The Dollmaker by Morgan Shamy

2

BLACK TIDE

Dawn unwrapped her scarf from her neck as she stepped inside the main entryway of her home. She ran her hands along the silky material, her fingers lingering at the bottom. The white satin was as pale as her skin, and she marveled at the stitching that swirled along the edges of the material. It was the nicest thing she owned. It made her feel as if she could stroll in Brenton Park with a gentleman on her arm.

Not that she wanted a gentleman on her arm.

She paused in the small entryway, taking in the dusty chandelier that hung above her, tarnished to a greenish brown. Ripped carpet ran up the stairs to the few rooms that sat there, including her own tiny bedroom, adjacent to her brother’s old room. A parlor was over to her left—peeling paint on the door frame. Rustling came from the back kitchen, where Mrs. Cook was probably bustling around.

They didn’t have the luxury of employing a butler, valets, maids, or a chef, but Mrs. Cook did what she could around the house for the small penny she was given. She’d only been employed with the Hildegards for about a month, but already she felt more like a mother to Dawn than her own. She’d been the one who had stitched Dawn’s scarf, as a welcoming gift.

She again admired the fine material.

“Mrs. Cook, is that you?” Dawn called out. “I’m home!”

Dawn brushed her skirt and headed down the narrow hallway to the back kitchen, her footsteps clicking on the hardwood floor. When she pushed the door open, Mrs. Cook had her back turned to her, bent over, removing a pan of tea cakes from the oven. Warm spice hit her nose, and Dawn inhaled, letting the smell settle into her chest. She could live in this kitchen.

Mrs. Cook spun around and nearly dropped the pan. She abruptly set it on the table, removing her hot gloves. Her hand flew to her chest.

“Child, you scared me.” The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as her eyes narrowed. A red rash spread across her cheeks, and Dawn eyed the small bumps.

“If you used a cold compress and chamomile oil it would help with the rash,” she said. “I think I have some on me.” She dug into her pouch, but Mrs. Cook motioned her down.

“No, child. Sit. I’m perfectly fine. Just the sun. Madam has me working in the garden lately.”

Dawn tightened her lips but plopped herself down at the table. She snatched a bite of tea cake from the pan and closed her eyes, chewing, nearly moaning from how hungry she was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Probably twenty-four hours ago.

Mrs. Cook crossed her arms over her large chest and clicked her tongue. “You know, I was a nurse in the war and even the soldiers didn’t look as haggard as you. That doctor has you running ragged.”

Dawn sighed, snatching another bite of warm cake. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, relishing the flavor on her tongue. “I just need to eat the rest of these tea cakes and I’ll be good to go.”

Mrs. Cook huffed. “I don’t like you being out and about. You know it’s not safe right now.” She eyed the newspaper on the table and scooted it over to Dawn.

Silence stretched as Dawn peered at the headline.

The Dollmaker Strikes Again.

Dawn stopped chewing, her mouth parting slightly.

“He’s back?”

Mrs. Cook nodded.

Dawn swallowed hard, the cake sticking in her throat.

Everyone was talking about the Dollmaker.

He was a serial killer—a man who killed young girls and hacked off their limbs, only to sew their different body parts back together. It was said each “masterpiece” he created was made up of at least eight different women. These creations were found suspended in different positions throughout the States, their eyes blank and bodies dressed as if they were beautiful dolls. It was like Frankenstein—Dawn had loved that book as a child, but the thought of a man taking different body parts and sewing them together made her blood curdle.

“It’s not safe for any young woman to be out.”

Dawn shivered but shook her head. “As if the Dollmaker would come here to Newport.”

“He’s traveling,” Mrs. Cook said. She pointed at the paper. “He started in New York and he’s traveling north. There have been three murders since his last masterpiece.”

Masterpiece.

She hated to admit it, but a sick part of her was fascinated. From what she’d heard, the man’s amputations were an art. Clean and clear cut, done with perfect precision. Dawn was already fascinated with the human body as is, and his skill only intrigued her further.

Footsteps pounded down the hall, and the kitchen door swung open. Dawn’s mother barged into the room, a slender finger pointed in front of Mrs. Cook’s face.

“I have a guest!” she said. “What is taking so long? How difficult is it to provide nourishment to our guest? Are you completely useless?”

