Anatomy: A Love Story(8)

From The Cities of Scotland: a Traveler’s Companion (1802) by J. B. Pickrock:

They call Edinburgh “the Athens of the North” for her accomplishments in philosophy, but now it is also a testament to her architecture: white stone, broad straight avenues, columns. They began to build New Town on the flat expanse of land in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle in the 1760s, I believe (when the stench and overcrowding of the buildings along High Street on the hill became too much for anyone with any decent breeding to bear), but only since 1810 have the buildings in the Romantic Classical style truly begun to impress. Indeed, I daresay now Edinburgh boasts a more beautiful example of the Romantic Classical style than any of the capitals of Europe.





3




“PLEASE.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But they won’t let me in without you. There’s not a chance. But they can’t turn me away if I’m with the Viscount Almont.”

“Future Viscount Almont. My father is very much alive, thank you very much.”

“Well, you’re at least something now, right? Surely, you’re a baronet at the very least. That counts for something, future Viscount Almont.”

“Hazel,” Bernard warned.

“You don’t even have to look. You can cover your eyes the entire time.”

“I’ll still hear it.”

Hazel clutched the broadsheet advert in her hand and gave it a shake. “Come on, Bernard. When have I ever asked you to do something for me? If I don’t go to this, I’ll never be able to think of anything else for as long as I live. I’ll be bringing it up at dinner parties when we’re both old and gray, and you’ll wish you had gone just to shut me up.”

Bernard kept walking. “No.” Bernard was wearing a new top hat in dove gray, and even as he turned away from Hazel, she could tell that he was still mindful of showing it off to the best angle, so its edges caught the light just so and set off his sharp chin. His jacket was also gray, and he wore a vest of canary yellow silk.

Though the afternoon had begun with a pleasant autumn chill in the air, over the course of their walk, it had become stiflingly hot. Hazel felt a bead of sweat roll down her back, beneath layers of fabric. “Are you worried that my mother will be cross with you because—?”

Bernard turned and interrupted her. “Yes. To be quite frank, yes. I am worried your mother will be cross with me, but more than that, Hazel, I’m worried your mother will be cross with you. Do you have any idea the sort of trouble you would get in if your mother—or father, for that matter—found out you went to an anatomy lecture? A public anatomy lecture! The type of characters who attend that sort of thing! Drunkards … and rapists! And … and … theater actors!”

Hazel rolled her eyes and straightened the edges of her ivory gloves. Her father had bought them for her before he left for Saint Helena. “Students, Bernard. That’s who attends these things. Anyway, I’ve worked it all out: I will tell my mother that I am going for a picnic with you at the Princes Street Gardens, and not to expect me back before nightfall. We can walk down the hill and be back at yours by teatime.”

A stately carriage passed, and Bernard delayed his response until he had politely greeted the gentleman inside with a dignified nod. When he turned back to Hazel, his face resumed its exasperation. “Studying medicine is one thing. It’s useful, even. My friend from Eton, John Lawrence, is off in Paris now and he’s going to make a fine physician and he’ll marry well and be welcome at all our dinner parties. If you wanted to pretend that you were going to become a physician—or a nurse—I suppose that would be one thing. But surgery—Hazel, surgery is the field for men with no money. No status. They’re butchers, really!”

He walked forward a few paces before he realized that Hazel wasn’t walking alongside him. “Hazel?”

“What did you mean, ‘pretend’?”

“What did I—?”

“You said, ‘pretend that’ I was ‘going to become a physician.’”

“All I meant was that—Hazel. I mean. You never really expected—” He stopped and then started again. “You’ll be quite useful when we’re married, knowing how to mend scratches and treat fevers!”

“You’ve always known I want to be a surgeon,” Hazel said. “We’ve talked about it for ages. You’ve always supported me in that.”

“Well, yes,” Bernard said to his shoes. “When we were children.”

Hazel’s mouth suddenly tasted like copper. Her tongue went heavy. They were just a block away from Almont House, its gleaming white columns visible in the afternoon sunlight.

“Look,” Bernard said, already shifting his weight to begin walking again. “Let’s just get back to the parlor. Have tea.” Hazel had been holding the broadsheet slack in her hands, and Bernard reached out to grab it. He ripped it in half, and then in fourths, and then crumpled the pieces. He threw them behind him into the wetness of the gutter, where Hazel watched the slips of paper disappear into pulp. “There. Let’s forget that nonsense. There’s a new show going up at Le Grand Leon, we’ll go together soon, one evening. And take your mother. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”