Heaven's Bones (24 page)

“Yes, Professor McPherson, I do,” she said.

She was about to say more—she was about to say that many male medical students asked to be tutored by Professor McPherson and it was not considered an enormity. But then she looked at the doctor's face, and let her words stand as they were.

He flicked the side of the ammonite and watched it spin slowly.

“And how fares your brother, Miss Huxley? Has your family had word from him lately?”

She frowned, discombobulated by the turn of conversation. “We had a letter from Bernie—from Bernard a week ago. He seemed cheerful, although one knows the conditions are not as one would wish. But he is in good health, which is a great relief to all of us.”

“Of course. A good doctor, your brother. Very competent, which I know seems like damning him—if you'll excuse the expression—by faint praise. But simple competence is an underrated commodity, and more valuable than the fashions of the time would seem to admit.”

Another pause, which seemed like an eternity to Sophia, while McPherson made the fossil spin again.

He shifted his weight and suddenly Sophie felt the force of his gaze, as if she'd been a student who'd made a mistake in a diagnosis.

“Exactly what training have you had, Miss Huxley?” said the professor, his voice more brisk than it had been.

“I completed my nurse's training at the end of the year,” she returned. “And I have been attending Doctor Thompson's lectures on the arterial and venous systems.”

He nodded. “Anything else?”

She took a breath. “Doctor Dixon has been allowing me to accompany his students when they make their rounds with him at the Charity Hospital.”

McPherson raised an eyebrow at that. “And how did you manage to convince him to allow it? Dixon is not particularly well known as a supporter of the suffragettes.”

Sophie's mouth twitched. “I told him that I was concerned that the nurses did not take enough notice of the patient's sanitary condition so that doctors were too often—inconvenienced—during examinations. He allowed me to come so long as I stayed in the background and did not ask any questions. He's even asked me to assist in turning over patients and unwrapping wounds for examination. By now I'm just part of the background.”

“I see.” McPherson drummed his fingers. “And what education did you have before? At home, I mean?”

“Well, I had a governess, of course. And my brother's tutor allowed me to take some lessons along with Bernie. Mathematics, mostly. And in addition …”

She paused, as if about to confess to something indelicate. McPherson was amused at the thought—as if any girlhood indiscretion could compare with the shocking and inappropriate desire to undertake medical training.

“Our housekeeper worked as a midwife when she was in the country, before my parents came to London. You understand, of course, that many of the working and servant class cannot afford professional medical treatment. She would go on her own rounds of a sort, you might say, and sometimes she would let me accompany her. To assist—hold her basket and such.”

“Indeed. I'm curious what your mother thought of such … adventures.”

“She didn't know.”

“No? I wonder …”

Doctor McPherson placed his hands palm-down on the table and fixed Sophia with a piercing gaze.

“It's a difficult course you've chosen. Since the accomplishments of your fellows in Edinburgh, of course, the idea of a female physician is far less the travesty it was once considered. You can thank such as Doctor Blackstone for that.”

Oh, I do, thought Sophia, not daring to interrupt out loud.

“And I must consider the consequences to myself. Rightly or wrongly, I will be subject to a certain amount of censure from my colleagues for taking a woman under my wing. Among too many the notion is, regrettably, still considered absurd. Even obscene.”

Sophia allowed herself a slight nod.

McPherson continued. “You are aware that Doctor Jex-Blake intends to open a Medical School for women within the next year?”

“Yes; I am aware of that. But I want to …”

“You want to start
now.”

“Yes.”

Dr. McPherson looked at the desk and sighed deeply.

“I have a good deal of regard for your father, Miss Huxley, and I know he supports you in this. And I have long thought the health of the nation depends far more than the Royal Society believes on the health of women. And that in the future the health of women might improve with the training of female physicians.”

Sophia didn't dare breathe. Could it be that he would consent?

“Accordingly, I will agree to tutor you. You are too intelligent, I am sure, to disregard the fact that poor performance on your part will reflect badly on us both. I trust you to keep that in mind.”

“Oh, thank you.” Sophie let out her breath in an undignified
whoosh
. “And yes, I understand. I don't expect or desire any … kindly … treatment.”

“Good.” McPherson permitted himself a friendly smile. “I suggest you get some rest, Miss Huxley. We anatomize in the morning. Do not, I pray, be late.”

“No sir,” said Sophie, gathering herself and rising. “No, that would never do.”

Artemis Donovan leaned in the shadow of a doorway, watching the pickpocket at work across the street. His eye was momentarily distracted by the sight of a girl in trim tweed, her thick hair arranged well back from her face and tucked under a sensible hat. She strode down the sidewalk as if she had places to go and armies to conquer; there was such joy in her step that she practically bounced, and her large eyes in her curiously heart-shaped face were lustrous.

Artemis permitted himself a smile and watched her until she was safely out of the corridor of pickpockets and petty thieves this street had become, and it wasn't until she had vanished that he returned to his observation of Slick Joe, dipping his fingers in the pockets of the unwary, convicting himself over and over again.

