Another Country (14 page)

Henry had informed her that builders were taking the
dirt from the hill to fill in the Back Bay, an area of water
adjacent to the Moores’ neighborhood.

“So the lofty souls who look down their noses at us
from the hill will be lowered?” Eleanor said with a little chuckle,
and Henry nodded, eyes twinkling.

“Exactly so.”

“Eleanor,” Margaret interjected, laughing as well,
“you do know Henry’s family live on Beacon Hill?”

Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes
widened. “Oh! No, I’m sorry!”

Henry joined in the laughter. “Nonsense. They
approve of the scheme, I assure you.”

“The city is growing,” Margaret continued Eleanor’s
train of thought, “because of the population increase. There are
more and more immigrant ships coming in to port every day.”

“And more business,” Henry added.
He gestured to the Quincy Market. “This market built, and six new
streets besides, all filled with new business! It makes me thankful
I started when I did.” Henry looked up and smiled. “Ah, Rupert’s
here. I told him he could take the afternoon off work to help us
look for your school premises.”

Eleanor found her insides
experienced a strange tightening as she saw Rupert enter the
Moores’ drawing room. He wore his usual dusty frock coat and rather
worn hat, and his hair was still as unruly as a farmer’s. Yet,
Eleanor was forced to admit there was something vital and exciting
about Rupert, about the jauntiness of his step and the quickness of
his smile, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.

She wished she could feel that interested--that
passionately--about, well, anything.

“He’s as new to the city as I am,” Eleanor found
herself blurting out. “What could he know about a suitable place
for a school?”

Henry glanced at Eleanor, his eyes bright with
speculation, and she blushed. “Rupert has a good eye for things,
and he is Margaret’s brother. I trust you don’t object?”

“No, of course not,” Eleanor mumbled.

“Eleanor’s just put out because Rupert ruffled her
feathers the other evening,” Margaret said with a mischievous
grin.

“That’s absurd...” Before Eleanor could continue,
Rupert interrupted.

“Me? Ruffled whose feathers?” He kissed Margaret and
shook hands with Henry, bowing slightly to Eleanor in
acknowledgment.

“Eleanor’s, of course. You were teasing her
mercilessly about the Indians.”

“Teasing, was I?” Rupert shot an inquisitive glance
at Eleanor, who was looking pointedly in the other direction. She
felt her face flame and her gloves were damp as she clutched her
reticule.

“I thought we were merely having an intelligent
discussion.”

Eleanor glanced quickly at him, thinking he meant to
tease her once more, but he looked quite serious.

“Is there a difference?” Henry joked, and the
conversation moved on to suitable premises for Margaret’s charity
school. Henry suggested they take his carriage to a building that
was for rent near the wharves in the North End.

“Is that a safe area?” Rupert asked, and Henry
smiled grimly.

“Not at all. The block nearest the harbor is called
the Murder District. You can’t even get a policeman to go
there.”

“And you’re sending your wife?” Rupert was
incredulous.

Henry glanced wryly at Margaret. “I don’t really
think I have much choice. But I don’t intend to have her or Eleanor
ever go alone--our driver is a burly man in possession of a
trustworthy flintlock.”

“Still...”

“The proposed site of the school is several blocks
away from this Murder District,” Margaret interjected with a smile.
“I’m sure it’s perfectly safe if not precisely respectable. Mr.
Edward Taylor, a Methodist minister, has established a seaman’s
mission in North Square, near the building.”

“Why not have the school closer to your home?”
Eleanor asked. “Surely it would be safer as well as more
convenient.”

“You couldn’t place a charity school on Beacon Hill,
or even in the South End,” Henry said quietly. “There’d be far too
much fuss.”

Eleanor flushed, embarrassed that she hadn’t
realized something so obvious. “That’s not fair,” she protested,
albeit a bit feebly.

“No, it isn’t, but you’d find the pupils wouldn’t
come either. It isn’t just the wealthy who want to be off on their
own.”

They soon all climbed into Henry’s smart black
carriage, Rupert taking Eleanor’s elbow as he helped her up. She
wanted to jerk away--even more so when he sat next to her, his knee
practically touching hers. It was terribly inappropriate and she
sat there stiffly while he grinned, his eyes twinkling
knowingly.

