Kathleen lifted the latch with a soft click, and the hinges protested with a gentle creak as she opened the lid. Inside, wrapped in faded blue silk, lay a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon that had faded to the color of old tea stains.
“Oh,” Kathleen breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Patrick’s chest tightened when he saw what was inside. They didn’t look like medical records or business correspondence. The first letter was addressed to Florence and spoke of something entirely different.
Kathleen lifted the first bundle out of the box with trembling fingers. “I feel as though we’ll be intruding on Florence’s personal life if we read them.”
Patrick understood her hesitation. They were used to Florence’s documentation about operating the safe house. This was more intimate and could give them a better understanding of who she really was.
“Florence and Miriam kept everything for a reason,” he said gently. “Maybe they wanted these letters to be found, too.”
Kathleen bit her bottom lip. “If we’re going to open them, I’ll put on a new pair of gloves. I don’t want to transfer any dust or dirt onto them.”
With clean gloves pulled firmly over her hands, Kathleen carefully untied the ribbon. It fell away like a whisper. The first envelope would have been cream-colored, but it had yellowed with age. Unlike the other handwriting they’d seen, the address on the front was written in a bold, masculine hand that was distinctly different from Florence’s careful script.
“Miss Florence Buckley,” Kathleen read aloud. “The return address says Dr. James Whitman, Polson, Montana Territory.”
Patrick felt a jolt of recognition. “Wasn’t that the doctor Florence mentioned in her journals?”
Kathleen’s eyes were wide with the implications. “The entries talked about women who arrived with letters of introduction from Dr. Whitman.”
With infinite care, Kathleen opened the envelope and withdrew the folded letter. The paper was thick and of good quality, with the embossed letterhead of Dr. James Whitman’s medical practice.
Kathleen’s gaze scanned the page. “It’s a love letter to Florence,” she said softly.
Patrick leaned closer. “What does it say?”
Kathleen cleared her throat. “My dearest Florence. I find myself counting the hours until I can see you again. The work we do together has become more precious to me than I can express, not only because of the lives we save, but because it allows me to witness your extraordinary courage and compassion.”
Patrick watched Kathleen’s face as she read the letter. It was filled with wonder and just as much admiration as Patrick felt. This was a side of the brave midwife they’d never imagined. If she loved James Whitman as much as he loved her, she’d not only dedicated her life to helping others, but had found love in the process.
“This is from 1894,” Kathleen said, pointing to the date at the top of the letter. “Listen to this part of James’ letter: ‘When Marshal Henderson came asking questions about the Richardson girl, I told him she had died in childbirth and that I had disposed of the body according to territorial health regulations. He suspects nothing, but we must be more careful in our communications. I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you.’”
“He was protecting her,” Patrick said.
Kathleen carefully set the first letter aside and picked up another. This one was dated three months later, and as she read it aloud, the depth of James and Florence’s relationship became clear.
“‘My beloved Florence,’” Kathleen read. “‘The medical supplies you requested are waiting at the usual place behind McCarthy’s store. I’ve included extra laudanum and carbolic acid, as you mentioned the possibility of a difficult delivery. But more importantly, I must tell you what happened when I saw you at the market yesterday. When you smiled at me across the crowd, my heart forgot to remember that we must be careful. I fear that anyone paying attention could see what you mean to me.’”
Patrick’s throat tightened at the tenderness in the long-dead doctor’s words. He glanced at Kathleen and saw tears gathering in her eyes.
“They were in love,” she whispered. “It never occurred to me that Florence might fall in love with someone else. The Smithsonian doesn’t have any records of her marrying anyone after she left her abusive husband.”
Patrick was just as surprised as Kathleen. “Maybe they were looking in the wrong places. The letters might open up an entirely different line of research.”
As they read letter after letter, a picture emerged of a romance that had flourished despite impossible circumstances. Dr. James Whitman had been Florence’s partner in more than just medical care. He had loved her deeply and had risked his own practice and reputation to support her work.
The letters revealed a carefully orchestrated system of support. James provided medical supplies, which he left at predetermined locations around the area. He created false medical records for women who had supposedly died in childbirth, covering their tracks when authorities came looking. Most touchingly, he had been a source of emotional support for Florence during the loneliest and most dangerous moments of her life.
“Look at this one,” Kathleen said, unfolding a letter that was longer than the others. “It’s from 1896.”
“‘My darling Florence,’” she read, “‘I know the burden you carry grows heavier with each woman who seeks your help. Last night, when I saw the exhaustion in your eyes, I wanted nothing more than to take you away from all of this. We could go to California, where no one knows us. We could marry and live quietly, and you could practice midwifery in peace. But even as I write these words, I know you would never abandon the women who need you. Your strength humbles me, and your dedication inspires me to be worthy of your love.’”
Patrick sighed. “I can’t imagine what they must have gone through.”
Kathleen pointed to some envelopes that were tied with a separate ribbon. “There’s something different about these letters. The envelopes are different, and the handwriting looks more urgent.”
She untied this smaller bundle and opened the top letter. It was dated January 1899, just months before Florence’s death.
