Heaven's Bones (32 page)

“It would be my pleasure—but I don't want to intrude on a family affair,” began Sophie.

“Nonsense! You are family. And Doctor McPherson will be there: You can all sit together and talk business and pay no mind to propriety at all—will you come then?”

Sophia laughed and assented, trying to remember if she had any suitable frock at all. Most of her party-going clothing was at her parents' house in the country—although certainly one need have no fear of being “cut” for being unfashionable at one of Lady Cecelia's parties.

“Is that Bartholomew McPherson?” asked Sebastian Robarts, suddenly. “Trained under James Symons?”

“I have no idea whom he trained under,” said Lady Cecelia. “But his name is certainly Bartholomew. Sophie,” she turned back to her. “I know you're dreadfully busy, so we'll leave you now. But we can expect you tonight, correct? We need beauty amongst the Hippocrates!”

“Yes, certainly I'll come,” said Sophie. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Robarts. And now if you'll excuse me, I have notes to make.”

“Delightful,” he returned. Sophie, after a quick embrace from Lady Cecelia, returned to her office, wondering if the feeling of Sebastian Robarts' gaze burning on her back was merely her imagination.

In the hansom cab on the way to Lady Cecelia's she remembered—Robarts' essays on the speculum. Dr. McPherson had recommended them particularly. And she remembered more. Robarts' wife had died in childbirth, along with her baby: A particularly difficult case that was the more cruelly ironic, given her husband's profession. By all accounts the best possible care was given, but to no avail. Margaret Robarts died—Sophia had never realized she was Lady Cecelia's sister—and Robarts had soon after retired to his country estate, and from there had gone abroad, seeking balm for his sorrows.

Robarts was already in attendance at Lady Cecelia's, and Sophie was glad to be able to tell him how valuable she had found his scholarly works.

The effect was profound. His expression brightened, and she could see glimpses of what he had been before—young, vital, and brilliant. The gray sadness fell off him like a cloak, and he drew her into private conversation by the fire, asking her about strides in modern scholarship and the cases she most often saw at the Clinic. At one point Sophie saw Lady Cecelia flash her a sly smile, and she wondered if her patroness suspected her of plotting to catch the eligible widower herself.

With the arrival of the other guests, including Dr. McPherson, they assembled for dinner. Sophie couldn't help noticing that
when Bartholomew McPherson arrived Robarts lost his sparkle and became serious again, almost grim. Her mentor seemed oddly subdued as well.

He shook the other man's hand politely enough.

“I'm sorry to hear of Symons' death, Bart,” Sophie heard Robarts say. “A great loss to the profession.”

McPherson thanked him sincerely.

Sophie could not help notice through dinner the looks Robarts, sitting opposite her, flashed McPherson, sitting beside her—reflective, almost speculative. Not at all friendly.

Perhaps they'd had a student rivalry. Sophie mentally shrugged and tried to forget it.

Sophie left the party at nine, pleading early hours the next day. Robarts saw her to the door, taking her coat away from the waiting servant and helping her on with it.

“I hope, if it's not too presumptuous, Doctor Huxley,” he said, with some of the vivaciousness she'd seen before dinner, “you might allow me to attend you at the Clinic and assist you in some small way. I have no intention—or need—at this time to return to private practice. But medicine remains my passion. I should like to use my hands once more, and not leave them idle.”

“You are more than welcome, Doctor Robarts,” she replied. “We can always use more help, and I look forward to learning from you.”

He nodded and shook her hand, and as she turned away she thought she caught a gleam beneath his eyelid, an eager, almost predatory look that didn't seem to belong to him at all. It was gone in an instant and he returned to his place in the drawing room, but as she mounted the steps of the waiting hansom a chill ran through her bones at the memory of it.

Or perhaps it was the cool night air, with wisps of fog already rising. She remembered the nightmare fog that had so terrified Davy McPhee—and, she had to admit, frightened the rest of them—and shivered.

Dr. Robarts wasted no time; the next day Janet escorted him into her office. He was holding his hat and gloves and looked tired and worn again—but at the same time more rested. It must be doing him some good to be home again, under Lady Cecelia's expert care.

She rose to show him about, but suddenly Janet spoke.

“Excuse me, sir, but I don't suppose you'd remember me?”

There was a quaver of uncertainty in her voice. Robarts, startled, turned to look at her.

“Why, yes,” he said after a long moment. “Surely … surely it's Janet?”

