Edith should be included.

Still warmed by her family’s unexpected enthusiasm, Margot excused herself and left the family to finish their breakfast while she went out to the hall to put on her coat and hat. Blake followed, leaning on his cane. “Where are you headed, Dr. Margot? I can drive you.”

Margot bent to pick up her medical bag. She was about to refuse, but really, it was the perfect way to take Margaret Sanger to see the Women and Infants Clinic, and it would save a lot of time over the streetcar. “If you’re free, Blake, it would be helpful. It’s going to be a full morning. I need to go to the train station, then to the Women and Infants Clinic.”

“Let me just change my coat.”

Margot slipped out through the front door and stood in the shelter of the porch while she waited. She felt the bite of winter on her cheeks and in her lungs. Pewter clouds shrouded the vista of the city, obscuring the Sound and the mountains beyond. Frank had left Seattle while the trees still blazed red and gold, and now they were sere, the deciduous ones bare of leaves, the layered greens of pine and fir providing the only spots of color.

She shivered a little against the cold and began to button up her coat. As she smoothed the collar with one gloved hand, she felt a new chill on the back of her neck, the vague prickle that meant someone was watching her. She spun sharply around to scan the porch behind her, and the gardens to either side. She couldn’t find anything. She turned back again, but she frowned at the odd sensation.

As the Essex rolled down the driveway and pulled up at the curb in front of the house, Margot shook off the uneasy feeling and strode determinedly off the porch and down the walk to the gate. She was thrilled to be meeting Margaret Sanger at last. Today meant the culmination of months of letters and plans and petitions. She mustn’t let it be shadowed by pointless anxiety.

Blake, now attired in his driving coat, his cap, and his black leather gloves, got out of the driver’s seat to hold the passenger door for her. “Blake,” she scolded. “You don’t need to do that.”

As she slid onto the seat, she saw the rebellious glint in his eye. “I’m managing perfectly well, Dr. Margot,” he said.

She chuckled as he got into the driving seat. The cane waited in the seat beside him, but it was true, he had managed the doors with ease. “Patients like you keep doctors on their toes,” she said.

“Do we indeed,” he said, giving her a wry glance in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, you do.”

“Perhaps,” he said, with a twitch of his lips, “that’s a good thing.”

As the Essex swept majestically down Broadway and turned down the hill to King Street Station, Margot said, “I had forgotten how nice this is, Blake. I took it for granted, and then when you weren’t here—that is, the streetcar is fine, but this—this is marvelous. I’ve missed it.”

“It’s good to be driving again, Dr. Margot.”

Margot was tempted to say that it was really Blake himself she had missed and not the automobile. She didn’t speak the words, but she suspected he knew. She was still smiling when they reached the station.

 

Margaret Sanger was surprisingly small for a woman who had caused such a furor, not only in New York but in the whole country. She was slender and dark, with a slight overbite and a light, precise voice. She shook Margot’s hand, refused to allow her to carry her bag, and insisted she wasn’t tired in the least. “I won’t be staying in Seattle, Doctor,” she said. “So if we could go directly to the site, I’d prefer that.”

“Of course. I’ve kept the whole day free.”

“Very good. I’m due in three other cities this week.”

If her tone was a bit peremptory, Margot let it pass. The woman had, after all, put her life on the line for their cause. She could be forgiven her lack of grace.

Blake emerged from the Essex and took Mrs. Sanger’s valise to stow in the back. He touched his cap brim, said, “Good morning, ma’am,” and held the door for each of the women, limping only a little without his cane.

As they drove, Mrs. Sanger asked where Margot had studied, how long she had been in practice, what her special interests were. She seemed collegial, pleasant enough, looking curiously out the window as the Essex rolled into the poorer section of Seattle. When Blake, following Margot’s instructions, pulled the car up in front of a modest brick building, Mrs. Sanger said, “Is this it?”

