Between the Raindrops

A Man's World

Emelia was the youngest daughter.

Her mother was venerable, armored in haute couture and ensconced in High Society. The matriarch with grand designs and Emelia's darkest fear. She did not want to become her mother.

Her elder brother, Edward, was his mother's son. From the shape of his nose to his imperious expectations and iron will. The man of the house. They had Emelia's husband picked out. Her future planned. They were of one mind and flank in concert.

How very charming. Certainly. Practice medicine. It lets people know we're humanitarians. But a wedding in June would be too perfect. And then? Well, then you have children. Have we not indulged you enough? You can't possibly mean to continue wandering around hospital wards with a husband and social engagements to attend.

As if medicine were some frivolous hobby to be set aside, like polo or gambling...

Emelia's last engagement, the one that solidified her decision to steal away, like a thief in the night, with little more than three dresses and a few gifts from her father, was a charity benefit for the poor. Her sister, Caroline, made much and more of the vast misery in the tenements; tuberculosis, syphilis, and alcoholism rampant, the rivers polluted with sewage. Oh, but the wonders of charity and how delightful it felt to be doing something.

It struck Emelia that while she sat in luxury, trussed up like a pig on a platter, she could be doing something. All the money in the world amounted to nothing if there were not enough physicians willing to give of themselves.

Blackwater Surgery was but a simple red brick and white trim building off Main Street. Single story. Four elegantly carved pillars held up an awning over the entire stone sidewalk the full length of the front façade. The word Surgery was written in the glass above the slim French doors. Number 32.

Emelia took a breath. She turned the round brass knob and entered. The noise of the street died away.

It was small but fine. Victorian geometric tile floors and dark molding lent the small space an air of quiet confidence. It smelled of lye. Daylight streamed in through the skylights, setting the polished millwork and waiting chairs aglow.

Emelia walked to the reception window and rang the bell.

A man, no older than her father would be, came to the counter.

"Hello," he said, mustache turning up with his smile. "How can I help, Miss...?"

"Doctor Emelia Griswold," she supplied with a smile.

His eyes lit with recognition and he smiled wider.

"Ah, the good doctor," he said, reaching to shake her hand. "How do you do? I'm Doctor Cornelius Thompson. A pleasure. Clem Stone will keep the use of his arm, thanks to you. Fine work."

She blushed. "Thank you, Doctor. I..."

"It is a good thing he came to me straight away... you lacked proper antiseptic... or morphine, but yes... he made it here. How can I help you? Are you in need of care?"

"No... I was... I'm actually looking for work. I was hoping, perhaps to work with you? If you'll have me."

His smile faded.

"I... Well..." he stammered. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and asked, "Did Worthington write you?"

"No," she replied. "Honestly, I just looked at a map and picked something far from New York."

Dr Thompson smiled thinly beneath his salt and pepper mustache. "Indeed," he allowed. "So, what are your qualifications?"

"I graduated from Syracuse."