Free The Heart Specialist by Claire Holden Rothman Page A

lady named Miss Rosa McLea had planned as a celebration and a rally of the troops prior to the final victory. How could I face these women who had invested so much time and effort in me?
    “Quarter past three,” I said. The party had begun over an hour ago.
    Two men were squatting in the sunshine on the porch, having a smoke. Their faces were partially shaded by caps, but I would have recognized the broad shoulders and necktie of the taller one anywhere. Huntley Stewart waved a cigarette in greeting. “Agnes White. I was beginning to think you had chickened out.” He threw his burning butt into the bushes and reached into his pocket for a pen.
    I nodded at him curtly. Huntley Stewart would gloat when he heard of my defeat. He would not make it too obvious of course, because of Laure, but he would find ways to rub salt in the wound.
    “Give us a quote,” said Huntley. “How’s the campaign faring on the eve of delivery day?”
    I looked at him more closely. It made no sense. He sounded as if he were scrounging quotes for a story, and yet The Fortnightly had been put to bed for the summer. I had done the layout for our last issue.
    “I am working for The Herald now,” he announced, as if reading my mind, “covering the city desk. And this,” he said, gesturing to the ill-shaven older man slouching next to him, “is Andrew Morely of The Gazette . I told him you and I are old friends.”
    Typical Huntley. His smooth talk masked a rougher reality. It was only because I was newsworthy copy that he was claiming a connection.
    “A pleasure, I am sure,” I said, offering my hand. I recognized the name. It was he who had written the piece interviewing certain professors and governors at McGill and suggesting my campaign might end successfully. Perhaps he was not all bad.
    “I hear you are requesting an extension,” Andrew Morely said.
    Throughout the week the papers had been full of wagers as to whether I would be able to get the money by the May first deadline. The sum demanded by McGill had somehow been leaked and rumours were now flying as to how much money I had gathered. On the street complete strangers approached me. Most of them congratulated me, but some, like the elderly gentleman who had cursed me today as Felicity and I left campus, were full of anger.
    “How much have you collected so far?” asked Huntley.
    That was a good sign. I had been careful recently with Laure, whom Huntley was courting, and no doubt was pressing for facts and figures.
    “Much as I would love to stay out here chatting,” I said quickly, “we are late for an engagement.” I took Felicity by the arm and stepped toward the door.
    “Wait,” said the Gazette man, holding Felicity’s other arm. “Perhaps this friend could stay and clarify some things. Could I ask your name?”
    Felicity yanked free and continued walking. Throughout the campaign she had kept herself hidden, avoiding any meeting at which the press might appear. She had also left the visiting of donors to me, preferring anonymous tasks like drafting letters and planning strategy. Her father was keeping tabs on her. He had given her a single lecture during which he had called me “a nefarious influence” and had ordered her to stay away. This afternoon, however, convinced of success, she had dared openly to disobey him.
    “Are you also a candidate?” Andrew Morely called after her. “There are five aspiring doctoresses, are there not?”
    “Oh come on now,” said Huntley. “What harm can it do to give us names? You ought to show pride instead of hiding yourselves away.”
    I lifted Mrs. Drummond’s shiny brass knocker and brought it down hard. Then I spent what seemed an eternity staring at the door, willing it to open.
    The room was absolutely packed. Everyone was dressed in party clothes and the table that Mrs. Drummond had laid out was nothing less than astonishing. Cut fruit, including sunny yellow discs of what appeared to be pineapple, gleamed on china