The Heart Specialist (27 page)

19

NOVEMBER 1905, OXFORD

Despite the title given him by the British king Sir William Howlett was not a real Englishman. His house in Oxford attested to the fact. He had installed central heating, a luxury unheard of in even the wealthiest neighbourhoods of London, let alone a university town. Since the afternoon three days back when I had descended the ship’s gangplank and touched solid land I had not been warm. Not once in three days. A permanent frigid cloud seemed to have settled over England. Sir William said it would not budge for at least four months so he and Lady Kitty might as well accommodate themselves.

I had been staying at an inn because the day my ship docked Sir William’s house had been full. Lady Kitty’s brother and his family were visiting from Boston. Sir William had shown his customary grace about the inconvenience, choosing a hotel for me, picking up the tab and even sending a maid to inquire whether the rooms were adequate. I really hadn’t anything to complain about. But the inn was damp, my sheets as slippery and as cold as ice. The coal fire lit every evening by a servant gave off much smoke but little warmth.

This was winter in England. I caught a head cold. I had felt it coming on right after my first night in the slippery sheets. At Sir William’s home, however, it was warm. I dropped my valise in the hallway and a manservant carried it away to an upper storey. I hugged my arms and shivered with pleasure.

“Welcome to Open Arms,” Sir William said with a smile, flinging his own arms out.

I had noticed the sign on his lawn cut in the shape of a shield with those two words, “Open Arms,” painted ornately. Clever mockery. Every second home in Oxford had the word “arms” appended to it. Pickwick Arms, Fenwood Arms. The town seemed overrun with them. In his not-quite British way Sir William Howlett had joined the trend.

The great man hung my coat in the closet himself then led me to the room that had been allotted to me. Open Arms was even bigger than his house in Baltimore. The ceilings were higher and the rooms more spacious. I glimpsed Lady Kitty in the dining room as we passed it, giving orders to a servant.

“She’s preparing,” said Sir William. “Otherwise she would come and greet you. You know how women get with their parties.” Howlett sometimes addressed me like this, as if I was not quite one of the female race and it confused me. On the one hand I appreciated the implicit inclusion in the masculine circle but on the other I felt a slight sting of insult. I was a woman after all. Was it so difficult to see?

The staircase wound upwards in a graceful spiral with a polished oak banister. Up its middle was a carpet with a delicate rosebud motif. On the first landing, gathered on a wide, low window seat, were the dolls. I recognized the one with the fan, though she was now dressed differently and her face was greyer than I remembered. Sir William passed the display without a word. He didn’t seem embarrassed or shy. These were his wife’s dolls. Judge Lady Kitty if I must, but leave him out of it.

My room was one of the smaller ones. It had a bed, a chair, a small table; but it was lined with bookcases. The name Open Arms was appropriate; the house welcomed many visitors. Lady Kitty’s brother had left but Sir William’s publisher from London had just arrived, as well as a former colleague from Johns Hopkins. They too were staying at the house, likely in rooms more lavish than the one offered to me. Not that I minded. My little corner was welcoming and warm. My bones had finally begun to thaw. I told Sir William I couldn’t have been happier.

He went over the day’s itinerary with me. The prize-giving ceremony would take place that afternoon at two, after which we would return to the house for a tea prepared in our honour by Lady Kitty. I thanked him and then began examining the bookshelves. Most of his library was medical. My room, Sir William explained, was a storage space for the overflow from his office. He gestured to the shelves. “Help yourself, Agnes. Take whatever suits you. But if I were you I’d save some time for resting. The day ahead will be quite long.”

As it turned out “long” was an understatement. I’d had my rest in the upstairs room at Open Arms; Sir William and I had attended the prize-giving; and now I was standing beside Lady Kitty’s mahogany table, the very same one at which I had sat in Baltimore while Revere hid underneath and filched my heart.

