CHAPTER 18

EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON, I received a note from Abigail Benedict confirming our arrangements for the evening. She asked that I call for her at seven-thirty, as she had reserved us a table at Barker’s.

When I arrived, she swept down the spiral staircase. Abigail was stunning, clad in a high-necked, deep maroon dress with a white lace collar, and, as always, without gloves or jewelry. Her hair was up, the first time I had seen it so, accentuating a neck that was long, thin, and graceful. She smiled as she reached the bottom step, and I moved toward her. I realized she had a scent all her own—almost flowery, but with a sensual hint as well. I had never noticed such things in the past. Abigail seemed to be the only thing in the room. She took my hands in hers and leaned in and kissed me. As I had hoped, seeing her was the perfect antidote to the intrigues that were weighing on me.

“You look quite dashing, Ephraim,” she said, touching my cheek. “Shall we go?”

I led the way out to the carriage, floating rather than walking, and this time when I offered my hand to help her in, she accepted it. The skin on her wrist was soft, smooth, and very white. As soon as the carriage was off, she asked about my visit to Baltimore. I eagerly described the wondrous facilities at the new hospital, my conviction that Johns Hopkins would change the entire course of medicine in America. I feared I was being transparent about my own heightened prospects, but Abigail listened with great interest and enthusiasm. When I had completed my description, she asked a number of perceptive questions about the staff, potential professional jealousies, and the envy that such a place might cause in other elite institutions. I responded that I felt certain the competition would spur improvements and upgrades and that ultimately there would be benefit to all.

Abigail expressed how pleased she was at my good fortune but, as we neared Barker’s, she abandoned talk of Johns Hopkins. Instead, she asked, “And what were your plans last night that you had to postpone our rendezvous?”

“I will tell you at dinner,” I blurted, realizing only after the words were out that my findings all pointed to grim confirmation of Abigail’s worst fears. I felt a rush of embarrassment that, in my zeal to solve the problem, I had forgotten the human stakes for her. I had been imprudent to agree to see her in a public place; I resolved to tread with extreme delicacy in my recitation of the facts.

“It has something to do with Rebecca, then,” Abigail said, oblivious to the truth. “I’m excited to hear all that you have found. I’m so grateful for your assistance.”

When we entered the restaurant, Abigail gave her name to the man in the striped vest. He gave a start upon seeing me, but I stared directly at him and he knew to keep silent. He simply nodded and led us across the room. Any hopes that I had for an intimate dinner à deux were dashed, however, when, as we reached our table, Thomas Eakins stood and offered his hand. “It is good to see you again, Dr. Carroll.”

I nodded resentfully to Eakins but did not take his hand. Abigail could not help but notice my reaction to the painter’s presence. As soon as we were seated and the man in the striped vest had left, she said evenly, “You said you wanted to know about Rebecca. I told you that Thomas had to be involved. He has agreed that you are a man to be trusted, and we want to tell you everything.”

Whenever she and I were alone, we seemed unutterably drawn to each other, but in the company of Eakins, our relationship became distant, fraught with suspicion, even adversarial.

“It was my idea,” said Eakins. “Abby didn’t want to deceive you as to my presence, but I thought that you might object and we very much need to talk.”

So it was “Abby,” was it? I suddenly hated Eakins, but envied the power he exuded. Unlike the Professor, whose magnetism emanated from intellect and self-assurance, Eakins’ strength was feral. Women, I decided with some envy, claimed to be attracted to the former but actually preferred the latter.

“It’s true, Ephraim,” Abigail said, placing her hand on mine. “We are all in a terrible predicament. We may not be doing everything correctly, but it is not because we wish to deceive you. Just the opposite. We want you to know the truth.”

“All right,” I agreed, speaking in measured tones. “Let me know the truth.”

“And then you will tell us what you have uncovered?” she asked.

“Of course,” I replied. The painter’s presence had altered the equation entirely. If they wanted the truth, they would hear it.

Eakins began. “Very well. I assume you have surmised the nature of Rebecca’s medical problem.”

“I have presumed that it was an unwanted pregnancy.”

“Well,” Eakins offered, “you are correct. Rebecca did find herself pregnant.”

“Are you the father?” I asked bluntly.

“The answer is that I am not sure,” Eakins replied, but without the guilt that such an immense admission should have engendered. “There is the remotest possibility that I might be, Dr. Carroll, but Rebecca was involved with someone else, a man whose identity she refused to reveal. He is the more probable choice. But in any case, learning of her predicament, I committed to help Rebecca in any way I could, and it is a promise I intend to keep.”