Mrs. Cook stilled, and a lump bobbed in her chubby throat. “Coming right away, madam.” Her eyes darted toward Dawn before her gaze shot back up to her mother.

Dorothy Hildegard was the epitome of fashion—or at least she tried to be. A burgundy scarf was wrapped around her bobbed hair, the same brocade necklace she always wore strung around her neck. It was the only piece of jewelry she owned that spoke of money. She’d sold most of her possessions after Dawn’s father had bankrupted them. She wore a handkerchief dress and a fur shawl, with gloves that stopped at her wrists. She lived in a pretend world, acting as if they had piles of money sitting in the next room.

Her mother’s eyes slowly slid to Dawn, and they lit up. “There you are. Get up. You have a guest!” She gave her the same smile she did whenever she had a potential suitor for Dawn.

Mrs. Cook hustled backward and began placing the little cakes on a platter.

Dawn sprang up from her chair. Not another one. “A guest? Who?”

Her mother crossed her arms, and her mouth pulled up into what Dawn knew was her version of a smile. “Arthur Hemsworth. He’s quite excited to meet you. Now get up.”

“Arthur Hemsworth? That dirty old man?” The Hemsworth name was the wealthiest in town. She knew there were several Hemsworths, but she had met only Arthur. “I can’t be here!” She scrambled around as if searching for her coat. “I need to leave.”

Dorothy marched over and gripped Dawn roughly around the wrist, yanking her toward the door. “I should have you change, but your appearance will have to do.”

Dawn tried to wriggle out of her hold. “Stop.” She struggled further. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be seen right now. I’m not put together.”

Dorothy pushed open the parlor door and shoved Dawn forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the sofa. Her fingers gripped the tufted leather, and her eyes immediately connected with Arthur Hemsworth’s.

An old man, probably in his seventies, sat on the edge of his seat with his cane planted in front of him. Wrinkles folded over his face as he frowned, gray wisps of hair swooped back over his balding, pockmarked forehead and scalp. A finely tailored suit lined his impossibly skinny frame, and his knuckles stood out where he gripped the cane, large veins in his hands.

Dorothy nudged her in the side and mumbled, “Curtsy, smile, do something.”

Dawn shifted away, throwing her a glare. Her gaze settled back on the old man. “Mr. Hemsworth.”

Arthur’s dry lips pulled up into a smile. His eyes sparkled as he looked her over, his gaze stopping on her bosom. “I look forward to our future time together.”

Dawn stiffened, before subtly leaning into her mother. “What is he talking about?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.

“Mr. Hemsworth has agreed to marry you,” her mother said, chin lifted. “It’ll be a small ceremony next week.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “Don’t mess this up. You came out into society six months ago and you still haven’t snatched a husband. This is your last shot. And Arthur Hemsworth is very rich.” She straightened and gave Arthur a smile.

Arthur’s gaze continued to roam over Dawn’s body with a hungry look, and Dawn placed her hands on her abdomen, trying to breathe. Everything she had ever hoped for tumbled down in her mind like a landslide. Her practice. Her dream of being a doctor. Owning her own clinic. It was all going to be taken away in an instant—by this old, dirty man.

“No,” she said outright, voice trembling. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s face faltered, and his heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. Dawn knew she was acting like a child, but she didn’t care. She’d stomp her foot and cry if she had to. Nothing could make her marry him.

She wasn’t sure how she had the ability to move, but she strode past the old man and swept out of the room, exiting to the front entryway. Shaking, she threw open the front door. Her mother shouted after her, but she stormed forward until something made her stop dead in her tracks.

A man stood before her, his hand raised like he was about to knock, a long black coat gliding along his lean frame. Dark eyes peered down at her, the shaded light from the trees deepening his defined bones. He had pockets for cheeks and sleek black hair that was combed smoothly against his head. He fixed his face into a glare.

“Is this the Hildegard residence?” he said curtly.

Dawn faltered back, blinking. She peeked behind her to the door, then faced him again.

“Who are you?”

His lips pressed tightly together. “I asked if this was the Hildegard residence.”

She swiped a hand through her tangled hair while staring him down. She’d had a long day. First, waking up groggy from lack of sleep; second, the spectacle in the courtyard, and then finding out her life was being planned out for her. She didn’t like this man’s directness, and she wasn’t about to let him make her day any worse.

“Is there something I can help you with Mr.?”

