The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [126]
As I examined the portrait for myself, I also was not as taken with it as I had been earlier. What had appeared strong and indomitable in Abigail’s studio seemed now to be only mean and self-absorbed. I looked carefully to see if Abigail had altered the painting in any way, but there was no evidence of change. Perhaps it was I who had changed.
Simpson arrived precisely on time. She was wearing a maroon dress, once again plain but not unfashionable. She stood at the threshold for a moment before entering. She was not alone.
“Samuel,” she said, looking down at a boy of about eight standing next to her, “please say hello to Dr. Carroll.”
The boy stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a mop of soft brown hair under a small cap and was dressed in knickers and a wool jacket. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.
Simpson stood across from me with hope and challenge. “Ephraim, I would like you to meet my son.”
“Samuel,” I said with a smile, suppressing my astonishment. “This is indeed a pleasure. I’ve wanted to meet the son of such a fine doctor as your mother.”
“You knew about me then, sir?” asked the boy. “I’m supposed to be a secret from the other doctors … except Dr. Osler, that is.”
“I didn’t know,” I said, with a glance at his mother. “But I should have suspected.”
Samuel smiled. He was a fine-looking lad with an open and intelligent face. “Mother says that you’re very smart … and a good detective.”
“Did she? Well, I’m not sure she’s correct, but I’m terribly flattered.”
Mrs. Mooney had appeared at my side, as beamingly maternal as if one of her own grandchildren had appeared. “Why don’t I take Samuel in the kitchen so that you two can work?”
After they had departed, Simpson said, “We agreed to be honest with each other.” Before I could reply, she saw the portrait leaning against the wall. “Did she do that?”
I replied that, yes, Abigail Benedict had painted it.
“Doesn’t look like you,” Simpson remarked.
“It’s not supposed to,” I answered. “It isn’t supposed to be realistic.”
“No,” said Simpson. “I mean that it isn’t you. It’s somebody else with your features.”
I found myself relieved and pleased that Simpson had seen it so.
“Well, Ephraim,” she said abruptly, “let’s get to work.”
“Before we begin,” I said, “please tell me about Samuel.”
“I’m sure you can guess most of it,” she began selfconsciously, but also with relief. “I was born near Pittsburgh …”
“I thought you were native to Philadelphia.”
“No. I moved here just after Samuel was born. I became pregnant at sixteen by a man who claimed to love me but who then abandoned me when he discovered my condition. My father and mother railed at me, called me godless, and insisted I either publicly confess my sins to their congregation and then give up the baby, or leave their home. I chose the latter.
“You know all too well what choices are available to a woman who finds herself in my situation. I, however, decided to create an option of my own. I moved to Philadelphia and cajoled a ‘home for fallen women’ to take me in—that’s what Croskey was at the time. While the women who lived there watched my baby, I worked at whatever employment I could find. I studied at night. I eventually registered at the university. I completed my studies about the time Dr. Osler arrived. He had a reputation for progressive thought, so I sought him out and asked him to allow me to study medicine under his auspices. He agreed without hesitation. What I am today is the result.”
“So it was you who created the settlement house?”
“I and a number of others.”
“Samuel is a fine boy, as I am sure you know,” I said. “You should be immensely proud. But why bring him here tonight?”
“Living a lie is fatiguing,” she replied simply. “I wish to stop.” She eyed me carefully, wary of any false gesture or response. “But we should get to work now.”
“Wait,” I said. “There is something I want … need … to tell you. I need you to know