A Good Woman

Chapter 20

With the war over, people began to drift back to their normal lives. Soldiers returned to their hometowns, married the women they had left there, or new ones they had met in the years since. They returned to their former lives and jobs. The maimed and injured were seen everywhere on the streets, on crutches, in wheelchairs, with missing or artificial limbs. It sometimes seemed as though half the men in Europe were crippled now, but at least they were alive. And those who didn’t return were mourned and remembered. Annabelle often thought of her old classmates who hadn’t come back. She missed Marcel every day, and even Rupert, who had tormented her so mercilessly in her first months at the château, and had become such a kind friend in the end.

New arrivals appeared regularly, and there were sixty students at the château by spring, earnest, determined, wanting to become doctors and serve the world. Annabelle remained the only woman student, and everyone was in love with Consuelo. She had a first birthday party shared by sixty-one adoring medical students, and walked for the first time the next day. She was everyone’s darling, and even touched the heart of the sometimes stern Dr. Graumont. She was seventeen months old as her mother began her third year of medical studies. Annabelle was particularly careful to keep her away from strangers, as the fierce worldwide influenza epidemic raged on. By then several million people had already died.

The medical school became the perfect home for both Annabelle and Consuelo, with sixty loving uncles fussing over her every chance they got. They brought her little presents, played with her, and one or the other of them was always holding her or bouncing her on their knee. It was a happy life for her.

Annabelle eventually had to give up the house in Antibes, when the owners decided to sell it, and she was sad to say good-bye to Gaston and Florine. But Brigitte stayed with them, and the cottage on the château grounds was comfortable enough for them.

Once in a while, as she watched Consuelo flourish, Annabelle thought of contacting the viscount’s family. Now that she had her own child, she wondered if his parents would want some sort of last link to their son through his daughter. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to share Consuelo with anyone. The baby looked exactly like her, as though no one else had contributed to her birth. Everyone who saw her said that she was the portrait of Annabelle in every way.

The years of Annabelle’s medical studies drifted past her at lightning speed. She was so busy and engaged in what she was doing that it felt as though in the blink of an eye it was over, although she had worked so hard to get there.

Annabelle turned thirty the month she graduated from Dr. Graumont’s medical college as a physician. And Consuelo had just turned five in April. Leaving the college, and the cottage where they had lived, was like leaving home again. It was both exciting and painful. Annabelle had decided to go to Paris, and had applied for an association with the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris Hospital near Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité. It was the oldest hospital in the city. She was planning to open an office of general medicine. She had always hoped to work for Dr. de Bré, but he had died the previous spring. And her last tie with home had been severed a month before she graduated. She got a letter from the president of her father’s bank, to tell her that Josiah had died in Mexico in February, and Henry Orson shortly afterward. The man who handled her affairs at the bank thought she would want to know and had enclosed a letter Josiah had left for her. Josiah had been forty-nine years old.

His death, and his letter, brought a flood of memories back to her, and a tidal wave of sadness. It had been eight years since he had left her, and she had come to Europe, seven since their divorce. The letter from him was tender and nostalgic. He had written it close to the end. He said he had been happy in Mexico with Henry, but that he always thought of her with love, and regret for the terrible things he had done to her, and that he hoped she had found happiness too and would one day forgive him. As she read it, she felt as though the world she had grown up in and shared with him no longer existed. She had no ties to any of it anymore. Her life was in France, with her baby, and her profession. Her bridges had long since been burned. The only thing she had left in the States was the house in Newport, which had stood empty for eight years, still tended by her parents’ loving servants. She doubted she would ever see it again, but hadn’t had the heart to sell it yet, and she didn’t have to. Her parents had left her more than enough to live on and assure Consuelo’s future and her own. One day, when she got up the courage, she would sell their old summer cottage. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. Just as she couldn’t bring herself to contact the errant viscount’s parents. She and Consuelo existed in their own world alone.

It was painful leaving the medical college and the friends she’d made there. All of her fellow graduates were dispersing to various parts of France. Many were staying in the South, and she had never been close to the only one going to Paris. For all the years she’d been in Europe, she had made no romantic alliance. She was too busy working for the war effort, and then with her studies and her daughter. She was a dignified young widow, and now she would be a dedicated doctor. There was no room in her life for anything else, and she wanted it that way. Josiah had broken her heart, and Consuelo’s father had destroyed the rest. She wanted no man in her life, and no one other than her daughter. Consuelo, and her work, were all she needed.

