Crescent City Courtship. Elizabeth White

      John lifted a shoulder and continued down the hall toward the stairs. “Couldn’t be helped. What did you tell him?”

      “Told him you had a previous engagement.”

      “You did not.”

      “No. But I should have. Braddock, you never drink. What’s gotten into you, old man?”

      Since the words were almost a direct quote of Marcus’s the day before, John hurried down the marble stairs without replying. He wasn’t going to admit that a prostitute’s dead baby had resulted in his hearing from God.

      Weichmann’s long, skinny legs had no trouble keeping up. “There’s a few minutes for lunch before anatomy lab. Want to go for a beignet and coffee?”

      John’s stomach revolted. “No!”

      “Oh, sorry…Didn’t think.”

      John sat down and planted his elbows on his knees, laying his pounding head in his palms. He could feel Weichmann hovering behind him on the stairs, his breath wheezing and whistling. It took little to get the young Jew’s asthma kicked up.

      “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” John stared at the gray squiggles in the white marble between his feet. “Weichmann, has God ever communicated with you? You know, like Moses and the burning bush?”

      Weichmann didn’t answer for a long moment. John could hear the clatter of students changing classes down in the east wing and, through the open windows, the rattle of carriages passing in the street. The heavy odors of mildew and chalk and the stench of the dissection lab drifted from two floors up. He looked over his shoulder and found Weichmann staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

      “Maybe you’d better go home and go to bed,” suggested Weichmann.

      John’s head fell back against the wrought-iron spindles of the stair rail. “I was planning to.” He got to his feet and descended the remainder of the stairs. At the bottom, he turned to Weichmann, who followed tsking like an agitated squirrel. “Don’t tell anyone I asked that, would you?”

      Weichmann shook his curly head. “Nobody would believe me if I did.”

      The haunting strains of a hymn sung in a rich, throbbing contralto drifted through the kitchen and clinic/dispensary to the ward, where Abigail was feeding Tess her evening meal of barley soup. In the daylight, Abigail had discovered the ward to be a large, airy room with doors opening into the kitchen on one side and the clinic on the other. The three long, curtainless windows of the third wall looked out on the garden, where even in late fall birds sang in tall flowering shrubs and fruit trees gave off an intoxicating scent. Lined up on the interior wall of the room were four narrow cots, each with its own bedside table holding a small basin-and-pitcher set, with a chamber pot underneath the bed.

      “I know not what the future hath of marvel or surprise,” sang the unseen singer, “assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.”

      Sighing, Abigail spooned soup into Tess’s mouth. The song brought to mind a vivid image of her mother, singing over her fine embroidery, dressed in the traditional Chinese wide-sleeved, knee-length cotton overshirt and loose trousers. Darling, vulnerable Mama, trying to fit in despite her “devilish” blue eyes, red hair, and normal-sized feet. Papa had thought to have Abigail’s feet bound, but Mama managed to convince him that, at the age of five, too much growth had already taken place.

      The Chinese women had been repelled by such foreign females. Abigail, always tall for her age, got into the habit of slumping. Only since returning to America had she trained herself to stand upright.

      The words of the hymn seemed a symbol of all Abigail had run away from, a mockery of the dire circumstances of her life.

      Tess had awakened off and on all day, slowly gaining strength. Still, Abigail couldn’t help worrying. She had been much safer in the relative anonymity of the District. Besides, if she and Tess didn’t report for work tomorrow, they might return to find that they had been replaced. Their miserable jobs in the sail loft were all that stood between them and starvation—or prostitution. The Lanieres seemed to be kindhearted folk, but there was a limit to most people’s charity, as she knew only too well.

      “Who is that singing?” whispered Tess, pushing away the spoon. “Thank you, but I don’t want any more.”

      Abigail set the bowl on the floor, leaning over to lay her head on the sheet beside Tess. She was so tired. She’d been up until dawn this morning, giving cornstarch baths to Diron and his ten-year-old sister Lythie, also discovered to be stricken with chicken pox. Camilla had been occupied with the fussy and equally poxy baby Meg. After Abigail snatched a few hours of sleep, Tess had wakened and called for her. She’d sat trying to stay awake in this uncomfortable wooden chair all day.

      Winona came back yesterday afternoon to take over the household duties, but Abigail had seen little of her, other than at mealtimes.

      Abigail yawned. “Sounds like an opera singer. Do you suppose the Lanieres hired someone to entertain us?”

      Tess giggled, gladdening Abigail’s heart. It had been a long time since Tess had anything to laugh about. “Go and see, Abby. I want to meet her.”

      “All right.” With mental reservations that any guest of the Lanieres would care to meet two women from the District, be they ever so inwardly genteel, Abigail picked up the half-empty bowl and pushed to her feet.

      She found Winona straining cooked pears into an enormous pot on the kitchen stove. All Abigail could see of her was the mane of inky curls cascading down her slender back, a pair of café-au-lait-colored arms, bare beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a coarsely woven blue-and-white-checked blouse, and a plain brown gathered skirt.

      But the voice. Abigail marveled as it poured from the woman’s tiny body like the throaty eulogy of a dove: “I know not where his islands lift their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift beyond his love and care.”

      Abigail wanted to weep at the beauty and hope of the words and melody.

      Winona turned around to dump the pear pulp into a bowl next to her elbow. When she saw Abigail, a smile lit her face, turning the dark eyes to black gemstones. Her features had an exotic sort of elegance, more interesting than any pale perfection. “Ooh, you startled me!” She laughed, giving the sieve a good shake with competent, blunt-fingered hands, then set it down to wipe her fingers on a towel tucked into the waistband of her apron.

      “I heard you singing.” Odd to hear such a glorious sound from a servant. On the other hand, who was she to look down her nose at anyone?

      “Pshhh, I’m sorry. Miss Camilla said not to disturb you, if you and the lady patient was asleep.” Winona gave a rueful shrug. “I get carried away.”

      “Oh, no, it was lovely.” Abigail smiled. “We—Tess and I—thought it was an opera singer.”

      Winona went off into gales of throaty laughter. “Me? Oh, help us, that’s a good one!”

      Abigail found herself joining in. “Your voice is finer than a woman I know who once sang on the stage in Paris.” Amusement died as Abigail pictured poor Delphine’s perpetual drug-induced stupor. These days her voice was rarely lifted in anything other than black despair.

      “I wish I could learn from a real teacher.” Winona turned as an insistent knock sounded at the kitchen door. “That would be Mr. John. He’s the only one of Dr. Gabriel’s students who comes direct to the kitchen. Can’t nobody talk him into coming to the front door.” She went to open the door.

      Abigail found her heart clanging around in her chest like the Vespers bell in the tower of St. Stephen’s. She’d wondered when Braddock would deign to bestow his presence upon them again.

      “Afternoon, Mr. John.” Winona moved to let him in.

      He came in, hatless and stock askew, his coat shockingly draped over his arm. His tall