While Ruth slept peacefully it was left to Miss Nichol to take Fletcher Andrew off to the special care unit where he would share his first few hours with several other progeny. Once she had tucked up the child in his little crib, she left the nurse to watch over him before returning to Ruth’s room. Miss Nichol settled herself into a comfortable chair in the corner and tried to stay awake.
Just as night was contemplating day, Miss Nichol woke with a start. She heard the words, “Can I see my son?”
“Of course you can, Mrs. Davenport,” replied Miss Nichol, rising quickly from her chair. “I’ll just go and fetch little Andrew.” As she closed the door behind her, she added, “I’ll be back in a few moments.”
Ruth pulled herself up, plumped up her pillow, switched on the bedside lamp and waited in eager anticipation.
As Miss Nichol walked along the corridor, she checked her watch. It was 4:31 A.M. She took the stairs down to the fifth floor and made her way to the nursery. Miss Nichol opened the door quietly so as not to wake any of the sleeping offspring, As she entered the room, illuminated by a small fluorescent light glowing overhead, her eyes settled on the night nurse dozing in the corner. She didn’t disturb the young woman as it was probably the only few moments of slumber that she would manage during her eight-hour shift.
Miss Nichol tiptoed between the two rows of cots, stopping only for a moment to glance at the twins in the double crib that had been placed next to Fletcher Andrew Davenport.
She stared down at a child who would want for nothing for the rest of his life. As she bent over to lift the little boy from his crib, she froze. After a thousand births, you are well qualified to recognize death. The pallor of the skin and the stillness of the eyes made it unnecessary for her to check the pulse.
It is often spur-of-the-moment decisions, sometimes made by others, that can change our whole lives.
3
When Dr. Greenwood was woken in the middle of the night to be told that one of his new charges had died, he knew exactly which child it was. He also realized that he would have to return to the hospital immediately.
Kenneth Greenwood had always wanted to be a doctor. After only a few weeks at medical school, he had known in which field he would specialize. He thanked God every day for allowing him to carry out his vocation. But then from time to time, as if somehow the Almighty felt it was necessary to balance the scales, he had to tell a mother that she had lost her child. It was never easy, but having to tell Ruth Davenport for a third time…
There were so few cars on the road at five o’clock in the morning that Dr. Greenwood was parked in his reserved spot at the hospital twenty minutes later. He pushed through the swing doors, strode past the reception desk and had stepped into the elevator before any of the staff had the chance to say good morning.
“Who’s going to tell her?” asked the nurse who was waiting for him as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor.
“I will,” said Dr. Greenwood. “I’ve been a friend of the family for years,” he added.
The nurse looked surprised. “I suppose we must be thankful that the other baby survived,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.
Dr. Greenwood stopped in his tracks. “The other baby?” he repeated.
“Yes, Nathaniel’s just fine, it was Peter who died.”
Dr. Greenwood remained silent for a moment as he tried to take in this piece of information. “And the Davenport boy?” he ventured.
“Doing well, as far as I know,” replied the nurse. “Why do you ask?”
“I delivered him just before I went home,” he said, hoping the nurse hadn’t spotted the hesitation in his voice.
Dr. Greenwood walked slowly between the rows of cribs, passing offspring who were sleeping soundly and others who were yelling, as if to prove they had lungs. He stopped when he came to the double crib where he had left the twins only a few hours before. Nathaniel lay peacefully asleep while his brother was motionless. He glanced across to check the name on the headboard of the next crib, Davenport, Fletcher Andrew. That little boy was also sleeping soundly, his breathing quite regular.
“Of course I couldn’t move the child until the doctor who had delivered…”
“You don’t have to remind me of hospital procedure,” snapped Dr. Greenwood uncharacteristically. “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.
“Just after midnight,” she replied.
“And have you been in attendance since then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anyone else enter the nursery during that time?”
“No, doctor,” the nurse replied. She decided not to mention that about an hour ago she thought she’d heard a door close, or at least not while he was in such a foul mood. Dr. Greenwood stared down at the two cribs marked Cartwright, Nathaniel and Peter. He knew exactly where his duty lay.
“Take the child to the morgue,” he said quietly. “I’ll write up a report immediately, but I won’t inform the mother until the morning. No purpose will be served waking her at this hour.”
“Yes, sir,” said the nurse meekly.
Dr. Greenwood left the nursery, walked slowly down the corridor and stopped outside Mrs. Cartwright’s door. He opened it noiselessly, relieved to discover that his patient was fast asleep. After climbing the staircase up to the sixth floor, he carried out the same exercise when he reached Mrs. Davenport’s private room. Ruth was also sleeping. He glanced across the room to see Miss Nichol seated awkwardly in her chair. He could have sworn that she opened her eyes, but he decided not to disturb her. He pulled the door closed, walked to the far end of the corridor and slipped out onto the fire escape stairs that led to the parking lot. He didn’t want to be seen leaving by those on duty at the front desk. He needed some time to think.
Dr. Greenwood was back in his bed twenty minutes later, but he didn’t sleep.