“We confided in each other about everything, but she would not tell me, either.” A gloss of tears shone in Abigail’s eyes. “I’m not even sure when the assignations occurred, although it must have been sometime in December. Looking back, I realize that I should have suspected that something was amiss. During the holiday season, Rebecca was so gay … so gay … if I had only paid more attention….” She reached up and quickly dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, God, what a fool I was.”

“It’s not your fault, Abby,” Eakins interjected, reaching out to her before I could. “In any event, Dr. Carroll, even when Rebecca first realized that she was likely with child, she did not confide in anyone except her maid, Lucy. But she could not ignore her condition forever. In the first days of February, she finally told her mother. Eunice told Jonas, of course, although not even her father’s fury could make Rebecca identify the man who had impregnated her. Jonas immediately made arrangements for a long family sojourn in Italy. Rebecca would have her child overseas, where it would be put up for adoption.”

Eakins paused as our drinks arrived, and only the click of beer glasses being placed on the table punctuated the silence. “At first, she refused,” the painter continued after the waiter had departed. “She told her parents that wondering for the rest of her life what had become of a human life that she had nurtured within her and then abandoned would be more than she could bear. She was insistent that any child that she did have, she intended to care for and raise herself.”

Abigail had regained sufficient control to take up the tale. “Jonas would not hear of such an arrangement, of course, so finally Rebecca came to us. She had hatched a plan. She needed Thomas and me to help her carry it out.”

“What was her plan?” I asked.

“She agreed to go abroad, but only if her parents remained behind,” Abigail replied. “There was quite a scene, but what could they do? Allowing Rebecca to continue to be seen in Philadelphia was out of the question, and they could not simply pack her off somewhere against her will. So, Rebecca and Lucy the maid crossed on the first liner available, the Alexandria. When the ship docked in London, Rebecca and Lucy exchanged documents. They are almost the same age and physically quite similar. Rebecca sent Lucy on ahead with a pack of letters that she had written during the crossing and then turned around and immediately took the Christina back to New York City. Lucy, as Rebecca, undertook the predetermined itinerary, posting letters across France and into Italy. Everything seems to have gone according to plan, so I’m not sure what could have aroused Jonas’ suspicions.”

“I want to tell you that I stoutly advised Rebecca against this action,” Eakins added. “I told her in the strongest terms I thought she should have the child in Italy and then defy her parents and insist on keeping it. But Rebecca would have none of it. ‘You cannot imagine the lengths to which my father will go to keep up appearances,’ she told me. After meeting him once or twice, I think she might well have been right.”

“And so Rebecca, as Lucy, returned to Philadelphia to end her pregnancy,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What of raising the child herself?”

“She realized that was never really an option. She could not bring such disgrace on her family,” said Eakins. “Termination was her only remaining choice.”

I said nothing, but could not hide my feelings. Termination had not been the only remaining choice for the women at the Croskey Street Settlement. Of course, those women were not rich.

“You disapprove, Ephraim?” asked Abigail, her voice gone cold.

“I cannot countenance abortion,” I said bluntly.

“Oh, can’t you, now?” she snapped, her despair finding an outlet in anger. “How easily smug denunciations roll off your tongue! Do you think it is better to bring a child into the world who will be ripped from the arms of its mother and shoved into an orphanage to live a wretched and neglected life … to grow up not knowing its parents and likely die on the streets in misery?”

I thought of Annie. “No,” I said, “it is not that … but …”

Eakins unexpectedly came to my rescue. “Wait, Abigail,” he said. “You are being unfair. Dr. Carroll is quite right to be outraged. The concept of taking human life is repugnant. It must be all the more so to one who has dedicated himself to saving it. But, Dr. Carroll, I must ask you to try and look at this from a different perspective. Would you, as a doctor, save a patient who you know will simply live out life in agony? If Rebecca were to have this child, it would doom two lives, hers and the child’s. Please understand, this is not a decision that anyone came to lightly.”

“I love Rebecca,” Abigail said, now as plaintive as she had just been furious. “If she was determined to go through with this, I wanted only to ensure that she was put into the hands of someone who would care for her safety.”

“Like Turk?”

“I had nothing to do with that!”

“Rebecca refused to allow either Abigail or myself to be party to the specific arrangements,” Eakins told me, “in case the facts should come out and the police—or her father—gained knowledge of the event. I am incensed with myself for agreeing.”

“Why did she not simply have the abortion on the continent? And return at her leisure?” I asked. “Locating a disreputable physician to perform such a criminal act would be no more difficult in Europe than in Philadelphia.”