Annabelle and Consuelo took the train to Paris in June with Brigitte, who was thrilled to go to the city with them. Annabelle hadn’t been to Paris in years, and it was a bustling city now. They arrived at the Gare de Lyon station, and took a taxi to the hotel on the Left Bank where Annabelle had made a reservation. It was a small establishment Dr. Graumont had recommended to her, which was suitable for two women and a child. He had cautioned her about the dangers of Paris. Annabelle noticed that their cab driver was Russian, and had a distinguished look. Many of the noble White Russians were in Paris now, driving taxis, and working at menial jobs, after the Bolshevik Revolution and the murder of the czar’s family.

It was a thrill when she signed herself into the hotel as Docteur Worthington. Her eyes lit up like a child’s. She was still the beautiful young woman she had been when she arrived in Europe, and when she played with Consuelo, she looked like a girl again. But beneath the youthful spirit was a responsible, serious woman, someone others could confide in, and entrust their health and lives to. Her manner with patients had been the envy of her fellow students and colleagues and had won all her professors’ respect. Dr. Graumont knew that she would make an excellent physician, and be a tribute to his school.

They settled into the hotel. Dr. Graumont was going to send their things later, once they found a house. Annabelle wanted a place where she could establish her medical practice and see patients.

The day after they got to Paris, she went to the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris Hospital, to see about their permission to allow her to put patients there, while Brigitte took Consuelo to the Luxembourg Gardens. The beautiful blond child clapped her hands in excitement when she met her mother back at the hotel.

“We saw a camel, Mama!” Consuelo said, describing it to her, as Brigitte and her mother laughed. “I wanted to ride it, but they wouldn’t let me,” she pouted, and then burst into delighted giggles again. She was an enchanting child.

The Hôtel-Dieu Hospital’s permission had been granted with Dr. Graumont’s recommendation. It was an important step for Annabelle. She took Consuelo and Brigitte to dinner at the Hôtel Meurice as a special treat, and one of the Russian taxi drivers drove them all around Paris to see the sights of the city at night all lit up. It was a far cry from when Annabelle had arrived there during the war, brokenhearted and freshly shunned in New York. This was the beginning of a whole new life that she had worked hard for.

They finally went back to the hotel at ten o’clock. Consuelo had fallen asleep in the taxi, and Annabelle carried her upstairs and set her gently down on the bed. And then she went back to her own room and looked out the window into the Paris night. She hadn’t felt this young and excited in years. She could hardly wait to begin work, but she had to find a house first.

For the next three weeks Annabelle felt as though she were seeing every house in Paris, on the Right Bank and the Left, while Brigitte took Consuelo to every park in Paris-Bagatelle, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Bois de Boulogne, and rode the carousel. The three of them went out to dinner every night. It was the most fun Annabelle had had in years, and was a whole new grown-up life for her.

Between seeing houses, Annabelle went shopping for a new wardrobe, serious enough for a doctor, but stylish enough for a Parisian woman. It reminded her of when she had shopped with her mother for her trousseau, and she told her own Consuelo about it. The little girl loved hearing stories of her grandmother and grandfather and Uncle Robert. It gave her a sense of belonging to more people than just her mother, and always made Annabelle’s heart ache a little for the family she couldn’t give her. But they had each other, and she always reminded Consuelo that it was all they needed. Consuelo commented solemnly that they needed a dog as well. Everyone in Paris had one, and Annabelle promised that when they found a house, they’d get a dog too. They were happy days for all of them, and Brigitte was enjoying herself, flirting with one of the bellboys at the hotel. She had just turned twenty-one and was a very pretty girl.

By the end of July, Annabelle was getting seriously discouraged. They still hadn’t found a house. Everything they saw was either too big or too small, and didn’t have the right set-up for her medical practice. It felt like she was never going to find what they needed. And then, finally, she found the perfect place on a narrow street in the sixteenth arrondissement. It was a small but elegant little house with a front courtyard and a back garden, and a unit with a separate entrance where she could see patients. It was in excellent condition, and was an estate being sold by the bank. And Annabelle liked the fact that it had a dignified look. It seemed wonderfully suitable for a doctor. And there was a small park nearby where Consuelo could play with other children.

Annabelle made an offer on the house immediately, met the asking price established by the bank, and took possession of it at the end of August. In the meantime, she ordered furniture, linens, china, some adorable children’s antiques for Consuelo’s room, and some lovely things for her own rooms and some simple furniture for Brigitte. She bought some serious-looking furniture for her office, and spent September purchasing the medical equipment she needed to run an office. She went to the printers and ordered stationery, and hired a medical secretary who said she had worked at the Abbaye de Royaumont as well, although Annabelle had never met her. Hélène was a quiet older woman, who had worked for several doctors before the war, and was delighted to help Annabelle start her practice.

