The Prince Page 15

  Now he turned her away.

  This was for the best.

  “But—”

  “I’ve said I haven’t the time,” he repeated, and finally allowed himself to look to her. She wore the same plain gown she always wore for sittings. And whiskers.

  Her eyes were full of mirth.

  “Charming,” he said.

  She came toward him. “If you aim to depict me as Joseph Smart, then I aim to assist you in that. It is the least I can do to thank you for your care last Sunday night after surgical school.”

  He made himself return his attention to the canvas beneath his brush upon which, unfortunately, neither Joseph Smart nor Elizabeth Shaw sat.

  “That is not necessary,” he said, feeling her presence so close as one feels rain: on every surface of his skin and in every breath drawn into his lungs.

  “I like that,” she said.

  “What do you like?”

  “When you pretend not to smile.”

  “Away with you now,” he said, “and think not to darken this door until next Sunday.”

  Without further comment, she went.

  Hours later, the bell rang. He ignored it.

  Shortly, his boarder appeared before him, this time without whiskers, sweeping into the peace of his studio with the force of a cyclone and coming directly to him, followed closely by the pig.

  “This is not what I meant by not darkening the door,” he said.

  “Mr. Bridges has sent a message,” she said, the missive still clasped in her hand. “He has secured another cadaver. There is to be a dissection tonight.”

  She had the most expressive hands, strong and lithe and capable. He could spend months painting even one and be content—if only he could do so without constantly imagining it on him. The place on his chest where she had touched him still felt hot.

  “Why are you looking at the note when I have just told you what it says?”

  He dragged his attention to her face, but it did not ease the thick pressure beneath his ribs or in his trousers. “At the same location?”

  “Yes. Will you insist on going again?”

  “Haven’t you come to inform me in order so that I will?”

  “I suppose I have.” She turned her eyes to the canvas. “That is Mr. Easterly. He is a friend of my father. I know his family well. His younger sons are beasts. They used to chase me around the drawing room and pull my hair. Ha ha! They would not be able to now. I should have cut my hair long ago. There are pencil marks there.” She pointed. “How interesting. You have drawn on the canvas before painting it. Do you always do so?”

  “I do.” Then he added, unwisely, “Since the day I drew you at Haiknayes.”

  “You had never drawn on a canvas before that day?”

  “I had never drawn a portrait before that day.” He should not have said it.

  Eyes rounding, she stared at him as no other woman ever did, as though she saw his bones and blood rather than all the outer aspects of him.

  “What had you drawn before?” she said. “Or painted?”

  “The human form.”

  Her brow wrinkled.

  “The body,” he said.

  “The body? The body without the head?”

  “Without clear facial features.”

  “I see.”

  “‘I see,’ only? I know not whether to be alarmed at this unusual brevity or intrigued.”

  “You needn’t be either. Because I just lied. I don’t actually see. Why did you begin including clear facial features after you drew me? Rather, perhaps it is more apt to ask why you did not include them before that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said, which was only a minor mistruth.

  “It cannot be because you found me beautiful. For you met Amarantha at the same moment you met me and she is pretty while I am not.” Abruptly her lips tightened together.

  “What is it?”

  “I should very much like to kiss you,” she said.

  The shock of heat that passed through him went directly to his groin. He returned his attention to the canvas and lifted the brush.

  “Begone now,” he said.

  “You needn’t be alarmed,” she said. “I do not intend to throw myself at you. It is only that I have been wondering what it would be like.”

  She and he both. Although wondering did not suffice. Fantasizing suited.

  “I thought perhaps you might be wondering it too. Given our proximity and that moment here the night I was intoxicated, it is reasonable for me to wonder. It might be for you too. Much more normal than anything else about this situation.”

  “There is nothing normal whatsoever about you. You are entirely unique.”

  “That has always been my problem, to be sure. But I—”

  “No more confessions today,” he said with credible calm, allowing himself to stare only down, at the hem of her gown, which was certainly a kind of pathetic desperation. “At what hour tonight shall I call for the coach?”

  “Half past seven. You do not—”

  “I do. I will. Now, go.”

  She went, pausing as she so often did in the doorway.

  “It isn’t that I go about telling all sorts of men that I wish to kiss them.”

  “For the sake of Joseph Smart’s reputation, I am relieved to hear it. Now, if you do not leave me at this time, there will be consequences to pay.”

  She went, closing the door behind her, which was unusual for her.

  Setting down the brush he ran his hands over his face.

  This was a good thing, this abnormal situation. Good for both of them. He had what he wished from it. And she did as well.

  Soon it must be over anyway. The ambassador from Iran to Britain had shared a confidence with the foreign secretary in London, and Canning had written of it to Ziyaeddin: Iran would not long endure Russia’s claim on its northern territories. War was coming. Whether the shah attacked northward first, or the tsar southward, either way Ziyaeddin could not remain impotently here while Tabir was caught in the middle of it.

  Soon he would be gone from this place, and this temptation would be at an end.

  Chapter 15

  All the Secrets

  The same six students were present in the private surgery, the candlelit room hot already. In preparation tonight Libby had not donned drawers. But she had not considered the discomfort of damp gabardine between her legs without the layer of linen between.