The man puffed up his chest before exhaling. “I am Gideon Hemsworth. I was told my uncle was here.”

Dawn’s brows shot up to her forehead. “Arthur Hemsworth is your uncle?”

“Great-uncle, yes.”

She swallowed down her surprise. She didn’t know why he was here, but it couldn’t be good. Anyone related to that disgusting man was bad news.

“Here to celebrate his engagement?” she said. “I hear some poor girl is being roped into marrying him.”

“More like the other way around,” he said darkly. “Now, will you show me to my uncle? You look like you work here, that you know your way around.”

“Like I work . . .?” She peeked down at her loose gray dress before peering back up at him. She held in a smile. “You’re right. I do know my way around here, and I can assure you that the residents of this house don’t want you here.”

Gideon kept his weight planted into the ground, and his severe eyes attacked her once more. “It appears that I’ll need to make sure the residents of this house know how their help is speaking to me.” His lips flattened. “Though I don’t know how they can afford you.”

He looked over the Hildegards’ small stone apartment jammed between identical adjacent homes.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He brushed past Dawn and let himself into the house without another word. She stared after where he’d disappeared, her brows pressed firmly together. The nerve of that man. Assuming she was the help? Just because she didn’t dress like . . . like Rose.

Gideon Hemsworth.

The name stuck in her throat. She couldn’t get the image of his face out of her mind. She had never met someone so distinctive-looking before. She was used to conversing with many different people in her line of work, and they all blended together in a sea of ordinary faces. But Gideon Hemsworth . . .

She shook her head. He was Arthur Hemsworth’s grandnephew. He was the enemy.

Shivering, she marched down the front steps, shoving him from her mind. She wanted nothing to do with anyone who had that last name.

Dawn entered the town square, wishing she had grabbed her scarf. Sunlight pounded down through the fall air, but it did nothing to warm her bones. She rubbed her arms as she made her way across the cobblestone road. Small shops were squeezed tightly together in a variety of colors. A bakery, a toy shop, sweets—there was even a fortune teller, across from Dr. Miller’s office. Flowers hung from the balconies, and a large fountain roared in the middle of the square. People bustled to and fro, laughing, shopping; children darted around their mothers’ skirts.

Years ago she’d had the money to shop freely, but she couldn’t remember what it was like to walk into a fabric shop and pick out the finest materials. But she didn’t care about material things. She cared about helping people. And wearing the finest silk wouldn’t do much good while tending to a bloody patient. She hurried across the square, edging past a group of women huddled around a newspaper.

The breeze blew in, rustling the paper, and she peeked over at the headline.

Dead body found in Jamestown.

Dawn halted in her steps, another breeze whooshing into her from the side. Jamestown was only three miles away. Mrs. Cook was right. The Dollmaker was traveling. She shivered, the shakes rocketing down her body. Sights and sounds blurred together as she stared at the paper.

“That’s four murders so far,” a woman said. She pointed at the paper. “He started in New York and he’s headed here.” The woman had a stoop, and Dawn analyzed her posture. It wouldn’t be hard to fix if she manipulated her spine.

The woman next to her squealed, her gloved hand flying over her mouth. “It says she had an arm missing. Can you imagine?”

“I wonder how he kills them,” another whispered.

“I hear he plays with his victims before he sets them on display,” another woman whispered. “You know . . . sexually.”

“He does not!” the first woman whacked her in the arm. “Don’t be absurd!”

A third woman shrugged. “It’s what I heard.”

“He has to be out of his mind.”

“He could be anyone.”

“He could be here right now.”

The women squealed again, and another set of shivers spread along Dawn’s back. The Dollmaker couldn’t be traveling to Newport, could he? Why would he come to their small town? Nothing happened here. Nothing but gossip. She shook her head and strode past the women, continuing to head across the square, but little goosebumps still covered her arms. She opened the door to Dr. Miller’s office. A bell jingled when she walked in.

Inside, a long workbench stood against the far wall, and shelving lined the other three walls. Various bottles of herbs and medicines filled the shelves, along with books on anatomy and surgical procedures. An operating table sat in the middle of the space, its sheets clean and white under the lamp that hovered overhead. Dr. Miller always made sure that the entire room was disinfected, including all the tools that were spread out across the workbench.