The prize-giving ceremony had been like a dream. Sir William and I mounted the stage arm in arm in one of Oxford’s churches, and everyone stood and clapped. He took the envelope with the cheque, but this was as it should be. I knew he wouldn’t deny me my proper share. Some of the funds would eventually wend their way to me. After the ceremony I was surrounded by crowds. The press had been alerted along with a host of British physicians and academics. Everyone, it appeared, was intrigued that I was not a man. The newspapers took my photograph. Half a dozen reporters requested interviews. By the time we left for Open Arms I was trembling with exhaustion. A combination of travel fatigue, nerves and a nasty British microbe were threatening to topple me.

The table was covered with doilies. Atop these were three-tiered plates with pastries in pastel shades: ballerina pink, lime green, sunshine yellow. There were also party sandwiches — neat triangles stuffed with creamed cheese or egg. I was drinking tea, holding the cup near my chin so as not to spill. My throat was hot, but not from the tea. My cheeks glowed with a low-grade fever.

“Who is the mystery man hiding away in your museum?” The man who had published our textbook peered at me through spectacles so thick they gave his eyes a bulging, fishy look.

I took a sip of tea. He was referring to Jakob Hertzlich, the last person I wanted to talk about at that moment.

“His work is terrific. You must bring him with you the next time you cross.”

I continued to sip resolutely.

“He’s too gifted to be working as a technician, if you don’t mind my saying so. If he were in London I’d steal him away.”

I produced a tight smile. Perhaps that was the solution. Back in Montreal things had reached a point of almost unbearable tension. The publisher, whose name I couldn’t recall, had no idea what a sensitive spot he’d just touched. For seven months now, ever since the aborted tea party in April, there had been tension between Jakob and me. I had committed a huge blunder in becoming intimate with Jakob and there seemed no way to fix it. Of course he was doing nothing himself to help the situation.

The morning after our encounter we hardly spoke. But then, as he’d realized there would be no further intimacies, Jakob dropped all pretence of politeness. He’d been surly all autumn, to me and to everyone else at the faculty. My strategy at the moment was avoidance, which wasn’t easy in our cramped working quarters. We had divided the specimens for cataloguing and were currently working in opposite corners of the room. Neither of us addressed the other unless it was absolutely necessary. We were like monks toiling on parallel tasks, scrupulously observing vows of silence.

My strategy worked for a while, but just before my trip overseas he’d turned vicious, declaring me to be the blindest woman he’d ever met and implying I was nothing more than Howlett’s lackey. There had been no time for reprimands, but I’d left the museum and the country with my mind made up. When I returned I would inform Dean Clarke that Mr. Hertzlich had to go.

“Sweet?” The publisher was pointing at the pastries.

If I refused I risked more of his talk so I took one. The icing was as hard and smooth as plaster. Sugar pearls dotted its surface. I had never seen anything quite like it.

A persistent tinkle became audible and the doctors, publishers, journalists and Oxford professors all turned to its source, the noise of their conversation declining. Sir William was tapping an empty champagne glass with a spoon. As soon as the room settled he put the glass down on the table and filled it.

“A toast, ladies and gentlemen,” he said solemnly, holding up the frothing drink. The “ladies” was a bit much. Apart from Kitty, several maids and me the party was entirely male. Sir William walked over to me and to the astonishment of everyone in the room, myself included, handed me the glass. I blushed. I never wanted to taste that drink again, least of all in a crowd.

“You deserve it!” he cried, even though I was shaking my head in confusion. Women didn’t drink. If I took the glass it might be the end of my already rather tenuous reputation.

“When your work is as good as a man’s, Dr. White, you must accept the privileges that accrue to us.”

There was a burst of laughter followed by applause. The men in the crowd had been drinking since the party began and probably would have cheered at anything he had said. Sir William raised my hand in the air so the glass was visible to everyone present. “To our partnership,” he said. Turning my way and looking me straight in the eye he lowered the glass and took a sip. Then he offered it to me.

I had no choice. His dark eyes willed it. It was his party. His champagne. His toast. As I raised the glass the room went silent. And then there was a cheer. The taste was exactly as I remembered: sweet and sour, with bubbles that seemed to grab hold of my nasal hairs. Jakob Hertzlich’s face floated into my mind, sneering and melancholy, and for a fraction of a second, before I could shut off the thoughts, his hands were on me, moving beneath my clothes.