“Yes,” Margot said. “It needs a bit of work, inside and out, but the rent is reasonable, and the owners agreed to our purpose.”

“A Negro section of town, I see.”

Margot involuntarily glanced forward, to read Blake’s reaction to this. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he reached for his cane and opened his door. She said, “Yes. Does that matter?”

Mrs. Sanger climbed out of the backseat without so much as a nod to Blake. “It’s excellent,” she said crisply. “It’s a principal part of the community we want to reach.” She added, in a casual way, “These people need birth control more than most.”

Margot met Blake’s gaze as she herself got out of the automobile. His features were perfectly blank, his eyelids hooded, his mouth straight. She left her medical bag on the seat, and she brushed the sleeve of Blake’s jacket as she passed him. Her own voice, she thought, was equally crisp, even brusque, as she said, “Thank you very much, Blake. We’ll try not to keep you waiting too long.”

He answered, “I’ll be right here, Dr. Margot.” There was no inflection in his deep voice, but she heard the old echoes of the South in his accent, remnants that surfaced when he was angry. Margot’s lips pressed together as she turned to follow her guest.

She used a key to open the door, but as she and Mrs. Sanger stepped inside, Sarah Church emerged from a back room. She wore a long paint-stained apron over a shirtwaist and ankle-length skirt, and her curly hair was bound up in a scarf. Her deep dimple flashed as she came eagerly forward, saying, “Dr. Benedict! Have you come to check on our progress?”

Margot nodded to her. “Hello, Sarah. Yes, in part. Also to show Mrs. Sanger our building. Mrs. Sanger, this is Sarah Church, the nurse who will staff the clinic and assist the physicians. Sarah, this is Margaret Sanger. You know her work, I believe.”

Mrs. Sanger put out her hand to shake Sarah’s, and then said, “A Negro nurse. Very good choice, Dr. Benedict.”

Margot stiffened, and she saw Sarah falter in the act of extending her own hand. Mrs. Sanger seemed not to notice, briefly shaking Sarah’s hand, then turning in a circle to assess the room. It smelled pleasantly of fresh paint. Sarah had cadged some simple furniture from one of the local businesses, a divan, a couple of mismatched straight chairs, and a low table.

Mrs. Sanger said, “You’ll need a desk, of course. Will you be able to install a telephone?”

Margot moved to Sarah’s side so the two of them faced Mrs. Sanger shoulder to shoulder. She heard the ice in her own voice as she spoke. “The matching funds should cover a telephone, yes. We’re still working on the furniture.”

“And the doctors? Are they Negroes also? We did that in New York, you know, and it was quite successful. Harlem, it was.”

She walked toward one of the examining rooms, and Sarah and Margot stole the moment to glance at each other. Sarah’s wide, delicate nostrils quivered. Margot gave an apologetic shake of her head, and beneath the cover of Sarah’s apron, touched her hand before she followed Mrs. Sanger.

“I will be one of the physicians,” Margot said. “I don’t know yet who the other ones will be.”

“Oh, I recommend using coloreds,” Mrs. Sanger said offhandedly. She started into the first examining room, adding over her shoulder, “They understand each other, you know.”

When Mrs. Sanger had moved out of sight, Margot turned to Sarah. “Blake is outside,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you go and say hello to him, and I’ll—I’ll—” She made an irritated gesture in Mrs. Sanger’s direction.

“It’s all right, Dr. Benedict,” Sarah said. “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Blake. Please don’t worry about this. I’m used to it.”

Margot’s chin rose. “I don’t want you to be
used to it
.”

Sarah’s eyes shone with wisdom far beyond her years, and her own small chin jutted in a matching movement. “This is our life, Dr. Benedict.” She spoke without resentment, without even self-pity.

Margot nodded toward the outer door. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m going to have a word with our guest.”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “But you know, Dr. Benedict, you can’t change the world singlehandedly.” Something about the courage in her face, in the lift of her head and the decisiveness of her steps as she walked away, tightened Margot’s throat. She had to clear it and draw a long, cooling breath before she followed the woman she had thought would be a mentor.

