Of Monsters and Madness (5 page)

“Do you think Philadelphia will ever feel like home to you?” she says.

“I hope so, Maddy. I truly hope so.”

I get to my feet, and Maddy’s eyes grow larger when she sees what I’m wearing. “Can I touch yer robe?” she whispers. Then she blushes. “Oh, forgive me, miss. I shouldn’t be so bold.”

I hold out my arm. “My mother gave it to me.”

The tip of her finger barely brushes my sleeve before she draws back. “It’s so soft. An’ the color!”

“I would have packed another to give to you had I known you would like it so much,” I say regretfully.

“Oh, no, miss. I could never take such a gift!” She glances down at the pocket watch attached to her uniform, and panic briefly crosses her face. “Listen to me going on an’ on. I’ve near talked yer ear off. Best hurry now. We have to see to yer toilet an’ get you properly dressed. We mustn’t be late fer breakfast.”

Grand-père is waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Maddy and I finally make our way down, but Father is nowhere to be seen. I have to keep reminding myself not to follow Maddy into the kitchen and offer to help her with breakfast. That is not my place anymore.

“Good morning,” Grand-père says. “Did you sleep well?”

How do I tell him that visions of being murdered in my bed caused me to toss and turn most of the night?
“My bedroom is lovely,” I finally reply, “but I think my new sleeping arrangements will take some getting used to. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept excellently. Thank you for asking.”

He leads me to the dining room, where a sideboard has been set up with every breakfast dish imaginable. The sight before me is almost too much to take in. Breakfast in Siam consisted of hot black tea, rice porridge, and
pa-tong-goh
, which was my favorite—bits of dough cooked in lard, with crispy outsides and soft, sweet insides. In front of me now is surely enough food to feed the entire village.

Grand-père moves to a small stack of gleaming china at the far end of the sideboard and picks up an empty plate. He starts to fill it with food, so I move to
follow his example. Then I stop and study what’s on a platter next to some poached eggs. “Grand-père, what are these dark brown things here?”

“Those are kippers, my dear. Fish.”

The kippers don’t look like any fish I’ve ever seen before. But the thought of fresh fish reminds me of home, so I fill my plate with two of them and add a boiled egg. When I sit down at the table, I cut off a piece of the kipper and bite into it. It’s dry and leathery. I force myself to swallow. The taste is indescribably gruesome.

Reaching for my water goblet, I take several sips to try and wash the flavor away, when Father finally enters the room. He seems to be having an easier time walking this morning, but it’s still an obvious struggle. His coat is rumpled and his bow tie hangs in loose ends around his neck. A newspaper is tucked under one arm and he thumps it down across the table.

“Where is the coffee?” he says crossly. “Why can it never be waiting for me as I have requested? Is that not a simple task?”

I open my mouth to ask him if he’s slept well but then think better of it. He has not acknowledged me yet. “Good morning, Father,” I say instead.

He waves a hand in my direction and closes his eyes, slumping in his chair. “Cook!” he yells. “Maggie! For the love of God, someone bring me some coffee!”

It’s Maddy
,
not Maggie. If you cannot get
her
name right, do you even know mine?

Turning my attention back to the kippers, I punish myself for my wayward thoughts and force another piece into my mouth. It’s even worse the second time. I reach for my water again and drain it dry.

Right on cue, Maddy enters the room, bearing a tray filled with a water pitcher and a silver pot. I give her a smile when she stops to fill my glass first. Father’s cup is next, and her fingers tremble as she fills it with coffee. But the dark liquid seems to instantly put him in a better mood. He reaches for it before she’s even done pouring and manages a gruff “Thank you.”

Maddy curtsies and goes to pull the pot away, when a loud scream suddenly comes from the kitchen. She narrowly misses knocking over the water pitcher as we all look up. After another cry, I quickly stand. I must find out what is wrong.

Hurrying into the kitchen, I discover Cook and Johanna bent over the sink. Johanna has a rag held tightly to her finger. A red stain blossoms on the fabric
and she grows paler by the second.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Johanna cut herself peeling potatoes,” Cook says frantically. “It’s bad.”

I put a hand on Johanna’s back. “May I look?”

She nods.

Pulling back the blood-stained cloth, I see a jagged cut bisecting the middle section of her forefinger. The skin has split and peeled away from the bone. “I need a needle dipped into some boiling water and some thread,” I tell Cook. “
Quickly
.”

