The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings #2)(40)
“Then what would you suggest I do?” I ask.
He drains his glass, then sets it hard on the desk, like the end of a toast. “You take my suggestions and you improve your arguments and you try your petition with someone who would actually have something to teach you. Go to Padua or Geneva or Amsterdam. They’re more forward-thinking than we English.”
He returns my list to me, and I look down at his scribbled notes in the margins, his handwriting only slightly worse than mine. Platt is already settling back into his chair, pulling a foot up under him and reaching again for the bottle. And this may be the only chance I ever get, so I clear my throat—bit of a dramatic gesture—and start.
“Well then, sir, I would like to make a petition to you for a position.” He looks up, but I press forward before he can tell me this was not what he meant. “You may not be looking for an assistant, but you will not know how badly you were wanting for one until I begin. You will wonder how you ever got by without me. I will work harder than any other student you may have had, because this opportunity would be too precious to me to waste. I already have some practical knowledge, having completed successful surgical procedures on multiple occasions under situations of duress, in addition to the knowledge I have gained from reading books such as Antonio Benivieni’s De Abditis Morborum Causis, both of which will provide a strong foundation to be built upon. I am a supporter of human dissection and anatomical studies, which align well with the school you practice, and I believe that my contributions to your work, as well as the knowledge you could provide for me, would leave us both better for our partnership.”
I take a deep breath. It shakes a little more than I’d like. Platt hasn’t said a word the whole time I was speaking, nor did he try to interrupt me. He kept his head tipped to the side, swirling his empty glass between his thumb and first finger, but when I pause for that breath, he says, “Are you finished?”
I’m not sure if that’s an invitation to continue or a request to stop, so I just reply, “For now.”
“Well then.” He nods once. “Bravo.”
“Really?”
“It’s not the best argument I’ve heard, but you’re certainly fearless—I mean, my God, you came all the way here just to see me. And you’re willing to learn—that’s the most important thing.” He rubs his palms together like he’s trying to warm them, or perhaps scheming. It’s hard to say. Then he asks, “Will you be at the Polterabend?”
“The what?”
“It’s another one of the insane wedding customs here. Friends all come in fancy dress on the theme of fish and fowl the night before the wedding and smash pottery. Scherben bringen Glück—shards bring luck, that’s the saying. It’s all a waste of time and good china, but the bride must be appeased. Will you be there?”
I don’t love the way he speaks of Johanna. I also don’t say yes in case his next sentence was going to be an offer to skip the society party with him and instead bury ourselves up to our eyeballs in medical texts. “If I’m invited.”
“I’m inviting you.” He leans into a luxurious stretch, arms over his head and his back arched before he reaches again for his snuffbox. “We should find each other there and have a chat—I’m going to Heidelberg tomorrow to pick up a prescription, and I won’t be back until the party, but I’ll think while I’m gone over where a mind like yours might be best put to use.”
I don’t want to say no, but also I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to talk to him the night before his wedding—his attention will be split between too many things, and that’s not enough time for any position to be secured before he departs. And there’s no such thing as a substantial conversation at a party.
“Dr. Cheselden mentioned you’re going to the Barbary States,” I venture, and he nods. “Are you leaving soon?”
“After the wedding. Miss Hoffman and I are honeymooning in Zurich for a week, and then I’ll depart from Nice.”
“Zurich. How . . .” I fumble for a word. It is not the ideal location for a romantic, postnuptial retreat. “Cold.”
“Not so cold. And not for long. I’ll be on the Mediterranean by the first of the month, and Miss Hoffman on her way to my home in London.”
“Do you think there might be a place—” I venture, but he cuts me off.
“My crew is already set. The work we’re undertaking is quite sensitive, so the ranks have to be monitored rather judiciously.”
“Of course.”
He snaps the snuffbox open and shut a few times, staring down into it like he’s thinking hard. “But come find me at the Polterabend. We’ll talk more, I promise.” I don’t quite know what that means, other than I now need to make certain I have a dress for the night that is not decorated with tonight’s dessert. As though he read my thoughts, Platt looks me up and down and laughs. “I’m a little disappointed it isn’t blood your dress is covered in. I would quite like to see a lady surgeon at her post.”
And that recognition, in spite of the irksome modifier, that pride and belief in his voice where usually I only find scorn, makes me feel seen, for perhaps the first time in my life.
9
I can hear the Polterabend carrying up the stairs and through my bedroom door, so grand and sparkling that it spooks me before I’ve seen the source. I would have had a book tucked into my skirt—and am truly still considering it—or chosen to not attend at all had it not been for Dr. Platt’s invitation to talk more at the party. Since our meeting in the library, he’s been absent from the house, only returning a few hours earlier and immediately being swept off by Herr Hoffman to make himself ready. And with the ceremony tomorrow, this is a precious final chance to speak with him.