The Moon by Night (23 page)

“No, because I don't know what an iatromechanist is.”

“In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, mechanics was a branch of science that adhered to the concept that physical energies and forces such as the wind and the stars and thunderstorms affected people's bodies, so they attempted to diagnose illnesses by studying the erosion of rocks and the wind direction and so on,” Cheney explained. “Now they call themselves
iatro
—from the Greek
iatros,
physician—
mechanist
.”

“You speak Greek too?” Shiloh asked, astonished.

“Well—actually, yes, I do,” Cheney said, going back to her magazine. “Although you do have a tendency to forget if you don't use it. I doubt I could converse in it now or read an unfamiliar text. Just look at this! ‘Physiologists after Hamberger,' for goodness' sake!” She banged her cup down on the saucer, and Sketes hurried to mop up the sloshed coffee.

“They'll do it to you every time, those ol' ‘Physiologists after Hamberger,'” Shiloh said in a wry aside to Sketes.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, Doc, before you drift off into quackery land again, I've got a question,” Shiloh said, pouring her a hot cup of coffee from their brand-new silver coffee service. He had bought it from Tiffany's, and Cheney had never even noticed it.

She looked up. “Yes?”

“So how would this iatromechanic—”

“Iatromechanist,” Cheney corrected him.

“—this quack cure Mr. Jack's rheumatism?” he finished.

“I have no idea,” Cheney answered shortly.

Shiloh studied her, his eyes dancing. “No? 'Cause I was just thinking, you know, that you and Batson agree that Mr. Jack's knee gets worse when it's cold and wet, and Cleve prescribes a hot dry towel wrap for it. Now I know I'm just a dumb mutt, but to me that sounds like an iatromechanistic diagnosis and an allopathic prescriptive.”

Cheney blinked.

“Also,” Shiloh went on breezily, “you said just last week, on the night of the full moon, that you dreaded working on that night, because it was the weekend and the full moon and people got hurt and got sicker and got crazier during a full moon. Sounds kinda like an iatromechanistic principle to me. Right?”

Cheney stared at him for a few moments longer, then smiled. “You are so intelligent, you have such a grasp of—” She stopped, flushed a little, then ducked her head and took a sip of coffee. “You're right,” she finally said evenly, meeting his gaze again. He was watching her curiously. “Never mind all that, it's too much for anyone this early in the morning. So what is your schedule for the day?”

“I hate to tell you, but it's 12:14,” Shiloh said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “But I know that's like early morning for you, Doc. You're making little Chinese puzzles with your toast crumbs, so I know you're finished eating. Are you awake?”

“You sound like my mother,” Cheney said grumpily. She played with her food when she finished eating, and all of her life Irene had tried to break her of the habit. “Yes, I'm awake. Come on, Shiloh, let's go sit by the fire. My feet are freezing.”

This brought on a small flurry of activity that Cheney, being pampered all her life, barely noticed. Sketes hurried to place the coffee service on a side table by the fireplace. On one side of the hearth was a green velvet settee and on the other were two wing chairs. Cheney sat in one, and Shiloh moved a fat hassock from an armchair on the other side of the room, then put her feet up on it.

“I'll go get a lap robe, Dr. Cheney,” Sketes said.

“Mm, thank you, Sketes,” Cheney said absently. She was reading the last two paragraphs of an article entitled “Cashmere and Alpaca—The Choicest Woolens for New York Winters.”

Shiloh stoked the fire until it fairly roared, then arranged the fire screen. He poured Cheney's cold coffee out into a modest crockery pitcher that Sketes always included in their informal breakfasts, because Cheney had a tendency to let her coffee sit until it was cold. He made her a steaming new cup, with two sugars and heavy cream, and heated up his own coffee. Leaning against the mantel, he sipped it and looked out the bay windows, courteously waiting until Cheney finished reading before speaking.

It was one of those diamond-bright winter days, with a hard blue sky and garish sun. Shiloh had already been down to the docks to see about
Locke's Day Dream,
which was scheduled to sail on a favorable 11:50 tide that night. However, Captain Starnes had said that they may be becalmed if the night was as still as the day. Not a breath of wind stirred the bare branches or the snowdrifts.

Sketes returned and tucked a small coverlet around Cheney's feet.