  That the sensation of moisture on her inner thighs abruptly made her think of her host’s hands on her face sent a little frisson of pleasure through her.

  “Since Mr. Smart did such excellent work opening the chest cavity before,” Mr. Bridges said, “he will begin again tonight. Mr. Armstrong, uncover the subject.”

  Archie grasped the linen and pulled it away.

  “Initial observations, gentlemen?” the surgeon said.

  “Female,” Chedham said. “Seventeen or eighteen.”

  “No calluses on hands and feet,” Archie said. “Skin intact, save mild scarring here and there from minor wounds.”

  “Still in rigor mortis,” Pincushion said.

  Libby’s lungs had clogged. The subject on the table was Coira’s friend Bethany.

  “How—” She swallowed back nausea. “When did she die?”

  “Mr. Chedham, you may assess the subject,” the surgeon said.

  Libby closed her eyes. She could not watch.

  “I estimate three hours ago,” Chedham said.

  Opening her eyes Libby stared at Bethany’s abdomen—at the subject’s abdomen. Her head whirled.

  “Mr. Smart?”

  Her name came to her as though through a tunnel.

  “Mr. Smart, are you with us?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she forced through her lips.

  “Make the incision.”

  She reached for the knife. But air would not fill her lungs and sweat trickled down the sides of her face.

  “I believe I am ill, sir,” she s
aid.

  “Taking a cue from Allan?” Chedham mumbled.

  “That is enough, Mr. Chedham,” Mr. Bridges said. “Mr. Smart, make the incision.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Her fingers were slippery about the knife handle. “I beg your pardon.” She dropped the instrument. Pivoting, she pushed her way out of the room and ran to the door.

  “Joe.” Archie came behind her. “What in the—”

  “I’ll be all right. Go back in or Bridges will be displeased.”

  Libby fell out onto the street gasping and willing her thoughts to cease spinning. At the far end of the alleyway, the door to the carriage opened. She stumbled toward it.

  He asked no questions, only instructed the coachman to go and closed the door.

  The moon was dark and the night complete, lamps only illumining the carriage as it bumped along.

  “I have never been so ashamed,” she whispered.

  “Were you ill?”

  “No.” This sickness was far deeper than nausea. She pressed her cold palms to her cheeks. Her face was clammy too.

  When he removed his overcoat and offered it to her, she pulled it up to her chin.

  “I knew her,” she said. “The subject. I made her acquaintance only days ago. Her name was Bethany. She asked me for help. She was feeling unwell. She was . . . with child.”

  The rumbling of carriage wheels over cobbles filled the silence.

  “It is common for poor folk to sell their deceased family members’ bodies to surgical schools. But this has never happened to me before. I don’t know what overcame me. Mr. Bridges will now think me a light-headed fool. An incompetent. He will eject me from his surgery. He might even refuse to keep me as his apprentice. Chedham has no trouble with this.”

  “Did Mr. Chedham know the woman too?”

  “No. I don’t know.” She dropped her face into her palms. “What happened to me? I have seen the worst of illnesses at my father’s side. I have treated patients with horrible diseases and injuries. I don’t know what came over me. I failed. I am weak,” she whispered.

  “You are human.”

  “I cannot be human in that manner. If I cannot work on a subject I happen to have met before, how will I ever succeed at this?”

  “You are not your father studying the dead to solve crimes. You are a healer of living people. That is your calling. That this happened tonight does not mean you are a failure. It means that you are a person of compassion.”

  “You don’t know that about me! You hardly know me at all.”

  “I have known that since the day you offered a costly bottle of oil to an urchin, forgetting all in that moment except the need to heal.”

  The carriage halted. She went inside and directly to her bedchamber. Trailing her fingertips over the painting where the boys ran through the market, and feeling the immediate relief this ritual of touching the picture brought to her, she tore off her cap and cravat. Then she removed the whiskers and undressed. Staring at the discarded trappings of her masculinity, she felt trembling overtake her, and her thoughts spun.

  She should return to the surgery and apologize to Mr. Bridges. She must wipe the smirk off Chedham’s face. And what if they made mistakes tonight in her absence? What if they treated the body without care, without respect, coldly?

  No. Mr. Bridges had taught them to always respect a subject. Still, she should have remained. She should have told him the truth. Now he would forever doubt her fortitude. And her notes would be incomplete.

  She had failed Joseph Smart tonight.

  But she had not failed Bethany. Not the living Bethany. Coira had said that since Bethany had begun drinking the mild tea and chewing ginger she seemed improved.

  Tomorrow she would quiz Archie on the cause of Bethany’s death. She would visit Coira. She would learn how a young woman in good health had suddenly perished. She would redeem herself for Bethany’s sake and for her own.

  “I will make a prosthetic foot for you.”

  They were the first words she had spoken to him since Sunday night in the carriage. Now as she entered the kitchen, the pig trailing after her, she seemed the same indomitable woman as ever.

  She wore a plain blue gown that fit snugly to her arms, breasts, and waist, flaring out over her hips to create an exquisite silhouette.

