And the biggest surprise of all, thought Norris, must have been her choice of a husband, a farmer with little education. Though Isaac Marshall was a handsome man, he had no interest in the music and books that Sophia so treasured, no interest in anything but his crops and his livestock. Norris said, hesitantly, — You do know that my mother is no longer living in Belmont? —
— I'd heard she was in Paris. Is she still there? —
— As far as I know. —
— You don't know? —
— She hasn't corresponded. Life on the farm was not easy for her, I think. And she — Norris stopped, and the memory of his mother's departure was like a fist suddenly closing around his chest. She'd left on a Saturday, a day he scarcely remembered, because he'd been so ill. And weeks later, he was still weak and wobbly on his feet when he'd come down to the kitchen to find his father, Isaac, standing at the window, staring out at the mist of summer. His father had turned to face him, his expression as distant as a stranger's.
— Your mother just wrote. She won't be coming back, — was all Isaac had said before walking out of the house and heading straight to the barn to do the milking. Why would any woman choose to stay with a husband whose only passions were the ache of hard work and the sight of a well-plowed field? It was Isaac she had fled, Isaac who had driven Sophia away.
But as time went by without other letters, Norris had come to accept a truth that no eleven-year-old boy should have to face: that his mother had also fled from him, abandoning her son to a father who lavished more affection on his cows than on his own flesh and blood.
Norris took a breath, and as he exhaled, he imagined his pain being released as well. But it was still there, the old ache for just one glimpse of the woman who had given him life. And then broken his heart. So anxious was he to end this conversation that he said, abruptly: — I should return to the dissection room. Is that all you wished to see me about, sir? —
— There is one more thing. It's about my nephew. —
— Charles? —
— He speaks highly of you. Even looks up to you. He was quite young when his father died of a fever, and I'm afraid that Charles inherited his father's delicate constitution. My sister thoroughly coddled him when he was a boy, so he's grown up on the sensitive side. It makes anatomical study all the more upsetting for him. —
Norris thought of what he'd just witnessed in the anatomy lab: Charles, white-faced and trembling, as he took up the knife, as he slashed away in blind frustration.
— He is finding the studies difficult, and he receives little encouragement from his friend Mr. Kingston. Only ridicule. —
— Wendell Holmes is a good and supportive friend. —
— Yes, but you are perhaps the most skilled dissector in your class. That's what Dr. Sewall tells me. So I'd appreciate it, should you see that Charles needs any extra guidance —
— I'd be happy to look out for him, sir. —
— And you won't let Charles know we spoke of this? —
— You can trust me. —
Both men stood. For a moment, Grenville studied him, silently taking his measure. — And so I shall. —
Thirteen
EVEN A DISINTERESTED OBSERVER would be able to tell, with merely a glance, that the four young men who stepped into the Hurricane that night were not of equal standing. If a man could be judged by the quality of his topcoat, that alone would have set Norris apart from his three classmates; certainly it set him apart from the illustrious Dr. Chester Crouch, who had invited his four students to join him for an evening round of drinks. Crouch led the way across the crowded tavern to a table near the fireplace. There he shrugged off his heavy greatcoat with the fur collar and handed it to the girl who had scurried over the instant she'd spotted the group step through the door. The tavern maid was not the only female who'd taken note of their entrance. A trio of young ladies shopgirls perhaps, or adventurous country visitors were eyeing the young men, and one of them blushed at a glance from Edward, who merely shrugged at their attentions, so accustomed was he to looks from the ladies.
By the light of the roaring fire, Norris couldn't help admiring Edward's stylish neck stock tied ŕ la Sentimentale, and the green topcoat with the silver buttons and velvet collar. The filth of the dissection room had not stopped Norris's three fellow students from wearing their fine shirts and Marseilles waistcoats while they'd cut into old Paddy. He himself would never risk a disastrous stain on such expensive muslin. His own shirt was old and frayed and not worth the price of Kingston's cravat alone. He looked down at his hands, where dried blood was still caked beneath his fingernails. I shall go home with the stink of that old corpse clinging to my clothes, he thought.
Dr. Crouch called out: — A round of brandy and water for my excellent students here. And a plate of oysters! —
— Yes, Doctor, — the tavern girl said, and with a sly glance at Edward, she hurried past crowded tables to fetch the drinks. Though equally fashionable, Wendell was too short, and Charles too pale and timid, to attract the same admiring looks. And Norris was the one with the worn coat and rotting shoes. The one not worth a second glance.
The Hurricane was not a tavern that Norris frequented. Though he spotted here and there a shapeless coat or the faded uniform of a half-pay officer, he saw a crowd that was largely high-collared and well shod, and he spotted more than a few of his fellow medical students eagerly scooping up oysters with hands that only hours ago had wallowed in the blood of cadavers.
— The first dissection is merely an introduction, — said Crouch, raising his voice to be heard in that noisy room. — You cannot begin to understand the machine in all its brilliance until you've seen the variability between young and old, male and female. — He leaned toward his four students and spoke more quietly. — Dr. Sewall was hoping to secure a fresh shipment next week. He's offered as much as thirty dollars apiece, but there's a problem with supply. —
— Surely people are still dying, — said Edward.
— Yet we're faced with scarcity. In past years, we could rely on suppliers in New York and Pennsylvania. But everywhere now, we face competition. The College of Physicians and Surgeons in New York has enrolled two hundred students this year. The University of Pennsylvania four hundred. It's a race to acquire the same merchandise that every other school is scrambling for, and it gets worse every year. —
— There's no such problem in France, — said Wendell.
Crouch gave a sigh of envy. — In France, they understand what is vital to the common good. The medical school in Paris has full access to the charity hospitals. Their students have all the bodies they could possibly use for study. Now, there's the place to learn medicine. —
The serving girl returned with their drinks and a platter of steaming oysters, which she laid on the table. — Dr. Crouch, — she said. — There's a gentleman wishes to speak to you. Says it's his wife's time, and she's in distress. —
Crouch glanced around the tavern. — Which gentleman? —
— He waits outside, with a carriage. —
Sighing, Crouch stood up. — It appears I shall have to leave you. —
— Shall we accompany you? — asked Wendell.
— No, no. Don't let the oysters go to waste. I'll see you all in the morning, on the ward. —
As Dr. Crouch walked out the door, his four students wasted no time attacking the platter.
— He's right, you know, — said Wendell, plucking up a succulent oyster. — Paris is the place to study, and he's not the only one to say it. We're at a disadvantage. Dr. Jackson has encouraged James to complete his studies there, and Johnny Warren will soon be headed to Paris as well. —