“Thank you,” she said, then cocked her head. “Sketes, is this cashmere? Or alpaca?”

“No, ma'am, it's just plain sheep's wool,” Sketes answered uncertainly. “Why, did you want cashmere or alpaca instead?”

“Do we have cashmere or alpaca throws?”

“No, ma'am, but your black shawl with the lovely long fringe is cashmere, and the quilted plaid carriage robe is alpaca.”

“You like cashmere,” Shiloh said with amusement, “but you think alpaca is itchy if it's worn next to the skin.”

“I do?” Cheney said blankly.

“You do.”

“However do you remember things like that?” Cheney asked plaintively. “I can't remember things like that.”

“You're interestin',” Shiloh drawled. “Even when you're talkin' about Schoenleinian Epigones or dissectin' people's feet or itchy stockings.”

“Am I?” Cheney asked with real pleasure.

“Sure are,” Shiloh assured her. “So speaking of your interests, in a way, how is our patient Mrs. Green?”

Cheney frowned and took a cautious sip of coffee. “I suppose as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. But since I'm not allowed to see her, it's hard to tell. I must talk to Dev today. I wonder if he's coming to the hospital.”

Shiloh narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, you can't see her? Is that more of Ira Green's nonsense?”

“Yes, but never mind, Shiloh. Dev's handling it. You don't have to worry about it,” she said hastily. As always, Cheney avoided discussing her professional life with Shiloh. Stubbornly she told herself that Shiloh didn't
want
to be a doctor, so he didn't
want
to hear about anything concerning medicine. Guiltily she thought that he would certainly be interested in the Cornelius Melbourne case, and since he had played such an important role in Rebecca Green's surgery, it could be argued that he had a perfect right to know about her progress—especially that, after all the problems, they still hadn't gotten all of the tumor. Then Cheney thought of getting locked in the morgue and how amused Shiloh would be by the story. But still she ducked her head behind her magazine. She knew very well that there was an element of spiteful payback to her reticence, but she quickly shoved the uncomfortable knowledge aside. “So what's your schedule for the day?” she asked brightly.

A shadow quickly passed over Shiloh's face—he recognized Cheney's abrupt withdrawals for what they were—but in his normal careless drawl he said, “I've got a bunch of stuff to do today, but what I wanted to talk to you about is this.
Locke's Day Dream
is leaving for the West Indies tonight with her new Duvall's iron hanging knees and braces. At least there's a fair tide at 11:50, and with just a bit of wind Captain Starnes says she won't be becalmed, wallowing around in circles in the East River.”

“You want to go see her off, don't you? Go, Shiloh. If I've told you once, I know I've said a thousand times that I don't need a nanny. I can take care of myself.”

“You sure?” Shiloh asked uncertainly. “I don't like it, Doc. Not because I think you need a nanny, but because of the weather. When Captain Starnes and I were talking, he thought the wind might come in strong tonight, with the temperature dropping, and he usually knows about the weather. I just worry about Eugènie.”

Cheney looked rebellious, but then she said regretfully, “You're right, Shiloh. She is too delicate for freezing weather. Very well, I'll take a hackney coach, and before you even say it, I'll tell you that Officer Goodin will be able to find me one tonight no matter what time it is.”

“Okay,” Shiloh said with relief. “I would like to see if the barky makes it out tonight because…see, that's what I need to talk to you about.”

He frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

“What's the matter?” Cheney said alertly.

“Nothing, nothing bad,” he answered quickly. “I just need to ask you something. I thought—I'd like to give a party. On New Year's Eve. I mean a fête, because what I'd like to do is have a dinner, then go to the park for the band concert and fireworks, then come back here and have music and dancing and a buffet. What do you think?”

Cheney was surprised, but then she smiled. “Why, I think that's a wonderful idea, Shiloh. But giving a party like that takes an awful lot of planning and preparation—”

He waved his hand. “No, no, Doc, you don't have to do a thing, not one thing, except show up, o' course. Me and PJ are going to handle all of it.”

“PJ?” Cheney said blankly.

“Phinehas Beddoes Jauncy,” Shiloh said with emphasis. “Short, mustache, umbrella, concussion?”

“Oh—PJ! Yes, yes, I remember….” Cheney looked around the room, her brow furrowed, as if he might be lurking in a corner. “He's still here?”

