The next few weeks passed without upset. No botched spying attempts from the bushes. No unplanned ambulance rides. No irksome encounters with Nurse Hatfield. The man with the fractured leg was placed in the ward adjoining her own. Una managed to visit him every day despite her growing list of duties. His leg was raised and fixed with traction, but the puncture wound had healed without infection, and the prognosis for his recovery was good. She brought him fresh tea, fluffed his pillow, and read to him when she had the time. He preferred the Irish American but would settle for the World if that was the only newspaper handy.
Una managed to see Edwin most days too, if only for a fleeting moment when he brought a new ambulance patient to her ward. When Dr. Scott recovered from the flu and returned to his position as ambulance surgeon, she and Edwin contrived to meet in stairwells, storerooms, even the worrisome elevator to share a few words and a hurried kiss. The rare Sunday when neither of them were on duty, they met at Central Park, braving the muddy, less fashionable paths to keep from being seen by anyone from Bellevue.
Una knew their liaisons were reckless. And the more Edwin shared of his life—a favorite hunting dog named Oyster he’d had as a child, a carriage accident when he was nine that fractured his skull and left the driver dead, a half brother he’d met in New Orleans and never spoken to again—the more Una hated herself for deceiving him. But every time she resolved to tell him they were through, her will crumbled.
He was different from past men she’d dallied with. Those men were like her—at once flippant and guarded when it came to matters of the heart. Even Barney, the only other man who’d shown true care for her, expressed his affection in paternalistic terms. Edwin spoke to her like an equal. (When they weren’t on the ward, playing, as he’d put it, their prescribed roles.) He flattered her with compliments the same as other men but seemed as interested in knowing her thoughts as he was in kissing her.
Thankfully, no one at the hospital or nurses’ home suspected anything between them. Or so Una thought.
One night in early March, as they sat side by side in the library reading, Dru turned to her and asked, “Where do you really go after church on Sundays?”
Una looked up from her textbook, doing her best to appear unperturbed even though her heart had leaped into her throat. For a country bumpkin, Dru’s instincts were surprisingly sharp. She cast a nonchalant glance around the room to be sure they weren’t in earshot of the other women, then met Dru’s gaze and smiled stiffly. “Like I told you, to my cousin’s home uptown for supper.”
“But you always eat again when you return.”
“She’s . . . er . . . not a very good cook.” That was true enough. Una reached for her cup of milk and took a sip, then turned her eyes back to her book, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Are you having an affair with your cousin’s husband?”
Una choked on her half-swallowed milk, coughing and tearing up until her windpipe cleared. If Dru had ever met Randolph, she’d know how ridiculous a notion that was. “My God, what a thing to say! Of course not.”
Dru’s neck flushed, and she looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offense. Mother always told me I’d do well to keep my mouth shut.”
Clearly that advice had fallen on deaf ears.
“It’s just that . . . well, never mind. I suppose Mother was right.” Dru wrung her hands as if she hoped to squeeze out all feeling. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
Una reached over and stilled Dru’s hands. “Don’t be a ninny, of course we are. I’ve been called worse than an adulteress before.”
“What could be worse than that?”
Trollop. Miscreant. Bandit. Boot-scum. Bogtrotter. Menace. Gutter rat. Una could list dozens of insults slung her way over the years, but she didn’t elaborate. She tried to return to her book but couldn’t concentrate on the words, rereading the same paragraph about methods for arresting hemorrhages three times before giving up. “What made you think I was carrying on an affair?”
This time it was Dru who scanned the room before leaning in and whispering, “Well, in The Forgotten Room, Lady Shuttlecock spends hours
primping before sneaking out to meet her lover, Count Wickabee. It’s how her deceit is eventually uncovered. Her lady’s maid notices and tells the cook who tells the—”
“The Forgotten Room? Is that what you’re wasting candles on late at night after Mrs. Buchanan turns off the gas? And here I thought you were memorizing the names of the blood vessels.”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Her eyes fell to her lap. “Miss Hatfield and the others might think it in bad taste.”
