The Devlin Diary (26 page)

“I have much to lose,” she says. “Do you imagine that I enjoy being one of Arlington’s minions, attending to a spoiled girl instead of caring for people who truly need me? I can only hope that when I am no longer required at court I will be allowed to resume my old life. The College of Physicians turned a blind eye toward me as long as I treated patients they cared nothing about. But now that I have been brought so much to their attention—”

Strathern winces. His own uncle is partly to blame.

“—I fear I will never be allowed to practice again.”

“But surely you have other things in your life—a husband, children?”

“I have neither. Only my mother is left.” She looks at him cautiously. “But even if I had a family of my own, I would still want to practice physick, just as you yourself would wish to continue, with family or without. Do you understand?”

If another woman had told him this, he would have thought her brash and immodest. From Mrs. Devlin it seems wholly natural. “Yes, I think I do.”

“If I tell you something I have never told anyone before, will you keep my confidence?”

“Of course.”

She casts her eyes to the floor. Mrs. Devlin seems to him the sort of person who is seldom at a loss for words, but it appears that she does not know how to begin. “I must go back a while to fully explain,” she says at last. “I met my husband Nathaniel when he came to London to study medicine with my father. I was seventeen and he was twenty-two. We studied and practiced physick together, and became very close. I
can’t say it was a grand romance, but we were very good friends. We had similar goals, and I believed he would be a good husband to me; and so he was.

“We had been married only a year when he was stricken with smallpox. Despite the best efforts of myself and my father, we could not save him. Soon after he died I found I was with child and, in due time, I gave birth to a girl. I named her Sarah. She was a sweet, plump, happy child, and I doted on her; maybe all the more so since her father was gone. Then she fell ill with pleurisy and a fever. There isn’t even a name for what she had, it was no more than a contagious fever that afflicted many people that spring. She was not yet ten months old.

“After Sarah died I was overcome by a great melancholy. Even though I knew that many others had suffered similar, or even greater, losses than my own—it was not that long since the Plague, after all—knowing this made no difference. The melancholy took over my life, and the pain of it was so great it was unbearable. I did not know how to rid myself of it, so one evening I walked to the river.

“I thought I would throw myself in. I could not think of any other way to end my agony. I decided to wait until nightfall, so that no one might see and stop me. I lay down upon the riverbank, waiting for night, and was overcome with grief. Once I’d started sobbing I could not stop. I cried for what seemed like hours. When I finally stopped it was dark, and the sky had cleared and was full of stars. By then I had cried for so long, I had forgotten what I was crying about. I believe I even forgot who I was—if you had asked me my name I could not have told you.

“As I looked up at the star-studded sky I felt it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I almost began weeping again—not from sorrow but because of the immensity and beauty and presence of God. And I prayed as I have never prayed before or since, that I might know the right thing to do.”

Hannah stops and looks at her hands, carefully folded in her lap, then into his face. Behind the calm sepia of her eyes he senses turmoil.

“I don’t know exactly how to describe what happened next except to say that my prayers were answered. I heard a heavenly voice, a voice
I believed was that of an angel. She said that life was too precious to cast away; that even the foulest and meanest expression of life was precious, full of grandeur and inestimable beauty, although we are often too blind to recognize it. I asked this angel, ‘Why do we suffer so?’ and she told me, ‘All souls must suffer in order to learn compassion.’

“When she said this I understood that compassion was the most profound and powerful thing in all the heavens, greater than any love I might feel for another person, even my parents or my husband, even greater than the love I felt for my own child. I asked her what I must do and she said that I must ease the suffering of others. She offered me many words of kindness, and love; and put me at ease, and promised to stay with me as long as I needed her. I lay on the riverbank for a long time, as if in a trance, listening to her. Finally, just before dawn, I thanked her and got up and went home.”

She steals a quick glance at him, checking, he thinks, for signs of incredulity. He purposefully keeps his expression neutral, and nods for her to continue.

“You may think that this experience made me feel as if I’d been touched by grace, but it did not. For many days afterward it frightened me to think of it. I believed that I had suffered a kind of lunacy. But a few weeks went by, and a few more, and gradually I found that the recollection of that night gave me comfort. I tried to follow the angel’s advice. I devoted myself to my patients, and in this I found some degree of happiness.

“Then my father was murdered. For all your conjecture, Dr. Strathern, I believe it was for no other reason than the few coins he had in his pocket. I have struggled since then to keep my faith in goodness and decency, even at times when there is very little to support that faith. It’s only by practicing physick that I find any measure of peace and purpose. If I lose that, I will lose everything, perhaps even my life.”