Sir William took my glass back and drained it in one swallow. The spell was broken and I was back in the real world, in a place called Open Arms with all these people wishing me well. I gazed gratefully at my benefactor, stepped closer to thank him for the toast and promptly collapsed into his arms.

When I opened my eyes I was in bed in an unfamiliar room. There was little light but it was surprisingly warm. The sheets and bedding were thick.

“‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth …’”

I turned my head to the left. Sir William was sitting in an armchair, hands folded, watching me. I tried to sit up but my head began to pound.

“You’d best remain horizontal,” Sir William said, getting up and placing a cool, dry hand on my forehead.

I covered it with both of my own hands and lay back, shutting my eyes.

“There, there,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

My last moments of consciousness were returning. The toast and the champagne. “I fainted,” I said, horrified.

“It seems to be a regular occurrence with you.” His tone was strictly professional.

I shook my head, which made me feel more dizzy and sick.

“If I were you,” Sir William cautioned, “I’d limit movement. You’ve a fever of a hundred and two.” He dipped a cloth in water and placed it on my burning skin. “Is it only around me that you swoon, Dr. White?”

“I am so sorry,” I said sniffling. The cloth felt good.

“There, there,” he said again. His hand was on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, Agnes. You’re in good hands.”

I smiled and nodded. Even nodding hurt. I was such a hopeless case. Fainting at a party in my own honour. And this wasn’t the first time Sir William had been forced to tend to me. I wondered fleetingly what Freud would have said. Hysteria. Unacknowledged yearning for love. Not entirely unacknowledged I thought wryly. I looked up at him from under heavy lids. Sir William was still bending over me. I liked the warmth of his hand, but then I realized that my dress was gone. All I had on was a shift. Had Sir William undressed me? I half hoped so. I felt strangely unalarmed, probably because I was so drowsy. My eyes closed and I drifted to sleep.

When I awoke again it was still dark and the house was silent except for the occasional metal bang of a radiator. My head was clear and free of pain now and my feet were blissfully warm. I reached beneath the flannel sheets and touched them. Such comfort this place called Open Arms could bring. My pocket watch glinted on the little table beside the bed. Sir William had electric lighting, which was a good thing because I had no matches. I flicked on the lamp and the room illuminated, bringing all of his bookshelves into relief.

It was four thirty a.m. Too late to sleep any more, but too early to get up and start the day. I rose unsteadily and padded to the shelves at the foot of my bed. There were books on anatomy and physiology and pathology. Half a shelf was occupied alone by copies of the textbook we had written. My eye snagged on a title one shelf higher.
The Sexual Life of Our Time
. I had to stand on my toes to reach it. It was a thick book bound in a black cloth cover published in the 1880s, translated from the German. The author was a Viennese physician, Iwan Bloch.

I had read manuals on intimate relations before. The one used most widely in Canada was
Light on Dark Corners
, which had a lantern on its cover glimmering against a shadowy background. Despite the title and suggestive artwork it divulged little about sex, focusing more on proper attitudes and comportment for Victorian women when they were in mixed company.

The Sexual Life of Our Time
was different. Its thickness and serious scientific tone promised more substance. I carried it to the bed and thumbed through the pages to the chapter on virginity. Ever since my encounter with Jakob Hertzlich in April a question had been nagging at me. Jakob Hertzlich had not ventured inside my skirts. His hands had remained firmly on my breasts, but his restraint had made little difference. I’d had an orgasm in his arms. I had recognized it at once.

It astounded me that this could happen without genital contact. His hips had remained a chaste distance from my own. It was just the fingers on my breast, and yet it had happened. He must have realized when I slumped against him.

To his credit he had not taken advantage, even though at one point after my slump I’d felt the hard length of him pressing from inside his trousers. What I wished to know were the implications. We certainly hadn’t been intimate in the usual sense. Yet I had surrendered. Did that count? Did I still qualify, at least technically, as a virgin? Bloch was mute on the subject. For this expert from Vienna sex was synonymous with penetration. Nowhere was the possibility raised that a woman might find release simply through the stimulation of a nipple.