Una shook her head. For some, reading anything other than the Bible was considered bad taste. Though she wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Hatfield had a trove of silly novels hidden away in her room. “So you think I’m like Lady Scuttlebug?”
“Shuttlecock, yes.”
“And you are . . . the maid?”
“It’s just that I’ve noticed you take more care with your appearance now than before. Pinning your hair just so. Making sure your buttons are straight and sleeves puffed. Asking to borrow my muff and hat when you go out.”
Una frowned. The way Dru talked, she’d been positively slatternly before. She’d just never seen the point of brushing her hair a hundred times or preening in front of the mirror. Una hadn’t even owned a mirror. The backside of a spoon worked well enough.
“I didn’t really think you were having an affair with your cousin’s husband,” Dru continued. “But when you insisted that was where you were off to every Sunday when you’re not on duty at the hospital, well, I couldn’t figure what else it could be. Anyway, Dr. Westervelt will be quite relieved.” “Dr. Westervelt?” Una winced at the shrillness of her voice. She leaned
back and said more evenly, “Whatever do you mean?” “Haven’t you noticed? He’s smitten with you, Una.”
Una tried to laugh, but it came out more like a bark. “Surely you’re mistaken.”
“Why else would he have snuck us in to see that blood transfusion?” “He was only being kind.”
“Well, he certainly wasn’t there to watch the procedure. He hardly looked away from you the entire time.”
Una grabbed her cup of milk and drank it empty. But still her mouth felt dry. “You don’t think anyone else has noticed?”
Dru thought on this an interminably long time before shaking her head. “Not unless they read a lot of novels. In The Hidden—”
“You won’t mention this to anyone else, will you?”
“Why? Not even Miss Hatfield could fault you. It’s not as if you’ve encouraged his attentions.”
Una had lied straight-faced a million times. To bankers and streetcar conductors and coppers and judges. But now, her goddamn lips betrayed her with a smile. A half smile, really. A twitch.
Dru caught it and squealed. Una hushed her.
“I knew you weren’t going to your cousin’s for supper.”
“It’s nothing. We’re not . . . we enjoy each other’s company. That’s all.” It was nothing, wasn’t it? She’d never actually agreed he could court her, after all. Besides, a man like him, on his way to becoming an esteemed surgeon, and she, a thief in hiding, was the sort of ridiculous pairing that belonged on the pages of one of Dru’s novels.
For the first time in all their nights of studying, Dru closed her book without marking her page or glancing at the clock to see if she could squeeze out another few minutes of reading. “Tell me everything.”
And for the first time, Una saw it all. The complete truth—from the moment she’d first encountered him on the ward to their latest meeting that morning in the northwest stairwell as she headed to the laundry.
“Is he always as terribly serious as he seems at the hospital?” Dru asked.
Una shook her head. That was one of the things she liked about him—his warm, easy laugh and the way he made her laugh too. She appreciated his thoughtfulness and curiosity. He listened without interrupting to correct or cajole her. He had his share of stubborn opinions, certainly, but unlike most people, he wasn’t above changing his mind. She admired his courage in standing up to Dr. Pingry and his confidence in inspiring trust in his patients. Yet, when he was alone with Una, he revealed a softer, less certain side, trusting her not to exploit it.
And for once, Una didn’t. She didn’t keep score, probe for weaknesses, or angle for advantage. It was as close as she could come to being vulnerable herself.
Una and Dru talked until Mrs. Buchanan sent them to bed. But Una lay awake long after the house had gone dark. She waited for the familiar pang of regret she’d felt after too much whiskey or losing the day’s earnings on cards. But it didn’t come. Instead, she felt lighter, almost giddy—further proof that confiding in Dru about Edwin had been a mistake.
The trouble was, her muddled mind didn’t care about proof. Neither did her heart. Rules be damned, she’d enjoyed sitting with Dru, laughing and whispering, just as much as she enjoyed her time with Edwin. As much as she’d enjoyed anything in a long, long time. And didn’t everyone—even a lying, thieving slum-dweller—deserve a moment or two of happiness?
Reality would come knocking soon enough. It always did.
