Anatomy: A Love Story(53)

Hazel sighed and folded her book closed. “Mrs. Caldwater. Lovely as always to see you.”

“Now, you simply must tell me what was going through your mind when Bernard proposed. I confess, we had thought it would be another few seasons before he asked; the two of you are still young. You’ve been so absent this season.” Mrs. Caldwater raised one eyebrow conspiratorially and leaned in as if she were sharing a secret with Hazel, but her voice still rang out, shrill as a brass bell. “Half of Charlotte Square is convinced that you’ve managed to seduce a Polish count, and that Bernard knew he had to strike while he still had a chance. I heard several whispers that your mother was fed up with Bernard’s hesitating, and she went down to London to secure you a match with an Englishman and make Bernard jealous! Why else go down so early? Surely she’s pleased that the match with Bernard Almont is all squared away now. Is she coming home, now that you’re betrothed?”

“My mother is in Bath, with Percy. On holiday. For his delicate constitution. To avoid the fever.”

Mrs. Caldwater’s heavily rouged face became a mask of sympathy. “Oh yes, of course. Oh, my poor dear. Your poor mother and all she’s gone through. Losing her eldest, and your father gone most of the year. Is it hard on her, would you say?”

“Yes,” Hazel said, enjoying the conversation less with every passing second. “I imagine it is.”

With a herculean obliviousness to Hazel’s polite attempts to lower her attention back to her book, Hyacinth Caldwater turned to show off her growing profile, scooping one hand beneath her pregnant belly. Mrs. Caldwater had to be at least forty years old. From the delicate wrinkles lacing their way beyond the outer corners of her eyes, at least fifty, Hazel guessed. And yet it was undeniable: the woman was with child.

Catching Hazel staring, Mrs. Caldwater beamed. “Can you believe it? A miraculous thing. My husband, the colonel, and I have been trying for a child since our wedding, a century ago—ha ha ha—and now finally: poof!”

“Poof,” Hazel repeated.

“It was an examination from Dr. Beecham himself that did it. Told me all about diets, had me chewing on the most horrendous pastes you could imagine, but, well, see for yourself. The man is a genius. Horribly expensive, obviously, but worth every farthing. I have no idea how anyone gets by in this country if they can’t afford the best doctors.”

“They go to the almshouse hospitals,” Hazel said. “Many of them die there.”

Mrs. Caldwell laughed as if Hazel had been making a joke. “The almshouse hospitals indeed!” She patted her stomach again. “Well, the two of us need to be properly fed. Please do give your mother my best, and feel free to pop by Barton House anytime for tea. Look how skinny you’ve become! It’s an outrage. Scandalous! I’ll fatten you up myself if I have to.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Caldwater, and congratulations on your blessing,” Hazel said, and then before the woman could turn back with another impertinent question, Hazel opened her book and pulled it up close to her face. Dr. Beecham was a genius, that was certain. Although Hazel had to slightly challenge the judgment of anyone who worked to bring more Caldwaters into the world.

Hazel was flipping through the Beecham volume when something fell out of it: a small piece of parchment, folded so thin that she hadn’t noticed it stuck invisibly somewhere between the pages. She unfolded it carefully; the parchment was yellowed and torn at the edges. It seemed as though it was years old, far older than the book that had contained it.

It was a pen-and-ink drawing of a human hand, with its fingers detached. Arrows identified each of the veins that linked the fingers to the palm. To Hazel, it looked like the notes of someone ready to perform intensive surgery.

The parchment was fragile as a butterfly’s wing, the ink almost faded. Was it possibly a note from the original Dr. Beecham himself? Saved and preserved by his grandson, who had thrown it in a pile and somehow shuffled it into one of his books? The handwriting was slanted and angular but perfectly precise, each letter even and exact. Had Beecham meant her to find them? Mementos from the most brilliant scientific mind in recent Scottish history, gifted to inspire her, as a gesture of good faith?

Hazel wished she could have met the first Dr. Beecham, the man who had dedicated his life to understanding the human body. This parchment drawing was the work of a man devoted as a monk, a man who had studied joints and muscles and veins with such patience and care that he could reproduce them perfectly on paper. Hazel looked from the paper to her own hand and back again. It was almost enough to make her cry.

Another shadow crossed her work, someone standing above her, who coughed to get her attention, and for a terrible moment, Hazel was convinced Hyacinth Caldwater had returned to inquire about any number of intimate or unpleasant topics. Hazel pulled her book away, ready with a polite dismissal, only to find her fiancé, Bernard Almont.

He coughed again politely. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading. Studying, I take it?”

Hazel nodded.

Her cousin wore a simple navy blue overcoat and gray trousers. The effect, for Bernard at least, was considerably muted and grown up. “May I sit?” Bernard asked.

Again, Hazel nodded.

Bernard laid out a handkerchief and then sat beside her on the grass. “I’ve meant to come by Hawthornden, or send a letter at least, but I’ve found it quite difficult to, well, conjure the courage, I suppose. I do regret how I acted at the ball, how I sprang the engagement on you. The way I acted in the servants’ passage. I admit I had perhaps more champagne than was advisable, but that’s no excuse.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t behave as a gentleman should. A proposal shouldn’t be a public affair, and should you want to refuse me, Cousin, I would be tremendously saddened, but I would respect your right to do so.”