 

By the time she and Blake had returned Margaret Sanger to King Street Station and wound their way back up the hill to Benedict Hall, Margot felt so tightly strung she thought if anyone touched her she would reverberate. Blake left her in front of the gate, and she stalked up the steps and into the house, dropping her bag with a thud on the carpet in the front hall, tossing her hat at the mahogany coatrack and missing, cursing as she bent to pick it up. She heard the clink of glassware in the small parlor and knew the family had gathered for drinks before dinner. It was rare that a drink sounded like some sort of answer to Margot, but this was such a moment.

She shrugged off her coat and smoothed her skirt with her hands before joining the group around the piecrust table. Dick, with a single glance at her face, poured two fingers of whisky into a cut-glass tumbler and handed it to her without a word. She took a sip and settled onto the divan, cradling the glass in her hands and staring into the briskly burning fire. Everyone was there, Ramona and Edith, Dickson, even Allison. There was no sound except the crackle of burning wood until Margot blew out a long, exasperated sigh.

Her father asked in a wry tone, “Bad day, daughter?”

Margot threw him a look. “Not good, Father. I lost my temper.”

He raised his bushy gray eyebrows and waited. Allison looked from one to the other of them, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. Ramona sat back, as if to move out of the way. It was Dick who said, “Who’ve you scolded now, Margot?”

She gave a sour chuckle. “Now, Dick? Do I scold so often?”

“All the time, I think,” he said, but he was grinning. Ramona hid a smile with her perfectly manicured hand. Edith, in the chair opposite, gazed into space, her sherry glass tilting and forgotten in her hand.

“Well,” Margot said. “You’re right, Dick. At least, I tried to scold her. It didn’t seem to take.”

“Sanger,” Dickson rumbled. “You were meeting Margaret Sanger today. I thought she was your heroine.”

“My heroine has feet of clay, Father.” Margot took another deep sip of whisky, and held the glass out for her brother to refill. “It doesn’t mean she’s not doing heroic things, but there’s a flaw.”

“Always is,” Dickson said easily. He raised his own glass to watch the firelight flicker through the amber liquid. “That’s the trouble with having heroes. They turn out to be human.”

“Tell us about it,” Dick said.

“You might not feel the same as I do,” Margot said.

Allison surprised them all by saying, “I’d really like to know what happened, Cousin Margot. She made you angry?”

Margot turned to her, startled and pleased by this interest. “Yes, Cousin Allison, she did make me angry. I was looking forward to meeting her, and to showing her the progress we’ve made on the Women and Infants Clinic. It’s a long story, but—”

Allison said, “There’s a new law, isn’t there?”

Dickson said, “There is indeed. Congress did something right for once. Hard to argue that the health of women and babies isn’t worth a bit of national investment.”

Margot nodded approval. “Thank you for saying that, Father. The infant mortality rate in America is appalling.”

“Sheppard-Towner is a good law,” Dickson said. “At least as far as it goes. I’m not sure we should let Margaret Sanger co-opt it, but there it is.”

“I don’t really think she’s co-opting it, Father,” Margot said. She let her head drop back against the divan and felt the tension in her body begin to release. It was good to be with her family, with her wise father and smart brother. And her interested cousin! She said, “Contraceptive education is an essential part of women’s health concerns.”

Ramona said, a bit plaintively, “Do we have to talk about that, Margot?”

Margot paused, trying to find a politic way to respond. She was aware of Allison’s wide-eyed gaze, and of course, she hadn’t yet addressed the issue with her. She didn’t know how the girl would respond to blunt speech on the subject. “I know you’re opposed to abortions, Ramona,” she said finally. “The best way to prevent them, without doubt, is to prevent the pregnancy in the first place. It’s my view—as it is Mrs. Sanger’s—that treating women’s health includes providing them with information about controlling the size of their families.”