Hannah abruptly finishes her story, the need and urgency suddenly gone. Her tale has left Edward deeply troubled, in his soul and in his mind, in a way he did not expect, could not have expected. He knows that she wants him to say something, is almost daring him to as she removes the cotton coat, dons her cloak, and turns toward the door.
But he can think of nothing that would not be an admission of his feelings.

He is thoroughly and overwhelmingly lost, overcome by a passion so profound that he is afraid to speak, even though he fears she will interpret this the wrong way: as disbelief, perhaps, or disinterest. Nothing could be further from the truth. He is intensely aware of her as he has never been aware of anyone else, aware of her as a unique living creature: aware of her heart drumming, aware of the sibilant blood coursing through her body, aware of the heat of her fingertips and the sweet musk of her skin, the moistness of her mouth and her other secret places. He feels a violent longing to be enveloped in the aliveness of her, the humming thrumming breathing aliveness of her. He calms his fervent feelings by reminding himself that he is a man of the world, he is no newcomer to love. He has known other women, some of them intimately. He has known other women, he repeats sternly. Yes, he has known other women; but now he cannot remember wanting them.

5 December 1672

M
ONTAGU EXPERTLY LEADS
Hannah through the steps of the coranto. It’s been ages since she’s danced, and she’s pleased to discover it comes back to her easily. In her new gown, a rich claret-colored velvet with a daring décolletage, movement seems effortless. Under the influence of the music and the sumptuous ambiance of the Great Hall, she feels more carefree than she has in years.

The king’s promised fete does not disappoint. Whitehall’s Great Hall is as festive as a gift wrapped in ribbon, draped with gold fabric and garlanded with holly. Crystal chandeliers and rows of sconces are illuminated by hundreds of beeswax candles, their honeyed aroma sweetly thickening the air.

“You are extraordinarily handsome tonight, Mrs. Devlin,” Montagu says. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so radiant.”

Montagu is looking especially fine himself in a new navy silk jacket worked with silver thread, velvet breeches in the same dark blue, and a silver brocade waistcoat. More than any other man she has met at court, he is able to wear such dazzling attire without any loss of masculinity. Tonight he seems especially intent on reminding her of their inherent differences. He cradles her hand in his, warm and dry, and
when he holds her waist for the turn his grip lingers, confident and strong but never overbearing. Montagu is a man who knows how to touch a woman.

Hannah discreetly ignores his compliment but returns his smile. “I had forgotten how much I love dancing.”

“It’s a great shame that you should be allowed to forget. I would never allow it.”

“I’m sure I shall not forget being in such elegant company as this.”

The courtiers are decked out in their best finery, the men rivaling the women for lavish excess. Hannah has never seen so many jewels before, nor did she know it was possible to display them in so many ways. Not only on fingers, ears, and throats, but stitched onto gowns and gloves, adorning shoes and feathered fans. The courtiers are so unlike the average London denizen that they might as well be another species. They shimmer and glitter and smell of fragrant balsams, and seem to have been generated from a finer, more beautiful world than the one in which she usually lives. In this world, age and unsightliness have been banished.

On the black and white marble checkerboard floor, twenty couples step and turn, glide and swirl. Important members of the court line each side, like ornate chess pieces waiting to be put into play. Queen Catherine sits at the center, surrounded by her ladies, impassively watching. She is a diminutive woman, olive-skinned and thick-browed, her coiffure a nimbus of springy black curls. Though she is short on humor and long on piety, her thrice-daily entreaties to the Virgin have not yet resulted in the blessing of a child. The king seems little troubled by her unfruitfulness, perhaps because even though the queen has not given him an heir, she has, as part of her dowry, given him two million crowns, Bombay, and Tangier.

Montagu notices the source of Hannah’s interest and leans closer to whisper into her ear. “The queen looks bored, as if she’d rather be playing cards.”

Hannah suppresses a smile; she was thinking much the same thing. “She shows the forbearance of a saint for watching her husband dance with his mistress.”

“She has had long practice.”

Only four couples away, the king partners Louise. She’s still pale from her illness and convalescence, but Hannah has never seen her looking lovelier. Her dress of shimmering gold cloth is topped by a diaphanous fabric covering her arms and shoulders. It sparkles as she moves, as if dozens of tiny mirrors are capturing the light and reflecting it back. “What is it that the mademoiselle wears?”

“The sleeves and bodice of her dress are covered in diamonds,” Montagu tells her. “Did you not hear the talk earlier? It is a great scandal. The king’s mistress is wearing more diamonds than the queen.”