London. In winter her streets were slick with a slurry of mud and sleet, and the chill damp penetrated everywhere, and the cold went deep in her bones and stayed there. For many, the only warmth to be had was the thick moist fug of too many souls crowded in a stuffy room, and lucky enough they were to have that. The sky was gray then, a constant unvarying gray during daylight hours, and pitch black with nary a star at night. The brick buildings—gray too, to match the sky—funneled the wind into concentrated arctic bursts, in which bits of ice often pricked those out walking, and after a day treading the slush one's feet were numb and raw.

In summer her streets were thick with heat, choking in the alleys and the tiny windowless rooms where families huddled and babies gasped for air, and save for a rare breeze there was no relief. The Thames subsided, leaving mud-cracked banks littered with piles of rotting garbage, through which stunted children grubbed for bits of things to salvage.

But now, in autumn, it was a magical time, when the summer's heat fled but returned to linger in the twilight, and fall winds eased the funk of close quarters and teeming streets. Then gypsies performed in the streets, there were juggling shows and Punch and Judy shows, and the smell of the vendors grilling sausages drifted around the corners, making one's mouth water. It was then that Artemis Donovan loved his city, although she was a jade and a bitch otherwise.

Artemis made a decision and moved from his hiding spot. The quick eye of the pickpocket caught the movement, as he'd intended, and Slick Joe stopped, hand halfway extended toward his next victim, with a look of dismay. Artemis only shook his head, looking grim; the pickpocket grinned in return and vanished down the lane.

Artemis was hungry. The smell of meat pies was distracting and the joy that autumn brought him was welling in his breast. Stepping down to the sidewalk he was jostled by a passerby. After a lightning-quick assessment determined that his pocket had not been picked he nodded in apology to the mild-looking man whom he'd bumped.

And froze as a series of images flashed before his eyes like a magic lantern show: a woman lying sprawled on her back in an ill-lit alley, tumbled like a broken doll with her throat slit wide open. A dirty wall with a jagged scrawl in chalk, obscured by the dark silhouettes of men standing in front of it—the words BLAMED FOR NOTHING the only words visible. A crude newspaper cartoon depicting a corpselike figure with unbound jaws, floating over the city streets with a knife in
hand. A room, lit by the yellowish light of a candle, with a scene of horror huddled on the bed in a corner.

With an effort he broke free of his trance, and turned around. The man he'd jostled was halfway down the sidewalk, and as Artemis watched he turned around briefly and looked back.

For a moment they paused midstep, staring at each other as if nobody else existed in the world. And then the man with the mild face turned away and proceeded on his unhurried way, and Artemis considered, for a fraction of a second, chasing him down, smashing him to the ground—for what? For something that might never happen?

Artemis walked on, the rare beauty of the fall day spoiled for him. As he passed the meat-pie man's stall, the savory smell of the pasties made his stomach turn and his gorge rise, and he hurried past, head down, hands deep in his pockets.

“Bitch!”

The blow landed heavy on Marta's ear, snapping her head back and sending her stumbling across the slimy cobbles of the courtyard. Pain tingled hot through the side of her face. That was going to show purple and black in the morning.

She staggered against the splintered slats of the fence that separated the yard from the street, and when he came at her again she braced herself on them, and managed to kick him hard in the groin. He grunted and dropped, grabbing at himself and she couldn't help a chuckle at the expression on his face.

She was too dizzy to get away immediately, however, and when she tried to skirt round him he was recovered enough to snatch at her ankle, upending her.

“Damn you!” Marta's imprecation was heartfelt as she heard a ripping sound, the ruination of her best skirt. She scooted back
from him as he rose, still cradling his insulted genitals through his thick trousers.

“I'll mark you well for that, my girl,” he growled, his face purple. “And teach you to steal my wages.”

“I never,” she said, backing against the side of the tenement. Only one window glowed weakly yellow above her, and that quickly winked out. No one wanted to interfere with Black Jimmy Barnett in a foul mood. She could count on no aid here.

“I never stole back for what you owed me,” she gasped as he loomed over her. “Owed me for the drinking at Gonagal's, and the meat and such after.”

She wedged herself against the wall and forced herself partway upright, looking for a chance to get another kick in. Before she could stand, his foot lashed out and struck her knee, smashing her leg under her. This time the pain was white hot, and she collapsed with a cry.

Across the street a lantern flashed, then was extinguished.

Barnett drew something from his belt. The dim light glinted on a long, wicked sharp blade, curved like a gutting knife.

Marta curled in on herself, her mouth frozen open, staring transfixed at the weapon in his hand.

He held it to one side, whether to stab down or simply threaten she never knew, because all of a sudden he staggered away from her and bellowed in pain. The knife clattered away over the cobbles.

Standing behind Barnett was a figure dressed in black. Marta blinked at her unlikely rescuer in confusion. A nice-looking man, rather dark, in a proper suit that looked strange in Miller's Court. He held the silver-topped walking stick with which he'd struck Black Jimmy in gloved hands, and still kept it ready.

Barnett cursed fluently, but kept his distance, holding his injured hand in the other. Probably broken, Marta thought with some satisfaction, and serves him right.