When his alarm went off at seven he was still awake. He knew exactly what his first course of action must be, although he feared the repercussions could reverberate for many years.
Dr. Greenwood took considerably longer to drive back to St. Patrick’s for a second time that morning, and it wasn’t just because of the increased traffic. He dreaded having to tell Ruth Davenport that her child had died during the night, and only hoped it could be done without any accompanying scandal. He knew he would have to go straight to Ruth’s room and explain what had happened, otherwise he would never be able to go through with it.
“Good morning, Dr. Greenwood,” said the nurse on reception, but he didn’t respond.
When he stepped out on the sixth floor and began walking toward Mrs. Davenport’s room, he found his pace became slower and slower. He came to a halt in front of her door, hoping she would still be asleep. He eased it open, to be greeted with the sight of Robert Davenport sitting beside his wife. Ruth was holding a baby in her arms. Miss Nichol was nowhere to be seen.
Robert jumped up from his side of the bed.
“Kenneth,” he said shaking him by the hand, “we will be eternally in your debt.”
“You owe me nothing,” the doctor replied quietly.
“Of course we do,” said Robert, turning back to face his wife. “Shall we let him know what we’ve decided, Ruth?”
“Why not, then we’ll both have something to celebrate,” she said, kissing the boy’s forehead.
“But first I have to tell you…” began the doctor.
“No buts,” said Robert, “because I want you to be the first to know that I’ve decided to ask the board of Preston’s to finance the new maternity wing that you have always hoped would be completed before you retire.”
“But…” repeated Dr. Greenwood.
“I thought we agreed on no buts. After on, the plans have been drawn up for years,” he said, looking down at his son, “so I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t start on the building program right away.” He turned to face the hospital’s senior obstetrician. “Unless of course you…?”
Dr.
Greenwood remained silent.
When Miss Nichol saw Dr. Greenwood coming out of Mrs. Davenport’s private room, her heart sank. He was carrying the little boy in his arms and walking back toward the elevator that would take him to the special care nursery. As they passed each other in the corridor their eyes met, and although he didn’t speak, she was in no doubt that he was aware of what she must have done.
Miss Nichol accepted that if she was going to make a run for it, it had to be now. Once she had taken the child back to the nursery, she’d lain awake in the corner of Mrs. Davenport’s room for the rest of the night, wondering if she would be found out. She had tried not to stir when Dr. Greenwood had looked in. She had no idea what time it was because she didn’t dare glance down at her watch. She had quite expected him to call her out of the room and tell her he knew the truth, but he had left just as silently as he had come, so she was none the wiser.
Heather Nichol went on walking toward the private room, while her eyes remained firmly fixed on the fire escape exit at the far end of the corridor. Once she had passed Mrs. Davenport’s door she tried not to quicken her pace. She had only a couple of paces to go when she heard a voice she immediately recognized say, “Miss Nichol?” She froze on the spot, still staring toward the fire escape, as she considered her options. She swung around to face Mr. Davenport. “I think we need to have a private word,” he said.
Mr. Davenport stepped into an alcove on the other side of the corridor, assuming she would follow. Miss Nichol thought her legs would give way long before she collapsed into the chair opposite him. She couldn’t tell from the expression on his face if he also realized she was the guilty party. But then with Mr. Davenport you never could. It wasn’t in his nature to give anything away, and that was something he found difficult to change, even when it came to his private life. Miss Nichol couldn’t look him in the eye, so she stared over his left shoulder and watched Dr. Greenwood as the elevator doors closed.
“I suspect you know what I’m about to ask you,” he said.
“Yes, I do,” Miss Nichol admitted, wondering if anyone would ever employ her again, and even if she might end up in prison.
When Dr. Greenwood reappeared ten minutes later, Miss Nichol knew exactly what was going to happen to her and where she would end up.
“When you’ve thought about it, Miss Nichol, perhaps you could give me a call at my office, and if your answer is yes, then I’ll need to have a word with my lawyers.”
“I’ve already thought about it,” said Miss Nichol. This time she did look Mr. Davenport directly in the eye. “The answer is yes,” she told him, “I’d be delighted to continue working for the family as nanny.”
4
Miss Nichol studied the photograph when it was published in The Hartford Courant. She was relieved to find that although both boys had inherited their father’s square jaw, Andrew had curly fair hair, while Nat’s was straight and already turning dark. But it was Josiah Preston who saved the day, by frequently remarking that his grandson had inherited his nose and pronounced forehead in the great tradition of the Prestons. Miss Nichol constantly repeated these observations to fawning relatives and sycophantic employees, prefaced with the words, “Mr. Preston often remarks…”
Within two weeks of returning home, Ruth had been reappointed as Chairman of the Hospital Trust, and immediately set about honoring her husband’s pledge to build a new maternity wing for St. Patrick’s.
Miss Nichol meanwhile took on any job, however menial, that allowed Ruth to resume her outside activities while she took charge of Andrew. She became the boy’s nanny, mentor, guardian and governess. But not a day went by without her dreading that the truth might eventually come out.
Miss Nichol’s first real anxiety arose when Mrs. Cartwright phoned to say that she was holding a birthday party for her son, and as Andrew had been born on the same day, would she like him to be included.