Although Montagu mentions it lightly, Hannah is reminded of the constant undercurrent of tension in the court, the rivalries and factions that never cease. As she turns, she scans the courtiers’ painted faces. Beneath the gaiety and the lacquered beauty she can sense the whispers, the rumors, the secrets, the menace. The court is like a pond stocked with sharks without enough food for them to feed upon. Hannah wonders sometimes what they say about her.

But she refuses to let herself be bothered by it tonight; the music, the dance, and her partner’s courtesy are too pleasant a diversion. Mr. Montagu is more than usually solicitous this evening. Since the moment he arrived at her house with Mr. Maitland and Mr. Clarke, the girls’ escorts, he has been at his most charming, offering his hand or arm as often as possible, and infusing his perfect punctilio with a certain suggestiveness, one that she admits is not entirely unwelcome.

“Every man will envy me my company tonight,” he said once she, Lucy, and Hester gathered in the parlor. Although his words included all three of them, he kept his eyes on Hannah, regarding her with such obvious admiration that she felt herself blush. She’d thought herself past the rituals of courtship and romance, yet she is enjoying every second of his attention.

Her eyes sweep up to the balcony, where Lucy and Hester stand in the crush of footmen and ladies’ maids watching the dance. She can just make them out by their new gowns. In her blue silk moiré, the fair Lucy is fresh, rosy-cheeked, and lovely as always. Hester is the real surprise, the proverbial swan. Her green velvet dress matches her eyes,
and accentuates the pale luster of her skin. What appeared as lankiness in her flannel skirts and apron is transformed into willowy arms, a long neck, sylphlike grace. Hannah would guess they didn’t sleep a wink last night in anticipation, but they conceal their excitement well.

She and Montagu clasp hands for the last steps of the dance. “I see your doctor is with us tonight,” he remarks.

“My doctor?”

“Strathern, isn’t it?”

She looks to the other end of the dance floor, where Dr. Strathern dances with an elegant blonde in a pale gray silk. “So it is. Who is his partner?”

“Arabella Cavendish, to whom he is to be wed. A propitious match, one that caused a great deal of envy in some quarters. Her father owns lumberyards near Deptford.”

Hannah steals another glance at the couple, but only a brief one, for she does not want to catch Strathern’s eye. She feels uneasy about their encounter at the anatomy theatre last week. What possessed her to tell him that story? He said nothing at the end, nothing at all. He probably thought she was soft in the head, as she in her worst moments feared. The headaches, the melancholy, the sleeplessness—perhaps they were all symptoms of losing her mind.

“Where have you gone, Mrs. Devlin?” Montagu asks, softening his reproof with a subtle smile revealed more in his eyes than on his lips. “One minute I’m dancing with a beautiful woman who looks at me with bright eyes; the next, with a shade who only follows the steps.”

“Forgive me.”

The dance ends and Montagu pulls her close, wrapping his arm around her as they leave the dance floor. They’ve barely caught their breath when Lord Arlington appears at Montagu’s side, looking the dandy in a gold-trimmed black brocade coat and breeches. “Mrs. Devlin, I see you have at last found some attractions at court.”

No doubt his innuendo is meant to embarrass her, but she will not give him the satisfaction. “If only you’d told me of these attractions sooner, Lord Arlington, perhaps I would have come on my own accord.”

He responds with a vague harrumphing noise and motions Montagu aside to speak privately. Hannah watches as Montagu’s expression takes on the same gravity as Arlington’s. Montagu nods solemnly, then turns back to Hannah. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to a matter that requires my urgent attention. I promise to return as quickly as possible.” Montagu bows to her, then disappears into the crowd.

“My apologies, Mrs. Devlin, for depriving you of your gallant.” Arlington turns to the dance floor to watch the king, who continues to dance with Louise de Keroualle. “Are you not concerned that the mademoiselle will become overtired? Perhaps you should suggest that she sit the next dance out.”

Hannah studies Louise. The mademoiselle has never looked happier. This is her triumph, after all, and her repeated turns on the floor with the king—not to mention her extravagant diamond-studded dress—is a slap in the face to every courtier who believed she would not command the king’s heart for long. Nothing short of sudden death is going to make her sit down. “I think she is well enough to do as she pleases.”

Arlington nods slowly, accepting her judgment. Perhaps it’s his apparent acknowledgement of her superior wisdom that gives her the confidence to begin. “Lord Arlington, now that I have your ear, I should like to ask you—well, now that the mademoiselle’s health is improved, I should like to be excused from the court.”