“This was not something to be done in a strange city, with no friends to call upon in an emergency.” Eakins then proceeded to recount the tale of Rebecca’s return. He had journeyed to New York in late February to meet the Christina and thence returned to Philadelphia, having secured lodgings for “Lucy” in Chestnut Hill. The preparations for the operation had been handled circuitously. Eakins had not known of anyone personally who might perform the procedure, and was thus forced to make the most discreet of inquiries. Finally, an actor who had at one time been a photographic subject—“a thoroughly disreputable fellow,” as Eakins described him—had contacted an acquaintance who had once been in need of a similar service and who had in turn contacted an acquaintance of his who had then made contact directly with Rebecca.

“You never knew the identity of the abortionist?”

“Never,” replied Abigail. “It was as I said. We were to be at that horrible place at ten o’clock on an appointed night, where Rebecca would be contacted by someone who would make the final arrangements. She was to give him two hundred dollars. Rebecca didn’t even know if the man contacting us would be the one performing the operation or just a go-between. But, as I told you, no one approached her. We remained for over an hour and then left.”

“Clearly, Rebecca didn’t stop there.”

“Two days later, I met her at her rented rooms. She told me that she had contacted the man who had given her the instructions and that the problem had been resolved. She refused details, saying only that she had made arrangements both for the operation and for a convalescent facility afterward where she would be under a nurse’s care. She promised to be in touch when everything had been completed. She was actually quite proud of herself for managing everything. That was just over two weeks ago. The last I heard from her.”

“How was she intending to deal with her father?” I asked.

“She intended to confront him with a fait accompli. Don’t be deceived by Rebecca’s youth … she is a formidable woman, every bit the match for her father. Jonas would have no choice but to acquiesce. He adores Rebecca.”

“Now that you have the details you requested, Dr. Carroll,” Eakins interjected suddenly, “perhaps you can tell us what you have uncovered.”

I was jarred. So caught up had I been in hearing their tale, that I had completely forgotten that I would now be forced to reveal that their friend was quite possibly dead. I had no shortage of experience in bearing bad news to patients and relatives, of course, and it was always with genuine pain that I did so, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for this. After hearing how much Abigail blamed herself, seeing her blot away tears, I desperately did not want to be the bearer of such news to her. But what else could I do?

Calling on my professional demeanor as best I could, and treading delicately on the particulars, I described the incident thirteen days before in the Dead House. I selectively recounted my evening with Turk, and concluded the rendition with a bowdlerized version of my investigation, locating his rooms, his death in my presence, and then my dealings with Haggens.

When I had completed the tale, no one spoke. Eakins turned to Abigail and began once more to reach for her, but stopped himself. I too wanted to comfort her, but could scarcely take a woman in my arms in a public place. Seeing her grief, I knew with utter conviction that I loved her deeply. My jealousy about Eakins was based only in my shortcomings, not hers.

“Poor Rebecca,” Abigail said finally in a choked whisper, dropping her hands into her lap. Her face had become a blank, as if now even tears would have been inadequate. “I suppose I knew all the time, but refused to admit it.”

In that second, I knew I could not let my revelations be the source of her desolation. I had to prove to her that all was not lost. “Wait,” I interjected quickly. “I know this is dismaying news, but it is hardly the end. All I have said is conjecture. Conjecture, Abigail! I can be in no way certain that the corpse I saw for only a brief moment was Rebecca. Nor has any other evidence been brought forth to support that conclusion. It is certainly not impossible, in a city where so many die young, that the woman in the morgue merely bore a close resemblance to your friend.”

At that, Abigail straightened in her chair, her eyes alert and hopeful. Encouraged, I continued. “I am a scientist, Abigail. I don’t accept something as true simply because it is probably true, nor should you.”

“He’s right, Abby,” said Eakins, grasping eagerly at my words as well. “There’s no reason to give up now. Dr. Carroll will continue his inquiries, isn’t that true, Dr. Carroll?”

“Certainly,” I agreed.

“Is there no way to determine if Rebecca was the woman you saw?” Abigail asked me.

“At this juncture, there is no way to be certain without an exhumation.”

“An exhumation?” she exclaimed, horrified. “That would be barbaric.”

“I did not say that I would recommend such a course now,” I said, “merely that if Rebecca is not found, it might be the only eventual alternative.”

“Yes, Abby,” Eakins enjoined. “Not now. For now, we will keep looking. Dr. Carroll will tell us how to proceed. After all, he’s done a splendid job so far. I for one would not have believed that he could have found out as much as he has. And who knows that at any moment Rebecca won’t appear at your door?”