“How kind of you to ask,” Miss Nichol replied, without missing a beat, “but Andrew is having his own birthday party, and I’m only sorry that Nat won’t be able to join us.”
“Well, please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Davenport, and tell her how much we appreciate being invited to the opening of the new maternity wing next month.” An invitation Miss Nichol could not cancel. When Susan put the phone down, her only thought was how did Miss Nichol know her son’s name.
Within moments of Mrs. Davenport arriving home that evening, Miss Nichol suggested that she should organize a party for Andrew’s first birthday. Ruth thought it was a splendid idea, and was only too happy to leave all the arrangements, including the guest list, in nanny’s hands. Organizing a birthday party where you can control who should or should not be invited is one thing, but trying to make sure that her employer and Mrs. Cartwright did not meet up at the opening of the Preston Maternity Wing was quite another.
In fact, it was Dr. Greenwood who introduced the two women while giving his guided tour of the new facility. He couldn’t believe that no one would notice that the two little boys looked so alike. Miss Nichol turned away when he glanced in her direction. She quickly placed a bonnet over Andrew’s head, which made him look more like a girl, and before Ruth could comment, said, “It’s turning quite cold and I wouldn’t want Andrew to catch a chill.”
“Will you be staying in Hartford once you’ve retired, Dr. Greenwood?” Mrs. Cartwright asked.
“No, my wife and I plan to retire to our family home in Ohio,” the doctor replied, “but I’m sure we’ll return to Hartford from time to time.”
Miss Nichol would have let out a sigh of relief had the doctor not stared pointedly at her. However, with Dr. Greenwood out of the way, Miss Nichol felt a little more confident that her secret would not be discovered.
Whenever Andrew was invited to join in any activity, become a member of any group, participate in any sport or just sign up for the summer pageant, Miss Nichol’s first priority was to ensure that her charge didn’t come into contact with any member of the Cartwright family. This she managed to achieve with considerable success throughout the child’s formative years, without arousing the suspicions of either Mr. or Mrs. Davenport.
It was two letters that arrived in the morning mail that persuaded Miss Nichol that she need no longer be apprehensive. The first was addressed to Andrew’s father and confirmed that the boy had been admitted to Hotchkiss, Connecticut’s oldest private school. The second, postmarked Ohio, was opened by Ruth.
“How sad,” she remarked as she turned the hand-written page. “He was such a fine man.”
“Who?” asked Robert, looking up from his copy of The New England Journal of Medicine.
“Dr. Greenwood. His wife has written to say that he passed away last Friday, aged seventy-four.”
“He was a fine man,” Robert repeated, “perhaps you should attend the funeral.”
“Yes, of course I will,” said Ruth, “and Heather might like to accompany me,” she added. “After all, she used to work for him.”
“Of course,” said Miss Nichol, hoping that she looked suitably distressed.
Susan read the letter a second time, saddened by the news. She would always recall how personally Dr. Greenwood had taken Peter’s death, almost as if he felt somehow responsible. She remembered how tired she had grown, hearing friends and relations telling her to thank God that one of them had survived. Didn’t they understand that Peter was dead, and she had lost a son? Dr. Greenwood had understood. Michael had hoped that his wife would begin to recover from the loss once she’d left the hospital and returned home. But it wasn’t to be. Susan still talked endlessly of her other son, and kept a photograph of the two boys by her bedside.
Perhaps she should go to the doctor’s funeral. She was about to share the news of his death with Michael, when her husband suddenly leaped in the air and shouted, “Well done, Nat.”
“What is it?” asked Susan, surprised by such uncharacteristic exuberance.
“Nat’s won a scholarship to Taft,?
?? said her husband, waving his letter in the air.
Susan didn’t share the same enthusiasm as her husband for Nat being sent away at such an early age to board with children whose parents came from a different world. How could a child of fourteen begin to understand that they couldn’t afford so many of the things that his school friends would take for granted. She had long felt that Nathaniel should follow in Michael’s footsteps and go to Jefferson High. If it was good enough for her to teach at, why wasn’t it good enough for their child to be taught at?
Nat had been sitting on his bed rereading his favorite book when he heard his father’s outburst. He’d reached the chapter where the whale was about to escape yet again. He reluctantly jumped off the bed and put his head around the door to find out what was causing the commotion. His parents were furiously debating—they never argued, despite the much-reported incident with the ice cream—which school he should attend. He caught his father in mid-sentence…“chance of a lifetime,” he was saying. “Nat will be able to mix with children who will end up as leaders in every field, and therefore influence the rest of his life.”
“Rather than go to Jefferson High and mix with children who he might end up leading and influence for the rest of their lives?”
“But he’s won a scholarship, so we wouldn’t have to pay a penny.”
“And we wouldn’t have to pay a penny if he went to Jefferson.”
“But we must think of Nat’s future. If he goes to Taft, he might well end up at Harvard or Yale…”
“But Jefferson has produced several pupils who have attended both Harvard and Yale.”
“If I had to take out an insurance policy on which of the two schools would be more likely…”