“It’s a bit close in here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed tersely. She saw Margaret give
her a speculative look from under her lashes, and she straightened,
her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and looked out the
window.

I’m acting like Henrietta
McCardell
. The thought and image of her
fussy mother-in-law gave Eleanor a jolt. She’d never considered
herself to be prim and proper, and yet her behavior towards Rupert
was like that of an old spinster.

I feel like an old
spinster
, she thought. She couldn’t
remember John anymore, couldn’t remember how it felt to be loved.
Held, touched. Desired.

And every time she looked at Rupert, and saw him
looking back at her with that quiet, knowing smile, as if he could
guess her every thought--the hot tangle of emotions within her
seemed to threaten to spill over into--what?

Eleanor didn’t want to find out.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Eleanor saw that
they were in the North End neighborhood. The tang of salt water was
in the air, and gulls shrieked overhead. The buildings were a
mixture of large brick warehouses and dilapidated row houses, the
cobblestone streets going without repair and refuse piling in the
corners.

It seemed hard to believe that the shining new
Quincy Market bordered one end of this neighborhood, and in the
heart of it stood the New North Congregational Society Church,
designed by the celebrated architect Charles Bulfinch, with its
bell cast and hung by Paul Revere himself.

It was, Eleanor considered, as if Boston was growing
new and old at the same time.

Henry took Margaret’s arm as they walked down the
pavement, the street bustling with carriages and wagons full of
merchandise headed for the market place, from country produce to
sacks of fine cotton, brought from Lowell and other mill towns that
were fast springing up all over the state.

It fell naturally to Rupert to take Eleanor’s arm,
and she accepted reluctantly. “We haven’t seen each other in a
decade, Eleanor, and yet we’re almost family. Is there a reason
you’re uncomfortable with me?” Rupert asked quietly, after Henry
and Margaret had walked a bit ahead. “I trust you don’t dislike
me?”

“No, of course not. How could I? I barely know you.”
Eleanor looked away, pretending to study a woman selling apples on
the street corner. The obvious hunger and despair in her eyes made
her turn away uncomfortably.

An urchin darted out but Rupert stepped smartly
between her and the ragged little child, and he darted off
again.

“A pickpocket,” he explained, then took a coin from
his pocket. He gave it to the old woman and then gallantly
presented Eleanor with an apple, polishing it first on his
coat.

“I didn’t want...” she began, but then shrugged and
took it, her fingers clasping around its smooth surface. “Thank
you.”

“Is it so hard to accept a gift, even a modest one
like an apple?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you so prickly?”

“I’m...” Eleanor stopped. She was being ungracious,
and she didn’t even know why. Rupert was so full of life, buzzing
with ideas and energy. It scared her, yet she could hardly tell him
that.

“I’m tired from my sea journey still,” she finally
said, which was true. “It was very taxing.”

“Yes, I heard from Margaret how you had to nurse the
other passengers. Very admirable of you.”

“I know you would have done the same,” Eleanor
responded with a dismissive shrug.

“Thank you.” Rupert’s eyes sparkled with humor.

Eleanor managed a small smile. “This city feels very
new,” she said after a moment. “Growing old before it’s even
properly begun. I know it has history, from America’s colonial
days, and of course the war. And yet... there’s so much life
here.”

Rupert’s hand squeezed her elbow, his expression
intense. “I know. I feel it as well. There’s opportunity here, far
more than there ever was in Scotland, or even Prince Edward Island,
where the only chance a man had was to clear a forest and build a
cabin, farm a few fields that could be gone after one bad harvest.
Here...” Rupert spread one arm towards the street with its broken
cobbles, the market place, the harbor sparkling in the
distance.

He turned suddenly to Eleanor, smiling at her in a
way that made her insides tighten. “I’m going to make my fortune
here, Eleanor. I know it.”

Looking into his determined face, Eleanor had to
agree with him. And yet it made her wonder about her own ambition,
or lack thereof. Rupert might be set to make his way in this new
world, but what about her? What was she going to do?

