“I have need of the thin metal rod with the hook at the end of it,” he says, nodding toward the tray of surgical implements. “Then we will begin.”
I hand it to him, and he touches the heart gently with the rod.
But nothing happens.
He straightens and tries again. The result is the same. Touching the rod to the heart for a third time, he presses it deeply into the flesh. There is still no change. “I have the proper amounts of zinc and copper,” he mutters. “The connection is strong.”
He tinkers with the wire on the end of the rod. “The wire has been coated with salt water.…” He leans in to touch the page in front of him. “Yes,” he says. “It’s all right here. I don’t understand what can be wrong.”
I dare to voice my question. “What was supposed to have happened, Father?”
“Animal electricity.” He toys with the wire again. “Were this experiment a success, the spark would, in theory, make the heart beat again.”
“Like the study of galvanism!” I say excitedly.
He turns to face me. “You’ve heard of it?”
“It was all the rage when Mother and I lived in England. I was too young, of course, to attend any of the showings, but I remember hearing about it. Luigi Galvani’s nephew, Giovanni Aldini, would put on shows across Europe in which he would produce animal stimulation. When I grew older, I read about it.”
“I believe his success to be doubtful. If his claims were real, then this should have worked. I followed his directions quite explicitly.” Father prods the heart again as he speaks. “It’s not just the heart,” he mutters. “That’s the problem. I know this. The brain is needed as well.”
“What do you mean, the brain is needed?”
He suddenly looks up excitedly and throws the rod he’s holding onto the table. “Go to that crate over there.” He points at the shelf behind me. “And bring it here.”
I hesitate momentarily. What will I see inside it?
“By all means, whenever you are ready,” he says in exasperation.
Hurrying to the shelf, I do what he says. But I cannot stop my sharp exhale when I look into the crate. A horse’s head stares up at me. It’s brown eyes wide and unblinking.
“Come, come now,” he says. “You say you helped your mother in the village. Although this is an animal, there will not be much of a difference.”
Human heads are not stored in crates with their eyes open and staring wide. But I know I cannot say what I’m thinking, so I carry the crate over to the table and set it down before him.
He lifts the head out of the crate and puts it directly onto the table. Even with all my doubts over whether or not my interest in medicine is abnormal, I cannot quell my curiosity.
“Bring me the cutting blade,” Father says.
I find the one he wants and he places the blade at the back of the animal’s head. Then he begins the arduous task of removing the skin and hair. When he hits bone, the noise it makes as he saws back and forth sets my teeth on edge. But I clasp my hands tightly together again, behind my back, and force myself to keep watching. If I turn away now, Father will no doubt see it as a sign of weakness. A sign that women cannot handle the study of medicine.
Once he’s opened the horse’s skull, he makes a few more cuts and then lifts the brain out. “Another tray is needed.”
I search on the shelf behind me, but I cannot find one.
“To your left,” he directs. “Just there.”
Seizing an empty tray, I bring it to the table and place it beside him. The horse’s head is within my line of sight, and I glance down at the floor, trying to avoid looking directly into its eyes.
“Sentimentality will keep women out of operating rooms forever,” Father scoffs.
The comment stings, but I do my best not to react. “May I ask what it is you’re going to do with the brain, Father?”
“I’m going to show you that in order to stimulate the heart, the brain is needed as well.” His face lights up with anticipation. “That is truly where life comes from.”
He carefully lays the brain on the tray and requests another wire. I hand it to him, and he links them together. The brain and the heart are now connected to each other, and the three bowls by their respective wires. I hold my breath as Father picks up the metal rod again. Then he touches the brain with it.
Suddenly, Father slams his hand on the table. “Another failure! I cannot understand what has gone wrong!”
He prods the brain again and again as he speaks until large holes appear, and the flesh begins to weaken. The prodding turns to stabbing.
His actions unsettle me. “Is there anything I can do, Father? Perhaps I can—”
His hand stills and he gives a deep sigh. “Just go. I have no further use of you.”
Those words hurt more than his comment about being sentimental. Trying to tell myself that he is merely frustrated by his experiment, I hang up my apron and turn toward the door.
“Annabel.” I glance back to see him following me, and my hope rises. “It was a mistake to let you help me,” he says. “I hope you understand that. Women have no place in medicine or in science. It will not happen again.”
“Yes, Father.” My voice is a whisper.
“And tell that new watchman to go find my assistant. Otherwise, I’ll need to find a new one. You are dismissed.”
Before I can say anything more, the door shuts behind me and I’m left standing there alone in the dark. When the grating scratch of the key turning against the lock comes, it’s a final death knell in the cold silence.
Thirteen
Cook and Johanna are both in the kitchen when I return upstairs. Neither of them asks why I was down in the laboratory, but Cook casts a worried glance over at the door. “Father needed my assistance,” I offer quietly. “Do either of you know where I can find Brahm?”
“He’s in the stables with Jasper,” Cook says. “What do you need him fer, miss?”
“Father’s assistant is late and he has requested the new night watchman go find him.”
Cook and Johanna share a look, and then Cook says, “Johanna will find him, miss. No need fer you to be doing that.”