  “Why are you looking at my waist?” she said.

  “That’s new,” was all he could manage.

  “Oh. Another gown from Constance. Alice says Constance will notice if it hasn’t been worn. But how unusual it is to live with a man who notices my gowns. Though naturally I understand the reason for that.”

  He doubted it.

  “You must be working on glum Mr. Cook’s portrait. You’ve black paint on your jaw.”

  “What do you want?” He returned his attention to the cup as he poured.

  “Aren’t we friendly today? Sleep poorly, did you? Actually, I know you did. I heard you wake up shouting in the wee hours. You frightened me to death.”

  “You seem alive enough now.” He set down the teapot and took up saucer and cup.

  “I have heard you shout in your sleep before, when I am studying late, which is why I know this is chronic pain and will now insist that you accept remedies for it, including a real prosthesis, one that includes hinges around the knee and ankle and other provisions which allow the substitute foot to mimic the movement of an actual foot.”

  “Leave me be.” Setting his cane aside, he sat down at the table fashioned of a great slab of old gnarled wood. Assured of her absence, he had stayed home today to put the final glaze on a commission. She should not have returned for hours yet.

  She grabbed a tin of biscuits and settled lightly on the chair across from him. Most often she barely sat, alighting even on the stool in his studio for an entire hour like a bird prepared to dart into flight again.

  “I don’t know if you have noticed,” she said, “but your temper is poor today. Probably from lack of deep sleep. The body heals itself during sleep. I know that, by the way, from my father’s wisdom and also from books.”

  “Aha.” The teacup in his palm was warm. But not as warm as her skin had been when he had unwisely allowed himself to touch her. “Which books?”

  “I have been reading about medicine of the East. And history. Turkish and Persian, especially.”

  “Have you?” he said blandly, because clearly she wanted him to show surprise.

  “Yes. Did you know that Galen—he is the physician whose influence on Western medicine was greater than all other physicians combined for centuries—he was born in Pergamon. At the time it was part of Greece, but it had also been within the Persian Empire. It is now in Turkey. Although of course the Greek Paulus Aegineta was at least as celebrated as a surgeon, and hugely influential too. Anyway, I’m learning quite a lot. Paulus Aegineta, by the way, was eclipsed only by Albucacis. That is, his full name was Abū al-Qāsim Khalaf ibn al-’Abbās al-Zahrāwī. I don’t know if I am pronouncing that correctly.”

  “Mostly.”

  “So you do know Arabic.”

  “I do.”

  “Interesting. Anyway, al-Zahrāwī is commonly known in European and British texts as Albucasis. He was a tenth-century Muslim physician from al-Andalus, the land that is now southern Spain. He is widely considered the father of modern surgery. Among his many advancements in medical science and treatment, he invented hundreds of surgical tools that we use now. He also emphasized the importance of a positive relationship between physician and patient. He wrote about all sorts of other matters too—compounding drugs, pills, ointments, plasters, and the like, and anatomy of course. My interest naturally tends toward his writings on surgery.”

  “You are peering at me meaningfully.”

  “I am.”

  “Yet the particular meaning of it escapes me.”

  “Ask me why I am Miss Shaw this afternoon when it is Wednesday and I should be at lecture,” she said, taking a biscuit between two agile fingers a
nd biting it as she did nearly everything, with energetic delight. And as with nearly everything she did, watching this got him hard.

  “Why are you Miss Shaw today when it is Wednesday and you should be at lecture?” For pity’s sake, he even sounded aroused.

  “Dr. Jones has a wretched cold and has given us all a sudden holiday. I took the opportunity to call on a young surgeon who knows my father, James Syme. He is already famed on account of the hugely successful hip amputation he performed not three years ago. He is exceptionally clever with prostheses. Unfortunately I spoke with him at length about that mere months ago, when he and his wife invited Papa and me to dinner. I wish I could consult him as Joseph Smart, but I fear he will notice Joseph’s particular interest in that same subject and recognize me. So I called on him today as Elizabeth Shaw and was again impressed with how seriously he considered my questions. I believe I could easily continue to consult with him and he would welcome it. I have decided to make it my candidacy project for the diploma, you see.”

  “What it?” he said warily. “Me?”

  Her eyes glittered. “Of course not. Only the new addition to you. I do not know why you content yourself with that wholly inadequate support when there are modern and wonderfully functional prostheses you could adopt instead. Whatever the reason for your stubbornness, however, I shan’t let you continue in it.”

  “This is not amusing.”

  “I don’t mean for it to be amusing. I mean to help you and also to send my teachers into raptures.” She chewed on the biscuit, smiling a bit.

  Apparently the experience of Sunday’s dissection had not cowed her.

  Of course it hadn’t.

  “You seem confident of success,” he said.

  “In creating for you the perfect prosthesis? Indeed I am. I am meticulous, which is ideal when working with mechanics.”

  “Success in your program of study,” he clarified.

  “If no one discovers that I am a woman,” she said around a mouthful of biscuit. Abruptly she ceased chewing, the biscuit poised in midair between her fingertips. “Thank you for your words the other night. You were, of course, correct.”