Abigail was frantic to maintain hope. “Will you, Ephraim? Will you keep looking?”

“Of course,” I assured her. She had not turned to Eakins in her moment of greatest anxiety; she had turned to me. I am embarrassed to confess that my spirit soared at the knowledge. Then, to complete my triumph, she said to the painter, “Thomas, I thank you for being here, but I would like to be alone with Ephraim.”

To my surprise, Eakins was more than amenable to the notion. He rose immediately, made his farewells, and strode to the door. I followed him with my eyes as he moved across the room in that coiled way he had. I was about to turn back to Abigail when, just as Eakins reached the exit, the man with the handlebar mustache who had been waiting outside his house on Mount Vernon Street got up from the bar. Like a shadow, he followed the painter out.

Although there was no solid evidence, I felt certain that this unknown man was an agent of Jonas Lachtmann. I might fall under his gaze next, I knew, but before I could weigh on the perils of further involvement, Abigail leaned forward. “Ephraim, could you please take me home?”

She was silent on the ride to Rittenhouse Square, and I knew better than to intrude. I helped her down from the carriage and walked with her to her door. “I’m sorry the evening turned out so disastrously,” I said.

She forced an ephemeral smile. “I’d like you to come in,” she said softly. “There is something I want you to see.”

She led me quietly through the foyer to a set of back stairs. Holding my hand, she led me to the second floor, then down a hall, past a number of closed doors to a narrow staircase at the far end.

She mounted the first step, still holding my hand, and then stopped and turned about. Smiling softly once more, she bent and kissed me lightly, her lips brushing fleetingly across mine. Our eyes held for a moment before she turned to lead me up the curving staircase.

At the top was a small hall, with three doors. Abigail reached into her bag, withdrew a key, and then walked to the far door and turned the lock. The door opened onto a dark room, and she beckoned for me to enter. Only after I had done so did she turn the switch on the wall to engage the electric light. She closed the door behind us.

This was her studio. Not as expansive as Eakins’, perhaps, but still quite large. There were a number of canvases in the room in various states of completion, all in the same powerful, disturbing style as her portrait of Rebecca Lachtmann. An easel in the middle of the room evidently held the painting that she was working on, but a sheet was draped over it and I could not discern the subject.

Without speaking, Abigail gestured for me to stand in front of the easel. She stepped to the side, grasped the sheet, and pulled it off.

The portrait was of me.

It was unfinished, some of the borders still simple sketch lines, but she had done substantial work on the face. I stared at myself in utter fascination. As in her portrait of Rebecca, Abigail had bent reality just enough to project a subjective image while preserving instant identification of the subject, and once again utilized the bold, flat swatches of color that forced one’s gaze to the eyes of the subject on the canvas.

Those eyes—my eyes—had been rendered a powerful chestnut—like Eakins’—more arresting, I thought, than in life, and gave off intelligence, strength, and resolve. The portrait had a kinetic quality, but with an overall impression of sensuality, the very combination of traits that I envied in Eakins.

Could this be the way she saw me? Or perhaps it was the way she wished to see me. I stared at the painting for some moments.

“Do you like it?” she whispered.

“It is the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me,” I replied honestly. “I want to be the man in the portrait rather than myself.”

“You are the man in the portrait,” she said. “Come with me.” She led me to a door at the far end of the studio. “Sometimes when I’m painting, I don’t leave here for days. My meals are left outside.” We had reached the door. Abigail pushed down on the handle. “I had Father fix a place for me to sleep.” She swung open the door to reveal a small bedroom. “It’s completely removed from anyplace else in the house,” she said, leading me inside.

Two hours later, we lay in her bed and I felt the deepest and most profound sense of well-being I had ever known. Love-making with Abigail had been a transcendent experience, not like the mere animal release with Wanda. I wanted to stroke her skin, smell her hair, feel the warmth of her against me, blend our bodies and our souls together for eternity. For the first time, I understood the true nature of addiction—I would risk anything not to lose these sensations.

She reached over and touched my cheek. “I miss Rebecca.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I know.”

“You have given me hope, Ephraim, or perhaps only a respite. In either case, I am grateful. But I cannot continue to live with uncertainty. I must know the truth. You will find out the truth for me, won’t you?”

I thought of her painting of me. That man would do anything necessary for the woman he loved.

“Of course,” I said.

It was going to be dangerous, I realized, trying to live up to a portrait.