“He is my gentleman's gentleman, m'dear,” Shiloh said with a thick snobbish British accent. “He's always around, being gentlemanly.”

“Well, I never see him,” Cheney sighed. “Us ghouls on the night shifts rarely meet the respectable people. Anyway, Shiloh, I think a New Year's Eve fête is a marvelous idea, particularly if you and Jauncy are going to do all the work. So whom shall we invite?”

“Your mother and father, Dr. and Mrs. Buchanan, Allan and Jane Anne Blue, Cleve and whoever—probably Miss Wilcott, if she's still in town. And maybe Dr. White?”

“I'd love to have her. You might say that we're becoming friends,” Cheney said tentatively. “But then you'd have to invite another man, you see, to make the seating come out right.”

“Yeah, I know all about that stuff now,” Shiloh said blithely. “PJ told me. It's just so the geometry comes out right, like Minerva Wilcott says.”

Cheney giggled. “Exactly. But what about the odd man?”

“The odd man, yeah, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.” He came to sit in the chair next to her, then leaned over and took her hand. It was cold, and he warmed it between his own hands.

Cheney was conscious of his hands; they were big and battle scarred, with outsized knuckles, particularly on his right hand. And though Shiloh now certainly could be put in that amorphous class of gentlemen, he still had the rough muscled hands of a laborer. Cheney expected he always would.

“Doc, I'd like to ask you something, but if you don't want to, just say no, and I won't bring it up again,” he said quietly.

Cheney looked up into his eyes. She had seen them turn dark midnight blue with anger, light sparkling blue with amusement, deep royal blue with kindness, and hard icy blue with coldness. Now they were a gentle gray-blue, a thoughtful expression, when he was unsure of something. Cheney was coming to know her husband's moods very well.

“Ah, so now we come to it,” she teased him gently. “About the ship and the fête. You want to send an invitation to Bain, don't you? And the only way to get it there in time is if
Locke's Day Dream
makes a straight fast run to Bequia?”

“That's about it,” Shiloh said. “What do you think?”

“Of course you—we—should invite Bain, Shiloh,” she said softly.

“You…you think so? Are you sure? I mean, with your parents and all—”

“He's your family, Shiloh,” she said simply. “He will always be welcome in my home.”

****

Shiloh rode up to Slip 15 of the South Street Seaport just in time to see the jibboom of
Locke's Day Dream
clear the wharf. The steam tugs were pulling her to the sea, for it was about eleven-thirty and she must catch her tide. The wind screeched and shrieked, biting into Shiloh's bones and making him feel sorry for Balaam. He dismounted and stood on the dock, watching his beloved clipper slip her moorings and glide away. It was a sight no less beautiful to him, even if she was being pulled backwards. A sailor—Shiloh recognized one of his favorite old sea salts, Calvin Lott, as he was doing something complicated with one of the countless rigging ropes—suddenly stiffened and thundered out, “Mr. Locke, sir! Ahoy! You wasn't trying to board, was you, sir?”

“No, Lott, sail on!” Shiloh shouted. “God be with you and give you fair sailing!”

“And with you, sir!” he called. Captain Starnes appeared at the bow to salute him, and Shiloh returned the courtesy. He watched his clipper until she was out of sight, past the stern ends of the ships docked close alongside her berth. “The tugs will be busy tonight,” he told Balaam. “Bet everyone wants to catch this tide.” There were five sailing ships docked here, and all of them had their sailing lanterns lit. Shiloh could even hear snatches of two tug men yelling and cursing each other as they competed for leeway to pull the great barks and brigs out into the current.

And he suddenly heard snatches of something else: a great deep voice roaring in French, and a child wailing. Hurriedly Shiloh rounded the bow of the ship berthed in number 14. It was a French brigantine,
Le Cheval du Mercredi
. A French company, Tourneau Shipping, had four brigs that regularly brought in French soap, perfume, medicine, wine, and brandy and shipped out lumber to wood-hungry Europe. The name of this particular ship was
The Wednesday Horse
. Shiloh had seen the other three, and sure enough, they were the Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday horses. Shiloh's shipping agent had told him, “Mr. Tourneau let his wife name his ships, and there you are.”