“To do what?” The minister is clearly taken aback.

“To resume my former practice, of course.” It’s an answer that seems to Hannah as obvious as her request.

Arlington snorts with disbelief. “Your practice of physick?”

“Yes.”

“That is impossible.” He speaks so emphatically that his words feel like a fist against her breastbone. “Now that the College of Physicians is made aware of you, they will never allow you to practice so openly.”

“But it was you who brought me to their attention—”

“It could not be avoided.”

“A familiar sentiment from ministers who claim that their crooked ends justify any means.”

“Do not crack wise with me, Mrs. Devlin.” His eyes flash with anger, but only briefly; in fact he seems reluctant to engage in a dispute. It crosses her mind that Arlington might feel something akin to guilt for what he’s done to her. Then again, he may possess no finer feelings at all. “What is it you really want?” he asks. “More money?”

“You have already paid me generously. I simply want to return to my former life.”

Arlington sighs and looks away.

“I will be arrested, is that it?” Hannah presses him for an answer. “And you’ll do nothing to stop it.”

“There are too many…” Arlington stops, as if remembering he is the secretary of state, she is nobody, and he does not have to explain himself to her. The steeliness she’s accustomed to reasserts itself. “I will not stick my neck out for you.”

So that’s where it stands: once she leaves the court, she’ll be on her own, against the College. How long would it be before they brought her up on charges, made an example of her? Two months, one perhaps? Perhaps not even that.

Arlington sighs again and, as if acting against his better judgment, leans closer to speak confidentially. “I may be able to work a solution,” he says. “You can’t ever be called a court physician, of course, but you could stay on in an unofficial capacity treating courtiers as needed for…” His voice grows fainter. “Indispositions of a private nature—”

“Stay on to treat cases of the clap?”

“You would be kept quite busy, I’m sure. And when you are not so occupied, the court ladies are always happy to have new lotions for their face, or potions to help curl their hair, or whiten their teeth…”

She tries, with great difficulty, to keep the indignation from her voice. “Is that what you imagine I do, make cosmetics?”

He shrugs. “You are a woman, after all.”

A woman, after all.
Something inferior to man
is his implication—
what all men imply when they speak of the “weaker” sex, the “gentler” sex, a woman’s “modesty”: but it is not really modesty women are rewarded for, it is subservience. It makes no difference that she has spent years learning the art of medicine and could best any man her own age in a test of knowledge and experience; as a woman she is relegated to cosmetic maker. Men may find her useful, but they will never grant her respect, and there is little she can do about it. She cannot even throttle Arlington’s throat as a man might, even though it’s something that she does, at this moment, sincerely wish to do. But of course that’s a fruitless undertaking. Her physical strength is no match for a man’s, and Arlington himself is only a symptom of the greater evil that opposes her. She has no choice but to restrain her fury, but all that remains is the numb sensation of despair. “Thank you, Lord Arlington.” Her voice rings hollow. “This has been most instructive.” She curtsies and turns away, pushing past the courtiers who crowd the Great Hall, angrily brushing at the sudden tears that wet her cheeks.

In the gallery, she accepts a tumbler of wine from one of the servers and looks for a quiet place to collect herself. She should check on Lucy and Hester, but she is in no mood to make idle discourse with Mr. Maitland and Mr. Clarke. She finds a spot in an empty corner, not too brightly lit, where she can dab at her wet eyes and sip some wine to steady her nerves. Why, she wonders, does she have such a deep need to prove herself? Why is she not content with the things most women are contented with? Is something fundamentally wrong with her? As she leans back against the wall—the only seats provided at a function like this are near the dance floor, and reserved for the nobility—her head begins to throb. She knows the signs too well: the initial ache, the burning discomfort, the inevitable pain.

She sets the tumbler on a long, narrow table and retrieves a vial of laudanum from her purse. She will be in agony if she allows the headache to continue, and the anodyne effects of opium work best before the pain is at its worst. Only a few drops, she reasons. She turns her back to the room, unscrews the stopper from the bottle, and extracts the tiny glass wand. The bitter liquid on her tongue
is an instant comfort, and she allows herself to savor its acrid taste.

“Mrs. Devlin.” The voice behind Hannah startles her, and she hastily attaches the top to the vial and stows it away. She turns to face Madame Severin’s nearly perfect yet eerily flawed visage. Dressed in her customary layers of black, tonight she has dispensed with the hood and has laced her upswept white-blond hair with pearls. Her feline eyes study Hannah with their usual cool detachment. Hannah wonders how much she has just witnessed.