A Distant Shore (26 page)

“I’ve got George,” Allan answered, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Even so—”

“It’s a sad day,” Allan cut her off, an edge to his voice, “when my wife doubts whether I can manage my own holding.”

Harriet bit her lip and glanced at George who was frowning at the tension that suddenly seemed to crackle in the fresh air of a spring afternoon. “Such a day came to your father—”

“He was a man in his seventies! God above, I’m still well able, Harriet.”

“Of course you are,” Harriet said quickly. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, Allan, but why not have a little help? If you can afford it—”

“I’m fine here with George,” Allan said, and his tone held a grim finality. Harriet knew better than to press the matter.

“Have another drink,” she said, and refilled both of their cups. Allan accepted it, taking off his hat and sitting on the ground, his forearms braced on his knees.

“It’s a good life we have here, isn’t it,
cridhe
?” he said, using the Gaelic endearment Harriet hadn’t heard in a long time. He squinted his eyes against the sunlight as he surveyed the green fields rolling to the blue sky, fleecy white clouds scudding across.

“It’s a wonderful life,” Harriet said firmly. “The best I could have ever hoped for.”

“It has been good,” Allan agreed, his gaze still on the horizon. “We’ve been blessed, you and I, Harriet, even though we’ve had our fair share of sorrows.”

“We have.” She thought of Allan’s brother, dead now nearly twenty years, and their own firstborn son, who had died of a fever nearly as long ago. “I’m thankful,” she said simply, and Allan turned to smile at her.

“As am I. But this field won’t plough itself.” He handed her the cup and rose to his feet, staggering slightly as he straightened.

“Allan—” Instinctively Harriet reached for him, grabbing his arm and he clutched at her to right himself before shrugging her off. “Perhaps you should rest—”

“Rest in midway, when there’s work to be done?” He jammed his hat back on his head and turned towards the plough. “It was a moment’s dizziness, that’s all, caused by the sun. We’ll see you at supper.”

Nodding, knowing better than to say anything more, Harriet hoisted the water pail once more. If she had come out here to allay her fears about Allan, Harriet knew, she’d failed. Heading back to the house, she realized she was more worried than ever for her husband’s health.

Chapter Thirteen

Boston, 1839

“Care for a meal up at the Oyster House?”

Ian glanced up from his untidy desk where he’d been scrawling a few last notes on one of his patients. His colleague, Peter Smythe, sandy-haired and smiling, stood in the doorway. Outside it was already dark and the hospital was emptying out—at least of doctors and visitors. The patients still lay in their beds, many of them waiting to die, for often the only reason one came to the Massachusetts General Hospital was because options—and hope—had run out.

“I’d be glad to,” he said and put his pen and ink away. Going to the Oyster House was a far more appealing prospect than returning to his house and Caroline’s accusing silence.

The accusing, Ian knew, was in his own mind. On the surface Caroline had been nothing but patient and loving these last few months since the failed operation. She’d never mentioned her inheritance again, and had arranged all the household matters with the quiet competence she’d developed in five years of marriage.

Still Ian felt the guilt of his refusal to use her uncle’s money to fund his research. He was a hypocrite, he knew, to refuse it, and his stubbornness had hurt his wife. He had insulted and betrayed her by clinging to his pride, yet he still knew he could not help it. His hatred of Riddell was too deeply ingrained; it had been branded onto his soul for twenty years now.

Gathering his hat and coat, he headed out into the chilly March night with Peter Smythe at his side. They chatted inconsequentially about hospital matters as they walked towards The Union Oyster House, and it wasn’t until they had a dozen oysters each in front of them that Ian realized the real reason Smythe had invited him out.

“It’s a good business you’re finished with that ether nonsense,” he said, and Ian stilled.

“I wouldn’t say finished,” he answered careful;y. “One failed experiment hardly ends the matter.” Even though he knew he had said as much to Caroline. “Scientific progress would not exist under such strictures.”

Smythe prodded one of his oysters rather doubtfully. “I suppose… but it’s a dodgy business, Campbell, don’t you think? That Wells fellow… he’s a loose cannon if I ever saw one. I won’t say a word against ether, because what do I know of the stuff? But I’d stay away from Wells if I were you.”

“Why?” Ian asked sharply. “What has he done?”