By early October, Annabelle was ready to open her office. It had taken longer than expected, but she wanted everything to be just right. With trembling hands she hung out her shingle, and waited for something to happen. All she needed was for one person to walk through the door, and after that things would get started by word of mouth. If Dr. de Bré had still been alive, he could have referred patients to her, but he wasn’t. Dr. Graumont had written to several physicians he knew in Paris, and had asked them to refer a few patients to her, but that hadn’t borne fruit yet.

For the first three weeks, absolutely nothing happened. Annabelle and Hélène, her secretary, sat looking at each other with nothing but time on their hands. She went up to the main part of the house and had lunch with Consuelo every day. Then finally, at the very beginning of November, a woman walked into her office with a sprained wrist, and a man with a badly cut finger. From then on, as though by magic, there was a steady stream of patients in Annabelle’s waiting room. One patient referred another. They weren’t difficult cases, they were all small things that were easy for her to handle. But her seriousness and competence and gentleness with her patients won them over immediately. Soon people were switching from other doctors, sending friends, bringing their children, and consulting her on minor and major problems. By January, she had a constantly full office. She was doing what she had trained for, and loving every minute of it. She was careful to thank other physicians for their referrals, and always respectful of their earlier opinions, so as not to make them look like fools to their patients, although some would have deserved it. Annabelle was meticulous, skilled, and had a lovely bedside manner. Despite her beauty, and look of youth, she was clearly serious about her profession, and her patients trusted her completely.

In February, she hospitalized the son of one of her patients. The boy was only twelve and had a severe case of pneumonia. Annabelle visited him at the hospital twice a day, and was gravely worried about him at one point, but the boy pulled through, and his mother was forever grateful. Annabelle had tried some new techniques they had used at the hospital at Villers-Cotterêts with the soldiers, and she was always creative about mixing new methods with old ones. She still read and studied devotedly at night to learn about new research. Her openness to new ideas stood her in good stead, and she read about everything in all the medical journals. She stayed up reading them late at night, often while cuddling Consuelo in her bed, who had begun saying she wanted to be a doctor too. Other little girls wanted to be nurses, but in Annabelle’s family they set a high standard. Annabelle couldn’t help asking herself at times what her mother would have thought of it. She knew it wasn’t what she had wanted for her, but she hoped she would have been proud of her anyway. She knew how devastated Consuelo would have been about Josiah divorcing her, and she wondered if he would have, if her mother hadn’t died. But it was all water over the dam now. And what good would it have been to stay married to him if he was in love with Henry all his life? She had never had a chance. She wasn’t bitter about it, but she was sad. Whenever she thought of it, it pained her with a dull ache she suspected she would carry all her life.

The one thing that never made her sad was Consuelo. She was the happiest, sunniest, funniest child, and she adored her mother. She thought the sun rose and set on her, and Annabelle had created a fantasy father for her, so the little girl didn’t feel deprived. She told her that her father had been English, a wonderful person, from a lovely family, and that he had died as a very brave war hero before she was born. It never seemed to occur to the child to ask why she didn’t see her father’s family. She knew that all her mother’s relatives were dead, but Annabelle had never said that Harry’s were. Consuelo never mentioned it, she only listened with interest, and then one day Consuelo turned to her over lunch and asked if her “other” grandmother could visit her sometime, the one from England. Annabelle stared at her across the table as though a bomb had exploded, and didn’t know what to tell her. It had never dawned on Annabelle that this day might come, and she wasn’t prepared for it. Consuelo was six, and her friends in the park all had grandmothers. So why couldn’t hers visit too?

“I…uh…well, she’s in England. And I haven’t talked to her in a long time…well, actually”-she hated lying to her child-“ever…I never met her. Your daddy and I fell in love and married during the war, and then he died, so I never knew them.” She was fumbling with her words as Consuelo watched her.

“Doesn’t she want to see me?” Consuelo looked disappointed, and Annabelle felt her heart sink. She had created her own mess, and other than telling her daughter that her grandparents didn’t know she existed, she had no idea what to say. But she didn’t want to be forced into contact with them either. It was a terrible dilemma for her.

“I’m sure she would want to meet you, if she can…that is, if she’s not sick or anything… she might be very old.” And then with a sigh and a heavy heart, Annabelle promised, “I’ll write to her, and we’ll see what she says.”

“Good.” Consuelo beamed at her across the table, and as Annabelle went back to her office she was cursing Harry Winshire as she hadn’t in years.