Johanna agrees and hurries out into the courtyard while I take a seat at the worktable. “Do you know where Maddy is? Is she still cleaning the stained-glass windows?”
“She’s in her room resting. Poor thing was as pale as a ghost, she said her stomach was upset an’ she felt cold all over. I told her Johanna an’ I could take care of preparing dinner.”
Remembering the khing that I purchased at the marketplace, I get to my feet. “Will you put some water on to boil for tea, Cook? I have something that should make Maddy feel better.”
She does as I ask while I go up to my room. The khing is still in my cloak pocket along with the handkerchief, and I reach for that as well. Hopefully, it will be a welcome distraction.
The tea is brewing when I reach the kitchen again, and Johanna has returned. I remove the khing from my pocket and cut a small section off, peeling away the outer bark and revealing the sweet flesh beneath. Dropping it into the teapot, I allow it to cook for several moments. “Fresh khing would be better, but this should work just as well.”
“What is kring, miss?” Cook says.
I smile at her mispronunciation. “Khing, like the word ring, is an herb. I believe the shopkeeper at the apothecary told me it was called ginger here?”
“Ginger. Yes,” Cook replies. “I’ve never had it in a tea, though.”
“We used it often in Siam to relieve vapors, nausea, and fatigue. It should help Maddy feel better shortly.”
They watch in silence as I strain the leaves and then flavor the tea with a small piece of sugar cube. In Siam, sliced oranges were used as flavoring. “Would you like to try some?” I ask. They nod, and I pour a cup for each of them.
Johanna takes a large sip of her tea. “Delicious, miss!”
Cook follows suit and then bobs her head. “
I’ve never tasted anything like it!”
“If Maddy and I go back to the market again, I shall have to see if I can find maphrao—coconut. Khing is delicious paired with it.” I glance around the kitchen. “Now, where might I find a tray so I can take this up to her?”
“I can take it, miss,” Johanna says.
“Please, let me. I was hoping to spend a moment with her.”
“Not to worry, miss.” Cook finds a small silver tea tray and brings it over to me. “You go right ahead an’ take it up yerself. Johanna will show you the way.” Then she goes to the larder and comes back with biscuits and a small pot of cherry jam. “Her favorite,” she says, adding those to the tray as well.
I follow Johanna up the staircase to the first floor. There are two doors on my left and two doors on my right. Johanna points to the right side of the hallway. “Our room is the last one down.”
She leaves me behind, and I make my way to the second door on the right. Placing the tray on the floor, I knock gently and then pick it up again. A moment later, the door opens. Maddy’s face peers out from behind it. Her eyes are red.
“I brought you some tea, Maddy,” I say softly. “It’s flavored with kh … ginger. From the market?”
“Oh, miss.” She sniffles, and rubs her hand across her face. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It will help you feel better. May I come in?”
Maddy glances behind her and then looks back to me again. “Miss … the room Johanna an’ I share isn’t very grand. It’s not what yer used to.”
“This whole house is not what I’m used to. Please, Maddy, don’t be ashamed. The house Mother and I shared in Siam could fit twice over in my bedroom.”
She pulls away from the door, and I start to think that perhaps she will not let me enter. But then she returns. “Yes, miss. Please come in.”
Though the room is small and sparsely furnished, it’s neat and tidy. There are two beds against the wall at my left and cheerful gingham curtains above a small window to my right. A chair sits beside the window with a pile of overturned crates beside it, stacked one on top of the other to create a makeshift table. Letters are scattered across the surface.
I gesture to the crates. “Is it all right if I put the tray down over there?”
She nods and moves forward to sweep the letters into a hasty pile. The “table” is shortened when she removes one of the crates and pushes it to the side. I put the tray down and she pulls out the chair for me to use. She takes a seat on the crate.
“Mother used to make this tea for me whenever I was feeling ill. It should help calm your stomach. The biscuits and jam are from Cook. She said they’re your favorite.”
She glances down. “Yes, miss.”
Withdrawing the handkerchief from my pocket, I present it to her. “This is for you. A thank-you gift for being so kind to me.”
Maddy looks up. Her eyes widen when she sees what’s in my hand. “Fer me? But I’ve only been doing my job.”
“That may be so, but you’ve also shown me the kindness of a friend. In Siam, we consider it an honor to give gifts that represent our appreciation and thanks.”
“No one has ever given me a gift before.”
“Then I hope you are pleased with it.”
Tears spring to her eyes as she slowly takes the handkerchief. “How could I not be pleased grand? It’s the one I’ve been admiring for ages!”
“Turn it over. It has your initials embroidered on it.”
The look of delight on her face fills my heart near to bursting as she runs her finger over the embroidery. “It’s the finest thing I have ever seen. Thank you, miss. Thank you!”
She stands to briefly embrace me, and I return her hug. “You are very welcome. Though I must ask one small favor of you in return.”
“Anything, miss.”
“Would you call me Annabel? It would mean the world to me as your friend.”
Maddy pulls back and bobs her head. Her eyes are sparkling. “You think of me as a friend?”