“Ether, you say?” Dr. Collins looked dubious. “I’ve
heard rumors, of course...” He shook his head. “We’ve used ether to
treat pulmonary inflammation, but during surgery? It’s
questionable, lad. Questionable indeed.”

Ian bit down on his frustration. Sharp retorts were
no way to convince his superior of the need for hospital research
into the use of ether.

“Dr. Wells of Hartford, Connecticut has been
experimenting with the use of ether for several years,” he told Dr.
Collins patiently. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden
chair, struggling not to lean forward in eagerness. “It has proved
quite successful. I’ve received--”

“With small animals, yes, I know.
But a full grown man? Dr. Campbell, the risk is simply too
great.”

“What risk?”

“The risk,” Dr. Collins snapped, “of injury, even
death, from the use of a questionable substance!”

Ian strove to maintain his calm. This topic was too
important, and too close to his heart, to forsake it for the
satisfaction of a quick rejoinder. “Surely such a risk is much
smaller than the surgery itself? With an anesthetic in use, there
would be no need to hurry, perhaps make mistakes...”

Dr. Collins drew himself, indignant. “Speed is the
hallmark of a good surgeon. In and out, my boy, in and out. Why,
Dr. Jackson says he can remove a tumor in less than two
minutes.”

“Ninety seconds,” Ian replied wearily. “And the
patient usually bleeds to death anyway.” He’d spent too much time
at Massachusetts General Hospital to be unaware of this
attitude.

Yet how many people died because surgeons were in
such a rush, and became clumsy? To voice that concern was
tantamount to slapping a surgeon in the face, and Ian valued his
position too much to issue a direct challenge.

Dr. Collins must have sensed his mood for he smiled
stiffly and said, “We took you on the hospital staff on the
recommendation of Stephen Moore, a colleague and friend. So far
you’ve proved yourself capable. However...” Dr. Collins trailed off
delicately, and Ian froze.

“However?” he repeated coolly, and his superior
shrugged.

“You are not irreplaceable,
Campbell. You’re young and rash and while we appreciate what you do
for this hospital, realize it can very well tick over without
you.”

Ian felt cold. He knew this was as close to a threat
as the elegant Dr. Collins would come to, and he accepted it with
as much good grace has he could muster.

“I understand, sir.”

Just in case he didn’t, Dr. Collins added, “Let us
have no more talk of ether, in the hospital or out of it. Keep on
with what you are doing, and forget these newfangled notions. They
can only turn your head to no purpose.”

Ian nodded stiffly in acceptance, if not agreement.
He thought of his fleeting dreams of being funded for research,
perhaps being the first doctor to actually perform a surgery with
ether.

Now they were so much ash. He’d spoken too soon.

He was thankful he’d not mentioned to Dr. Collins
his proposed visit to Dr. Wells in Hartford. He’d written the
dentist several weeks earlier, and had received a reply in the
affirmative only today.

He slipped his hand in his coat pocket and felt the
comfortable crackle of parchment. The letter, he’d hoped, would be
evidence in support of his research. Now he knew it would just
condemn him. The doctors of Massachusetts General Hospital were not
ready for change.

“Good day to you, Dr.
Campbell.”

Ian stood up, taking his hat and sketching a slight
bow. “Good day.”

Ian let himself out of the hospital. Twilight,
purple and velvety soft, was settling on the commons and he stopped
for a moment to enjoy the peaceful scene. He knew there was a stage
coach leaving Boston for Hartford every other day. At the next
opportunity, he planned to be on it.

His frustration with Dr. Collins abated for a
moment, only to be quickly replaced by other concerns.

Isobel. He was due at the Moores’ for supper the
following evening, and then afterwards he was meant to escort
Isobel to some party or other. He’d fallen in with the plans
without completely being aware of them, and now he felt a twinge of
apprehension.

There could be no mistaking the glimmer of intent in
Stephen Moore’s eye, or Isobel’s, for that matter. Yet why should
it disconcert him so? Isobel would make a fine wife. She was honest
and affectionate, they enjoyed an affable friendship. And she was
certainly beautiful.