Cook reaches into her apron and pulls out some thread, then hurries to a nearby cabinet. Removing a needle from a drawer, she brings me the thread and puts the needle into a pot on the stove. “Water for the potatoes,” she explains.

I hold the rag tightly to Johanna’s finger as I wait for Cook to fish the needle back out. She carries it over to me in a large spoon. The needle is hot, but I know I must work quickly. “This may hurt a bit,” I tell Johanna, “but it’s necessary. The cut has to be closed so that it can heal.”

She bites her lip and closes her eyes as I work hastily to sew the skin back together. I’ve watched Mother
perform this task many times, and I used to practice my sutures on a spare piece of cloth whenever she would let me. By the time I have finished, Johanna’s face is dotted with sweat and my fingers are speckled with blood, but no sound has escaped her lips.

“Be sure to check it every day for signs of pus or discoloration.” I tie off the thread in a knot. “If you see either of those things, let me know immediately. And avoid using it, if you can.”

“I will try, miss.” She nods her head. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re very welcome.” I go to the sink to wash my hands. “You did well, Johanna. You kept calm and were very brave during the sutures.”

She offers me a proud smile. “My sister cut her foot when we was younger, an’ I stayed with her the whole time it was bleeding. I just told myself to keep steady, just like I told her.”

“Keeping calm is the most important part of …” My voice dies off when I turn and see Father and Grand-père standing right behind me. I lower my eyes and stare down at the floor.

It’s Grand-père who speaks next. “Well, that was quite an event. Who would have thought we would
have need of a doctor’s services this morning?” He pauses, and when I look up again, he’s giving Father a sharp look. “Thank goodness you were able to offer assistance when it was needed, Annabel,” he continues. “We are most grateful to you.”

I don’t know how to respond. Should I thank him for thanking me?

“Now that the excitement has passed, let us return to the dining room to finish our breakfast.”

He and Father both turn back toward the table, and I follow silently behind. We are seated, but the room remains silent, and all I can think is that I have done something wrong again.
Was it not my place to help the servants?

I look up when I feel someone’s gaze. Father is staring at me.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asks.

“M-mother taught me.” My voice catches. “One of the missionaries we lived with was a doctor. Mother worked for him, and I was her helper.”

“And this work, it involved sewing up body parts?”

“That’s enough, Markus,” Grand-père says sharply. “This is not suitable breakfast conversation. Especially now that we have a young lady in the house.”

Perhaps now is the time to let Father know of my interests in medicine. “Such conversation does not bother me,” I volunteer. “I hoped that by coming to Philadelphia, I might have the chance to further my medical knowledge. According to a book I have, written by one of the first female surgeons, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, the human body is—”

“A female cannot practice medicine.” Father cuts me off. “It’s against the law. I don’t know what book you claim to have been reading or where you came upon it, but it was most certainly written by a charlatan.”

“It came from a bookshop in England. Mother got it for my birthday last year, and I’ve been studying it because I wish to become a surgeon as well.”

“Women practicing medicine is unseemly.” Father’s words are sharp, like tiny bits of glass, and revulsion is written clearly all over his face.

Tears gather behind my eyes.
He is disgusted with me. Disgusted by a daughter who wishes to practice medicine
.

“I think the pursuit of medicine is a noble goal,” Grand-père offers. “Who knows what the coming years will bring? We may find more and more women in the medical field.”

“Women do not now, nor will they ever, have a place practicing medicine. Can you imagine? A
woman
doctor?” Father’s revulsion turns to anger. “No daughter of mine is going to study medicine. I forbid it.” He attempts to rise from the table and it is a labored effort. “Now I will bid you a good day,” he finally says, standing again. “When my assistant arrives, pray do tell him to come see me directly.”

Grand-père stays silent and I cut up the remaining bits of kipper as Father exits the room. I don’t think I can bring myself to eat any more of it, but at least the process keeps my fingers occupied. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my thoughts. Although I will not let Father deter me from my dreams, it’s clear I have disappointed him.

Yet again.

Four

A
s soon as breakfast is over, Maddy escorts me to another grand room. This one has fine china on display and several seating areas. She tells me it’s the drawing room and says I am to wait. I have no idea why I’ve been brought here, until I’m introduced to a woman with a severe bun and a stiff brown dress. Her face is unmovable. Much like her dress.

“Good morning,” she says briskly. “I am Mrs. Tusk. Former headmistress of Menard’s School for Girls, and I am to be your tutor. We shall begin our lessons immediately.”