Anatomy: A Love Story(79)

Well, not alone. For the entire winter, the first floor of Hawthornden had been serving as a hospital, where Hazel treated patients suffering from Roman fever and worse. Use of wortflower root meant that not a single one of her patients had died, and Hazel was hard at work on an inoculation she believed could prevent the transference of the disease entirely. Dr. Beecham surely would have discovered it himself had the growing pile of bodies from the Roman fever and the fear it elicited not made such a convenient cover for the mutilations and murders he performed.

“I will be more than all right,” Hazel said. In truth, she had been looking forward to it, the mornings of solitary walks, and time alone with her books, evenings curled up with a book on the windowsill while the rain fell on the other side of the glass.

“And you’re certain you don’t mind if Charles and I take the carriage?”

“Of course not, Iona. I have Miss Rosalind if I need to go anywhere. Perhaps I should get another horse for the stables,” Hazel said. “In case she gets lonely.”

The week after Jack’s execution, Betelgeuse had gone missing. It seemed the horse was stolen in the night. Hazel hadn’t heard anything from the stables, though—it was almost as if Betelgeuse had wandered away himself.

Iona hugged Hazel. “Please take care of yourself.”

“Take care of yourself! You’re a married woman now. That means no more foolishness,” Hazel said, straightening Iona’s braid.

Iona beamed. “Me, a married lady! Can ye believe it?”

“Of course I can,” said Hazel. “You deserve everything you want in this world—and more.”

Iona turned to gaze proudly at Charles, who was slapping dirt from his trousers as he leaned against the carriage door, and then she looked back at Hazel. “And you, miss. You deserve the things you want in this world.”

Hazel found that the lump in her throat made it hard for her to speak. All she could do was hug Iona close one last time and watch as the carriage bounced up and away through the garden path and down the main drive.

Jack came to her in her dreams sometimes, his eyes warm and wanting. For the first few months, her pillows would be wet with tears in the morning, but even when the tears stopped, the ache was still there in her heart, heavy as a stone, the sinking feeling that came in the moment before she opened her eyes and had to remember that she lived in a world without him. She sometimes imagined him sailing for France, or the Americas, standing proud on the rigging of a ship somewhere while the sea crashed around him, the boy who would remain young and beautiful forever, the boy she had taught how to ride and whom she’d kissed in a grave. He sometimes spoke to her in her dreams, leaning in close to tell her quiet, tender things she could never recall upon waking. Hazel tried to stay there for as long as she could, in the dim half sleep where the shadows made themselves into Jack’s proud profile, the contours of his face. She could see it: the slope of his cheekbones, his long, dark eyelashes, his stern brow—the hundred small places she had touched her lips to his skin.

But then the pale yellow light of morning would press its way into the corners of Hazel’s bedroom, and Hazel would rise to begin her day of work, healing the living.





epilogue





THE LETTER ARRIVED AT HAWTHORNDEN Castle with burnt and yellowed edges, bent in odd places. It looked as though it had traveled around the world twice and spent most of its Christmas holidays folded in a child’s sticky pocket. It bore a stamp from New York City.

The letter wasn’t signed, but the woman who opened the letter knew exactly who it was from. She pinned it above her workstation so that she could read while she brewed wortroot tea and spun bandages and sharpened knives. She read it so often she could see the words in their spindly script when she closed her eyes.

My beating heart is still yours, the letter said, and I’ll be waiting for you.





acknowledgments



THIS BOOK BEGAN AS A RAMBLING email that I wrote to my agent, Dan Mandel, while I was flying cross-country from New York to Los Angeles. To Dan, thank you so much for having faith in this project and in me, and sending me the encouraging messages I need when I’m close to breakdown. I want to thank Sara Goodman, and the entire team at Wednesday, including Alexis, Vanessa, Rivka, and Mary, for all of their tireless work, and Kerri Resnick and Zachary Meyer for a beautiful book cover beyond my wildest dreams. I’m wildly lucky to have a family that’s willing to listen to all of my ranting ideas and celebrate my accomplishments and I’m especially grateful to my sister, Caroline, for reading every draft of this book. Heartfelt thanks to Katie Donahoe for her reading, her ideas, and her encouragement, and thank you to Ian Karmel, who supports me in every way it’s possible to support a person.

I used a number of books to help research the early nineteenth century and the history of medicine, including The Butchering Art by Lindsey Fitzharris, The Royal Art of Poison by Eleanor Herman, Dr. Mütter’s Marvels by Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, The Knife Man by Wendy Moore, and The Lady and Her Monsters by Roseanne Montillo.