He was away on business—Mr. Roper’s foot needed to be amputated from stepping on a nail earlier this month—and no matter how hard Dawn begged to come and assist, he refused, not only because he thought Mr. Roper wouldn’t approve of a woman assisting but also because a young lady shouldn’t be exposed to such things.

So Dawn read. If she couldn’t experience medical procedures in real life, she would read about them until she could open her own practice. She brushed her fingertips along the books that lined the shelves, stopping on Treatise of the Operations of Surgery. She had read it earlier this week when Dr. Miller had first heard about Mr. Roper’s condition. She recalled the text of the book. “Cut quick with a crooked knife before covering the stump with the remaining skin. Have the patient bite down on a piece of wood for pain relief when ether isn’t available. If the wound is only in the flesh, you may bathe it with brandy and cover the part with a compressed dip in a warm wine quickened with spir vini.”

She could almost see the flesh before her—feel the knife in her hand. Her heart sped at the thought of cutting away the infectious disease that could shorten someone’s life. She was the one who held the power to heal.

The bell jingled as Dr. Miller walked in, his mustache turned down. His gray hair stuck out to the sides, wispy behind his ears. Wrinkles creased his mouth as he pursed his lips. He set a couple bags on the floor.

“Sir, I didn’t expect you here so soon,” Dawn said. “How did it . . . how did it go?”

He shook his head, lines around his eyes. “It was too late when I got there. The fever took him.” He walked over to the sink and rinsed his hands before wiping his face.

Dawn swallowed down the lump in her throat. “His family?”

“Left six kids behind. Lives out of town on a large farm. It’ll be impossible for his wife to keep up on her own. She’ll need to remarry or sell.”

Dawn bit down hard at the injustice of it all. Who was to say Mrs. Roper couldn’t handle the farm on her own? It was her land as much as Mr. Roper’s. And now she had to give up her whole life because her husband was dead? It was unfair that she had to lose the man she loved because medicine wasn’t advanced enough—because they didn’t get there in time.

“I see that look on your face,” Dr. Miller said. “It’s the same look you had when I hired you.”

“It’s just not fair,” she said.

Dr. Miller wiped his hands off with a towel and moved over to the vials of different herbs and medicines on the shelving next to him. “The world wasn’t made for women, Dawn. I’ll agree with you there. The world has a skewed view of what is proper and improper. If I hadn’t been old friends with your father, I wouldn’t have hired you. But I do see something in you, and I knew you’d be of great use to me.”

“Then let me help you,” she said. “Really help you. Let me show you how I can truly be of use. You hardly trust me.”

Dr. Miller raised a tangled brow. “You’re lucky I’m letting you be my assistant as it is, but even though you’ve finished your schooling, there is a line. The line is there to protect you, and I won’t cross it. Even though I have different beliefs from my fellow men, it doesn’t mean I’m going to put you in harm’s way. There are many people out there who don’t want a woman touching them. Even though it’s the twentieth century, there are still superstitious folk who believe a woman healer might be dabbling in dark things.”

“Like a witch?” Dawn laughed. “That would be the fortune-teller across the square, not me. The Salem witch trials were a long time ago, and like you said, it’s the twentieth century.”

He shook his head and straightened out a few vials. “If I were really trying to protect you, I’d send you home and forget this nonsense, but for some reason I’m a madman and have a soft spot for you.” He smiled a warm smile. He paused on one vial and turned. “But maybe I’m just enough of a madman to bend the rules a little bit.”

Dawn’s heart quickened. “Really?”

“I have a tonsillectomy tomorrow. Would you like to assist me?”

“Yes,” Dawn said quickly. “Definitely yes.”

“Good. Then you can make sure my tools are sterile and that we have plenty of ether on hand. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest, lest I accidentally slit that poor boy’s throat tomorrow.”

He turned and headed toward the back room behind his office, where a small bed was made up. He spent more nights here than he did in his home. It was the job.

“Good night,” Dawn said, her voice rising at the end. She coughed, clearing her throat. Hopefully, she hadn’t caught anything from visiting Mrs. Smith’s sick baby earlier this week. No, she always made sure she wore gloves and a mask when handling the sick.

Dr. Miller waved good-bye and disappeared behind the far door. Night had begun to descend, and she thought she’d better get home. Crazed Dollmaker or not, it wasn’t safe for a young lady to be out alone after dark. She quickly ducked out of the office and made her way back, hoping Arthur Hemsworth and his insufferable nephew had left.