“I don’t have very many,” I confess. “Especially here in Philadelphia.”
She blushes. “I would be pleased grand to be considered yer friend.”
I squeeze her hand and give her a smile. At least for the moment, she seems to have forgotten whatever it was that upset her. “I should leave you to rest now. I do hope you feel better.”
“Thank you, mi—Annabel,” she corrects herself. “I will drink the tea you made me, too.” She follows me to the door. “If I’m not able to finish my post here, I want you to know I’ve been pleased grand to be yer dressing maid,” she says suddenly.
I turn to her. “Surely, you will not be fired simply because you were ill! I shall speak to Father and Grand-père. I will tell them—”
“Oh, no, miss.” She shakes her head. “In case anything should happen, is all I mean.”
“Is something wrong? Are you unhappy here?”
She’s silent for a long moment. “What if you found out something. Something … you were ashamed to admit?”
“Like a secret you’re forced to keep?”
She nods, and I reach for her hand. I’m all too familiar with those. “I would hope that it’s not too great a burden for you. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you have my word that I will.”
She gives me another smile before pulling away. But it does not reach her eyes. As I descend the stairs to return to the kitchen, the image of her sad face, and her words of leaving, stay with me.
Fourteen
I wander the house the next afternoon, feeling melancholy and out of sorts, when a storm rolls in. Although there is no thunder, the rain is a constant companion. Slanting against the windows, casting dark shadows on the floor. I’m moody and restless—as dreary as the gray day outside—and I find myself returning to the library.
But the room is already occupied. Allan sits at the small table in front of the fireplace. He appears to be writing, and does not look up when I enter. His concentration is focused. A satchel is on the floor at his feet and a black work apron is still tied around his waist. His shirtsleeves have been rolled up, and there’s a dark stain upon his neck.
I watch him silently. He shifts from one side of the chair to the other, murmuring softly to himself.
His brow furrows. “While I pondered weak and weary …,” he says. “Once upon a day so dreary.” He scribbles something down on the paper before him. Then he pauses and frowns. “Deep into that darkness I stood peering …”
He abruptly stands, running his fingers through his hair. Several loose pieces escape the leather band at the nape of his neck, giving him a slightly wild look. The effect is not at all displeasing, and my heart starts to beat rapidly.
“For you came tapping.” He begins pacing in front of the fire. “Tapping, tapping, tapping. Tapping and rapping at my chamber door! You are always rapping at my chamber door!”
I draw in a sudden breath.
He turns, and his eyes meet mine. “Miss Lee … I did not expect anyone to be here.” He removes his apron and begins to roll down his shirtsleeves.
“I did not think anyone else would be here either. I’m sorry to interrupt you.” I hope my voice is steady. The sight of his bare arms is distracting.
“No apology is necessary. Your presence could never be an interruption.” He motions to the chair opposite the one he had been occupying. “Would you care to join me? My writing is not going as well as I’d hoped. I’m in need of inspiration.”
“Were you working on something new?” I take a seat and place my hands on the table. “I thought you would be with Father in his laboratory this afternoon.” I wonder if Father has mentioned that I was his assistant yesterday.
“We are … taking a short respite. Your father was unhappy with our progress and wanted some time to gather his thoughts. Since I had a free moment, I stole away.”
“And you came here for inspiration? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since you’re a
lover of words.”
I blush when I hear the word lover come out of my mouth.
He arches one eyebrow at me. “I’m a lover of beauty as well, and it seems I’ve made the right decision to come here, after all. Today, I find both of my inspirations fulfilled.”
My face grows even warmer, and I look down again. He considers me beautiful? “I am not fair skinned,” I protest. “My hands are rough, and sun-worn. My eyes are not light, my hair is not pale. I—”
He reaches out and gently touches the back of my hand. His hand lingers there.
My heart pounds, and all of Mrs. Tusk’s lessons collide in my head. I glance at the bookshelves beside us. “I came looking for a book to pass the time. I was feeling restless, and the storm drove me to wander. Is there one you would suggest?”
Allan pulls his hand back, and briskly clears his throat. “I usually find it’s during those moments when I’m inspired the most. Restlessness has led to many of the poems for my first book.”
“First book?” I look shyly up at him. “Are you planning to write more?”
“Dozens. Hundreds. I aim to be one of the most admired writers in all of history. I have already been critiqued by Washington Irving.” His eyes shine with pride. “Have you heard of him? I shall have to show you the letter he wrote to me!”
“I fear I have not. We did not have many books to read in Siam.”
“He is a much-praised American writer and is very well known. His most famous work has been The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. But already at half his age, I will have my first book published. Though lately …” He looks over my shoulder, and his gaze grows distant. As though he’s lost in something far beyond me. “Lately, I’ve felt …”
“Felt what, Allan?”
His attention returns to me. “Have you ever felt like a story was inside you, but you couldn’t do it justice? Almost as though some other part of you needed to write it down? Whether you could not find the inspiration, or the words, or the atmosphere, or the setting … It’s as if there were something standing in your way, stopping you, and only this other piece of you could understand whatever it was?”