Anatomy: A Love Story(35)



Dr. Beecham tilted his head and lifted his quill to his lips. “An experiment,” he said.

“Yes,” Hazel said quickly, “exactly. An experiment. To test my abilities. And if I pass, I receive my qualifications, and you permit women to enroll in your lecture from here on out. Yours and Straine’s.”

A fresh pot of tea was deposited on the table, and Beecham thanked the servant with a warm smile before turning back to Hazel. As he leaned forward to refill his teacup, Hazel thought she saw a glimpse of something glinting and gold, almost glowing, inside his breast pocket. But before she could get a better look, Beecham reclined. “I do warn you, if you intend to sit the Physician’s Examination, you’ll find it nearly impossible without the benefit of studying from subjects. I doubt anyone could pass without dissections. John Hunter himself would flounder.”

“I’ll manage. I can assure you: I will manage. And I will not be the last woman to attempt to enroll in your course, Dr. Beecham, I assure you of that as well. When I pass, the others will see it’s possible. And I will pass.”

Now Beecham looked positively merry. His eyes glistened with excitement. “I do love a game, Miss Sinnett.”

“So we have a deal, then,” Hazel said, extending her hand.

Beecham brought his hand toward her, but then lifted it away with a sharp flick. “The conditions: You will sit the Physician’s Examination at the end of this term. If you pass, I shall open the course to any women who wish to attend, although I warn you there may not be quite so many with your peculiar predilection as you seem to believe. And, in the unlikely event that you do pass, I will also offer you an apprenticeship—with me—at the university hospital, where as you must know, I serve as Chief of Surgery. A rare and highly sought-after apprenticeship.” He brought his hand down, ready to shake, but this time Hazel hesitated.

“And what if I do fail? What then? All wagers have stakes, do they not?”

Beecham chuckled, but not cruelly. “Very good, Miss Sinnett. I consider this more an experiment than a wager. I imagine the stakes of your failure would be self-evident. For one, I’d be unable to convince my colleague Dr. Straine to permit other females to attend lectures in the future. Let’s say that if you do not pass the Physician’s Examination, you’ll be unable to sit it in the future. This larger experiment, of a female surgeon, will be considered concluded.”

Hazel nodded, and they shook.

Beecham’s hand was cold, she could feel the ice of it even through his glove. “Well, then,” Beecham said. “I look forward to seeing you at the examination. Ah, one final thing!” He raised a finger while he shuffled through the pile of books at his elbow. “Aha. There we are. A newer edition of Dr. Beecham’s Treatise. For you to study from. I happened to notice that the one you brought to class was a little out of date. And a tad worse for the wear, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Hazel took the book. The light from the fire reflected off the shiny gilded letters on its cover:

DR. BEECHAM’S TREATISE ON ANATOMY

OR, THE PREVENTION AND CURE OF MODERN DISEASES

by Dr. William Beecham

24th Edition, 1816



“Thank you,” Hazel said, flipping through the pages. She noticed a few notes in the margins. “You’re sure you don’t mind? Are there notes in it?”

Dr. Beecham waved her off. “Just scribblings, I’m sure. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my notes. Terrible deaths are happening in the heart of the city. Just terrible.”

Hazel sat up at attention. “I’ve heard about them! They say it’s the Roman fever back again. You! You were in a paper, speaking of it.”

“Yes, I found myself examining the bodies. Terrible, truly terrible.”

“Do you think it’s true then?” Hazel asked quietly. “The Roman fever is back again?”

Dr. Beecham looked stricken. He nodded. “It does look as though that’s the case. And there seems to be so little interest in the public when it’s the poor who die. So few who care.”

“My brother, who died—it was of the fever,” Hazel said, avoiding the doctor’s eyes. “My brother George. The last time it struck Edinburgh.”

“George,” Dr. Beecham repeated softly. “George. Of course. My deepest, most sincere condolences on his loss, truly.” He stared beyond Hazel into the distance for so long that Hazel wondered whether she was supposed to leave. Just as she was about to stand, Beecham spoke again. “Morte magis metuenda senectus. Do you know Latin, Miss Sinnett?”

“Only some, I’m sorry to say. Is it—er—something like, ‘We fear old age—’?”

“‘Old age should rather be feared than death.’” Beecham once again assumed that far-off expression, and he and Hazel sat in the silence for a few moments, listening to the fireplace continue to crackle and the whiskered men around them sniff and flip the pages of their newspapers. Finally, Dr. Beecham spoke again. “Well, I do hope that you study hard and pass the examination, Miss Sinnett.” The reflection of the fire glinted orange in his eyes. “Especially if the Roman fever has returned to our fair city. It might be you who finally discovers the cure.”




From A History of the Royal Physician in Practice (1811):

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