A Distant Shore (21 page)

Ever since the public failure of the ether experiment Ian had been existing in a wretched fog of humiliation and even grief, for the failed operation felt like the death of his dreams. He had been working with Horace Wells for over five years on the use of ether as an anesthetic, even as his superiors at the Massachusetts General Hospital ridiculed and insulted him. Now they had just cause to do so, for Horace Wells had made a fool of him, as well as the whole idea of using ether or any substance as an anesthetic.

After he had been practically booed off the operating theatre stage, Wells had pushed past him and stormed out of the room. Ian had not tried to stop him; what was there to say? Wells had failed and Ian had not been courageous enough to force him to step aside. He had known, before Wells had ascended the stage, that he was unfit to perform the operation. His hands had been shaking! But Wells had been belligerent and Ian hadn’t insisted, and now… now he had no idea if they would ever chance upon such an opportunity again.

When he had returned home that evening Caroline was waiting in the front hall, looking pretty and fresh in a pale pink gown with wide sleeves cinched at the elbow, her hair in tight clusters of curls at each temple.

“Ian!” She walked towards him, her face wreathed in smiles, hands outstretched. “Tell me how the operation went. I haven’t been able to sit still for a moment, I’ve been in such a state about it!”

“Have you?” Ian replied rather sourly, knowing he was being unfair. “Well, I’ll tell you how it went then. A complete and utter failure.”

Caroline had looked at him in amazement, her smile sliding off her face. Ian had turned away, divesting himself of his coat and hat, not wanting to meet his wife’s gaze.

“Oh my dear,” she murmured. “I am so very sorry. Come into the parlor and I’ll have Tilly fetch you a plate.”

It was several hours past their usual suppertime, and Ian hadn’t even had a good reason to stay away for so long. He simply hadn’t wanted to face Caroline and the admission of his own failure.

“Thank you,” he muttered, and followed her into the parlor.

“I suppose it was Wells,” Caroline said as she fetched a little fringed stool for his feet. Self-consciously Ian raised his feet and allowed her to position him more comfortably. He felt as if he were being coddled, as if he were a child or an invalid. “I suppose,” Caroline continued as she sat across from him, arranging her skirts with her usual daintiness, “ that he needed a bit of courage to perform the operation? And so he partook of that terrible substance.”

“That terrible substance,” Ian reminded her, “is what we hope will be used in countless operations, saving, God willing, many lives.”

Caroline’s expression clouded, and she bit her lip as she looked quickly away. Ian felt even worse. He was angry and disappointed and bitter, but none of it was directed towards Caroline. And what kind of sorry excuse for a man took out his professional disappointments on his wife?

With a sigh Ian leaned his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Caroline. You are perfectly right, of course. I suspect that Wells was under the influence of ether when he performed the operation. I tried to dissuade him from going ahead, but he would hear none of it.”

“I’m so sorry, Ian.” She reached over and clasped her hand with his, and Ian gave her fingers a halfhearted squeeze.

“You realize you are now married to the laughing stock of Massachusetts General Hospital? You should have heard the uproar in the theatre when everyone realized Wells had failed. The medical students were laughing like it was the most amusing joke they’d ever heard.” He heard bitterness sharpen his words, felt it twist his mouth. The memory still stung terribly, that awful, mocking laughter echoing in his ears.

“It is Wells who failed, not you,” Caroline replied staunchly. “Another opportunity will arise—”

“Not at Massachusetts,” Ian cut her off. “No one will forget that failure. It shall follow me all of my days.” And perhaps cost him his position, or at least the prospect of advancement.

“One forgets failure as soon as one encounters success,” Caroline countered. “You believe in the possibility of ether, Ian. You will persevere, and that is what is important.”

Ian said nothing. He felt too downcast to be encouraged by Caroline’s words; they only irritated him, made him feel like a child who had failed at his lessons, which he knew was unfair.

Caroline drew a breath and Ian tensed, knowing instinctively what was coming next. “Ian, it seems clear that Wells is unfit to continue your experiments. But there is no reason why you should not do so. If you had your own source of funding—”

“Your uncle’s money, I suppose?” he filled in, his tone sneering, and Caroline met his gaze directly.

“My money. Why won’t you use it, Ian? It is now yours by right—”

“I have told you, it is tainted by Riddell’s thievery—”

“Then am I tainted as well?” Caroline demanded, her voice shaking. “For I am related to James Riddell by blood. I know full well what he did twenty years ago now, Ian, taking your family’s land—”

“Stealing
it—”

“But it is my money now and it can be used for good. Don’t you see how using this money would redeem the past rather than have us remain in it?”

Ian said nothing, just set his jaw. They had discussed this too many times already.

