They were there to heal, not to preach to women whose lives they only partially understood. At first Margaret had wanted to change things, to speak what she saw as truth, guided by her own beliefs. Gradually she had begun to realize how little she knew of her own hungers, except that to be tied in a convenient marriage where the emotion was no more than a mutual respect and courtesy would be a denial of everything inside her. It might seem comfortable to begin with, but as time passed and she stifled the dreams within her, she would come to feel her husband was her jailer, and then despise herself for her own dishonesty. The choice was hers; no one else was to blame.

She made it, and stepped into the unknown, aware that she was closing doors she might later regret, and which after that could never be opened again. She did not often wonder what she had given away, but there had been long nights with few patients when she and Hester talked frankly, and even touched on the prices of different kinds of loneliness, those that were perceived by others and those that were masked in marriage and family. All choice was risk, but for Margaret, as for Hester, accommodation to half-truths was impossible.

“For his sake, I can’t do that!” Margaret had said with a self-conscious laugh. “Poor man deserves better than that. I’d despise myself for it, and him for letting me.” Then she had gone for a bucket and water to scrub the floor, as she did now, and together they cleared up and put away the unused bandages and ointments, then took turns in snatching a little sleep.

Two other women came in before morning. The first needed two stitches in her leg, which Hester did quickly and efficiently. The second was cold and angry and badly bruised. A mug of hot tea, again mildly laced with brandy and a little tincture of arnica, and she felt ready to return to her room and face the coming day, probably most of it asleep.