She nodded, and he stepped forward to take her hand. Sophie was startled to see tears brimming in her attendant's eyes.

“It's been a long time, sir,” she said. “And forgive the presumption, but I never had the chance to tell you how sorry … how sorry we all were at the loss of your good lady. She was …” She pulled away to pull a handkerchief from her sleeve. “She was very kind to me, and patient. I was such a stupid girl.”

“Thank you, Janet,” said Robarts. “You were always a good girl, and very helpful … at the last …”

Janet pulled herself together and bobbed a curtsey, a gesture incongruously young for her, and excused herself.

“Janet was my late wife's maidservant,” said Robarts, turning back to Sophie. “I'm afraid I had no need of maintaining a household, after …”

“I am so sorry about what happened,” said Sophie. “I had heard of it, of course—and it seemed there was nothing to help it.”

Robarts paused and looked reflective—and, oddly, cunning.

“That's what was said, and I suppose they were right—but I wonder. But Doctor Huxley, this is no time for dredging up the past. I am very curious to see your new facilities.”

Later, brushing out Sophie's hair, Janet told her of that dreadful day.

“She just bled and bled, miss, and there wasn't any way they could stop it—not the doctor, nor that Symons who came after …”

“James Symons?” said Sophie, curious. No wonder Robarts was interested in the name of Professor McPherson's mentor, if he was present at the death of his wife. She wondered if Robarts blamed him.

“I wouldn't know his name, miss. Never have I seen so much blood out of one woman, not even in your work.”

“It sounds like the wall of the uterus separated,” said Sophie, with professional curiosity. “If so, there was certainly nothing to be done. And the baby?”

“They said he was strangled—blue, he was. Blue as your Sunday best.”

“The umbilicus prolapsed,” murmured Sophie.

“Doctor Robarts prolapsed after, is what happened, begging your pardon, miss,” rejoined Janet with some spirit. “Dismissed the lot of us and went to earth in that dreary house in Cornwall. Wasn't dreary when the missus was alive, of course. She made everything cheery. But after, it lost all the life in it … just like he did.”

“Ouch, Janet!”

“It's a tangle. Sit still and let me work it out, else I'll have to cut it out and your mother'll have my hide when you show up home in a suffragette bob.”

“I don't see why you have to do this every night,” said Sophie, impatiently. “I can brush my own hair.”

“You'll never do it right, and never enough,” said Janet. “You've no time as it is. One hundred times a night, not a lick and promise, like you'd do.” Her voice quieted. “Mrs. Robarts told me that.”

Sophia subsided, watching Janet's work-worn face in the mirror as she bent to her task.

“I'd be a sad mess without you, Janet,” she said, finally.

“That you would, miss,” said Janet, firmly applying the ninety-fifth stroke, ninety-sixth, ninety-seventh …

Bryani House, Cornwall, 1882

Trueblood staggered out of the fog, collapsing on the front step of Bryani House. He glanced behind him. The Mists were dissipating, leaving no sign of the place he'd come from. The vapors retreated in streamers and swirls and the meadows, with their gray-green grasses and tiny, starlike flowers were exposed to view.

Trueblood watched, panting. His clothing was soaked in sweat and there was still a trace of fresh blood that streaked from the corner of his mouth to under his ear. He held the papers in a roll, carefully away from his clothing that they might not get stained, and to protect the delicate lettering and diagrams from smearing.

When he had his breath back he rose, still watching the meadows, and in the distance, a hint of the sea.

Seriah was waiting in the doorway.

“It's different,” she said. “We're back in England.”

“Yes,” he said. Then: “Did you see it?”

In answer, she shuddered and backed away from the doorway, giving him space to enter.

He chuckled. As he passed her he heard her mumble.

“What?” he turned on her.

She blanched, but held her head high. “I said, may God forgive you.”

He laughed then. “When we storm Heaven, little
Gregori
, God will do whatever we tell him to.”

She watched his back as he strode down the hall to the Library.

London, 1882

“It came on sudden two days gone,” Aunt Cora told Artemis without preamble when he arrived at her door. She hurried him over the stile and through the house, which was more alarming than anything she could have said—were all well, she would have plied him with tea and plum cake before he would have been allowed into the inner reaches of the dwelling. “Her heart's been bothering her for a while, and her breath's not good, as you knew. But day before yesterday, she went all queer and took to her bed. We thought she'd be up soon; else we would've called you before. But she's just faded since.”