Caroline rose, gathering her skirts around her. “You are acting like a hypocrite,” she said quietly. “For you take the money quick enough when it pays for fripperies or fuel or whatever else we have used it for. But as for your precious ether experiments—that must come from your own pocket.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“If I don’t understand,” Caroline said as she walked from the room, “it is because you do not wish me to.” She turned at the door to face him, her eyes flashing. “But I believe I understand all too well, Ian. So be it. I will not offer again.”

She left with a rustling of her skirts, and Ian sank back into his chair, his head in his hands. He
was
a hypocrite, a stupid, prideful one, and yet he did not know if he could act differently. His experiments with ether had given him a sense of self-worth that had just been swept away in light of Wells’s failure. Accepting Riddell money now would simply be too much injury to bear.

Serampore, 1838

Isobel stared in the looking glass, its wavy surface speckled with mold and making it difficult to see her reflection. She’d arranged her hair in clusters of curls at each temple, having kept it twisted in rags the night before. She’d also brushed her best dress, and now she smoothed down the skirt of the light muslin, nerves making her palms damp and her heart flutter.

Tonight she would be attending a party with the Marshmans—and she would meet James Casey, the widower who was interested in marrying her. Briefly Isobel closed her eyes and tried to summon strength for the evening ahead. She had no idea what Mr. Casey would be like, but she nurtured a small, frail hope that he might be kind, and they might actually rub along together.

As for marriage…

She swallowed hard and turned away from the looking glass.

“Are you ready?” Hannah appeared in the doorway of Isobel’s room, smiling in admiration at her dress and hair. “Don’t you look handsome, Isobel! Is that what the fashions are these days?” she asked, gesturing to the sleeves of Isobel’s dress, which were cinched to the elbow before flaring out. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

“Fashions are always changing, aren’t they,” Isobel murmured, wondering if wearing the latest fashion in Calcutta was a mistake. If no one knew what was currently in fashion, it might look strange. Or Mr. Casey might think her shallow, only interested in fashion and fripperies. She felt as if she could do nothing right.

“The palankeen is waiting,” Hannah said. “Shall we?”

The night was dark and damp as Isobel stepped out of the Marshmans’ Swiss-style cottage in Serampore. The air felt like a hot, wet blanket draped over her as soon as she stepped outside, and the inside of the palankeen was stifling.

“Do you ever get used to the heat?” she asked as she arranged her skirts around her. She was wearing her lightest dress, but she still felt overheated.

“I suppose, in time,” Charlotte allowed. She fanned herself with a small laugh. “But it is a struggle, I grant you that.”

They didn’t talk much after that, for it took all of Isobel’s energies to endure the jostling of the palankeen as they travelled to Garden Reach, where most of the British society resided. As the palankeen came to a stop and Isobel gingerly climbed outside, she felt her spirits lift slightly. The house was beautiful, with a wide verandah, the latticed shutters at every window thrown open to the night.

As she came inside the grand foyer, she was handed a glass of champagne, an indulgence she hadn’t had in ages. The crisp, cool taste of it on her tongue nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“I shall look for Mr. Casey,” Hannah murmured, and Isobel said before she could stop herself,

“Oh, not yet. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a party. Just let me enjoy myself—” She stopped, for Hannah was looking at her with a faint furrow of disapproval between her eyebrows. She had not come here, Isobel knew, to enjoy herself. The Marshmans would hardly attend a party simply for amusement; they were too sober-minded for that.

Sighing, she placed her half-empty glass of champagne on a tray and nodded at Hannah. “I suppose I should get it over with, at any rate.”

“My dear! You speak as though you are facing some terrible ordeal. I am sure Mr. Casey is a kind and genial man.”

A red-faced man with rather overwhelming side whiskers and a too-tight waistcoat was bearing down on them, and even Charlotte quelled at the look in his eyes.

Please
, Isobel thought frantically,
let this not be Mr. Casey
.

But it was.

“Miss Moore?” he barked, and Isobel nodded. He stuck out a hand. “James Casey. You know why I am making your acquaintance?”

“Yes…” she whispered, a flush rising from her throat all the way to her ears.

James Casey looked her up and down, much as he would, Isobel suspected, a brood mare. “You’re older than I expected, but that’s no bad thing,” he said musingly. “I’ve got four children of my own to see placed. I don’t want any others.”

“No…” She stood in horrified silence as he continued his awful assessment.

“Now the little one is but a few months old. I’ve got a wet nurse for him but he needs a proper mother. Are you any good with children?”

“I…” She gave Hannah a beseeching glance and the other woman stepped forward.

“Mr. Casey, these questions are surely premature, and even unseemly. The hope this evening was for you to make Miss Moore’s acquaintance, and see if the two of you might suit…”

“I don’t have time for a courtship,” Mr. Casey answered brusquely. He gave Isobel a rather meaningful glance. “And neither, I suspect, does Miss Moore.”

Isobel drew herself up, her body stiff with affront. “I may not have time for a lengthy courtship, Mr. Casey, but neither do I have time for an ignorant boor. Good day.” And without waiting for Hannah, she stalked away.