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."
"You have all your documentation?"
"Of course."
"And where have you practiced?"
"Nowhere officially," Emelia said. "But I volunteered all over the City."
"Oh, I have no doubt," Doctor Thompson replied. "But Blackwater isn't some fancy New York Hospital. Oh, sure, she's booming. But we're on the edge of the civilized world here. Still got homesteaders out there in need of care and stubbornly refusing the comforts of the city."
Emelia said, "I will help in any way I can."
"You'll be expected to ride to their homesteads. To treat them in their homes. You understand?"
Emelia nodded, even with the memory of cold sweat on her back. Of the dizziness that threatened to overtake her when she stared down the barrel of a pistol.
If people, good, regular people too sick or wounded to make the trek could live out there... She could if she must. Was this not the good deeds, the adventure she so desperately wanted? Would she really let her mother win out over one little isolated mishap?
"It isn't right," the old doctor said, as if guessing at her thoughts. He looked at her squarely, assessing, drumming his fingers in an anxious way. "You're barely a slip of a girl. Why, if anything happened to you out here... Well I don't think I'd ever forgive myself."
"All I ask, Dr. Thompson," she said, calmly, "is that you give me a chance. Just a few weeks. If I make a mess of things, I'll hop on the next coach back to Rigg's Station."
"Damn right you will," he agreed.
"Please, Dr. Thompson," Emelia pleaded. "Let me try."
He ran a hand over his shiny scalp. "Oh, all right. You have a horse then?"
Emelia's eyes widened. "A... A horse? I mean, I hope to own one, eventually. But, I thought...?"
"That we'd give you a driver and carriage?" Dr. Thompson asked. He laughed. "Oh, dear girl. You'd certainly be a target then. No, no, no. You must have a horse and the proper saddle bags and a good, sturdy satchel. If you know nothing of horses, however, perhaps a ticket to Rigg's Station will save us both a headache."
"I'll get a horse."
Emelia headed to the bank next.
A far cry from the soaring ceilings and marble of the palatial banks back home, West Elizabeth Co-Operative Bank was a strange fusion of eastern style and frontier charm. Rich baroque wallpaper and fine oak paneling covered the walls. The tellers' windows lined the right side of the entrance room, secured with brass cages, three in a row, leading to the offices in the back. Paintings hung on the walls; prints of still-life's, like Lemons, Oranges and a Rose, were hung in gilded frames.
"Doctor," the secretary called. "Mr. Weinstein will see you now."
The décor continued into the manager's office, only the paintings were replaced with daguerreotypes of his family. Severe looking and black and white. "Hello...," He hesitated a moment as his flicked his gaze down to his note. "Ah, Doctor Emelia Griswold. Of the New York Griswolds?"
She smiled tightly and nodded. "Quite, good sir."
"A pleasure," he said, beaming. His brown hair was center-parted and plastered to his head, like an open book. "Welcome! I'm Mister Herman Weinstein."
"How do you do, Mr. Weinstein?"
He smiled. "Quite well, thank you." He motioned to the empty seat in front of his desk and Emelia sat. "How can we assist you today?" He added, hopeful. "Seeking to make some investments?"
"Well...actually," Emelia took a deep breath. "I am in need of a... well... a loan, Mr. Weinstein."
"Oh. My. Whatever for?"
"As you may have guessed, I'm new to town."
"Ah, yes."
"And the victim of a most dreadful encounter..." she began. She felt foolish. "My coach was robbed, if you can believe it."
"Yes, actually, Doctor Griswold," Mr. Weinstein agreed, sympathetic. "I did hear that such a thing had happened. Were you traveling with Mr. Davis?"
"I was."
"The open country can be dangerous. You must have been terrified!"
"I... I will admit I was. And so, here I am," Emelia said with a shrug. "A single woman without any of her proper currency and hoping to find work with Doctor Thompson."
"Yes, good man, Dr. Thompson."
"He has agreed to allow me to practice under him, -"
"Here? In Blackwater? How wonderful."
"Yes. Provided I have transportation to travel about the county," Emelia explained. "I need to purchase a horse and saddle, Mr. Weinstein."
"Ah. Yes. Well... it all makes perfect sense. Perfectly perfect. However..."
"However?"
"We do not deal in Small Loans, Dr. Griswold..."
"I was hoping you could make an exception?"
"Regardless of how charming the applicant," Mr. Weinstein continued. "However, if you could perhaps contact your family, and if they would be willing to back you... well, maybe then..."
"Please. My brother is such a busy man. I... I would prefer to earn my own way... you understand?"
"I am sorry, Miss," he said again. She held her tongue. "With the interest rates being what they are, it just makes no sense to loan to an unmarried woman..."
Emelia almost laughed. She looked up at the ceiling tiles for a moment. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well... a husband could have been your personal guarantor..."
"But then I would lose my rights," she said. Lose her rights and wind up a broodmare besides. "No thank you, Mr. Weinstein!"
"Now, it's not as dramatic as all that..."
"Under law I am free to enter into a contract under my own name," Emelia said through her teeth. "I am not seeking this loan as a result of fiscal stupidity on my part. I did not gamble or drink it away. I was robbed, Mr. Weinstein. Through no fault of my own!"
"Yes, I understand," he said soothingly, though she could see in the set of his mouth that he remained unmoved and the tears pricked her eyes. Why did it need to feel so... shameful borrowing money to regain her footing?
"I am a skilled professional with a job pending," she implored. "I'll pay it all back. Promptly. With interest. if you would only assist me with the purchase of a horse."
"Be that as it may, it is simply not something we do. The low interest alone isn't worth the risk." Mr. Weinstein says. He leaned forward and added, more gently. "Just send a telegram to Mr. Griswold. Perhaps, if he's willing to be your guarantor..."
"Could I not leverage the horse?"
He laughed. "No. What if it gets stolen? Or killed?"
Emelia considered it; sending a message to Edward. For one delirious moment she imagined demanding her inheritance and that he might acquiesce. A lovely bit of fantasy, but she would rather die than beg or be dragged home. Emelia stood from her seat. "I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Weinstein."
The lobby of the Blackwater Hotel and Restaurant began to fill. Emelia pushed her boiled potatoes around her plate, dragging the thick gravy about. Her stomach quivered anxiously. Perhaps a glass of wine and a bath would calm her nerves. But she remembered her funds were finite at present. Where would she get money for a horse? Sell her few remaining pieces of jewelry? She could not imagine parting with her father's ring. Her dresses? She packed so little to begin with.
Anything would be preferable to calling Edward for aid.
Almost.
"What is the matter, dear girl?"
Emelia looked up. A slim man stood over her, a glass of red wine in hand. Wearing a pressed pinstripe shirt and blue necktie. Clean, trimmed grey hair swept back from a sharp, narrow face. He reminded her of her own grandfather. Shrewd and wise.
"Oh... good evening, sir," she said. The concerned look on his face warned her that she might be looking a little too sorry for herself. "I did not mean to trouble you."
"I am certain it is no trouble at all," he replied gently. His accent was a little hard on the edges, like Edward's Austrian investors. "You see, my dear, I am in the habit of assisting those in need."
"Well... I mean," Emelia said, blushing. She felt so foolish being in this situation at all. Disgraceful. "Well, it would be kind of nice... to talk to someone at least."
"Of course. I am, as they say, all ears," he said, taking a seat opposite of her. "Please, what could be so terrible to have such a lovely young woman so distressed?"
Where does she even begin?
"My name is Emelia," she said. "Doctor Emelia Griswold."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. I am Mister Leopold Strauss.