Smythe shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve seen him outside of the hospital, wandering about and looking half out of his mind. Muttering things too, not nice at all. Quite a nasty character, if you ask me.”

“Quite,” Ian murmured, his mind spinning. He hadn’t even known Horace Wells was still in Boston. The failed experiment had obviously affected him badly—but had it sent him over the edge into addiction and madness?

“Now, what do you think of Anderson’s latest record?” Smythe asked cheerfully, clearly feeling that his duty to warn Ian had been dispatched. “Removed a tumor in forty-two seconds.”

“And the patient bled to death,” Ian said shortly. “Hardly a success.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that,” Smythe answered with a shrug, and Ian did not bother to reply.

If the operation had been conducted under ether, the surgeon could have taken his time, perhaps staunched the blood. If only other medical men could see the use of it, and be convinced to try again.

He was still thinking about his ether research when he took of his leave of Smythe and headed back home. Guilt settled upon him as he realized Caroline would be waiting, perhaps worried, since he’d sent no message. She wouldn’t rebuke him, though, and that only added to his guilt. He did not know how to solve the matter, and make up with his wife—save doing that which he knew he could not, accepting Riddell’s money.

“There you are, Campbell.”

A few steps from his front door Ian faltered, blinking in the gloom. “Wells?” he asked uncertainly, for the man barely resembled the esteemed dentist he had been a few weeks ago. His hair was unkempt, his face smudged with dirt, his eyes wild. “You don’t look well, man.”

“Don’t I?” Wells let out a wild laugh. “And I wonder who is to blame for my fall in fortunes, Campbell!” He came towards him, his hands balled into fists at his side.

Ian stepped back, conscious now of a very real danger. “Speak sense, Horace,” he said urgently. “There need be no blame—”

“But I blame you,” Wells answered as he took another menacing step towards Ian. “Suggesting I wasn’t fit to perform the surgery! Doubting me every step of the way. Is it any wonder I failed?”

“What’s done is done,” Ian answered evenly. He gauged the distance between him and Wells, wondering if he could somehow subdue the man and get to his door. He was not a fighting man, and the thought of two doctors brawling in the street made him wince. If anyone saw, it could be the ruination of his career. He’d barely managed to salvage it after the last disaster. “Come inside, Wells,” he said after a moment. “My house is right here. Come inside, and we’ll talk.” Although he did not relish the idea of bringing Wells, unstable as he was, into his house, he saw no other way to placate the man.

“I know where your house is, Campbell,” Wells answered. “I’ve been waiting here half the night for you.” All Ian saw was the glint of moonlight on metal as Wells came towards him, one arm raised in a menacing arc.

“Horace—” he began, and then felt a searing pain in his chest. With one hand still stretched out to appeal to his one-time friend, he fell to the ground, and all was darkness.

Maggie pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders despite the hot, still air of the Sunday afternoon. She kept her eyes lowered as a sailor stumbled by her along the refuse-covered street; she had never before gone so far into Boston’s notorious Murder District.

Her Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry didn’t even know she was here. After they had returned home from church, Maggie had pleaded a headache and gone to her bedroom. When her aunt and uncle had retired to the drawing room, she’d snuck downstairs and out the front door without even one of the servants noticing. She was determined to find Seamus.

She didn’t have much of a plan beyond that, and she realized it wasn’t a very good plan to begin with. She didn’t know where he lived, only that his family shared a house in the shanties by the harbor where the city’s newest Irish immigrants generally ended up. And when she found him? Somehow she had to convince him to start talking to her again. That, Maggie thought nervously, at the very least.

A woman hurried by, her head lowered, and quickly Maggie stepped towards her. “Excuse me, but do you know where the Flanagans live?”

“The Flanagans?” The woman shook her head, not even meeting Maggie’s gaze. She watched the woman hurry by and waited for someone else to pass by—someone she felt comfortable asking, at any rate.

Twenty minutes later she was shivering in the chilly spring breeze and trying to ignore the curious and sometimes hostile glances her presence in this part of Boston caused. She might have told her Aunt Margaret that she and Seamus were alike, but people here clearly saw her as a stranger.

She’d asked six different people where the Flanagans had lived, and nobody had known. Most hadn’t even answered. The closest she’d come to success was when a tall, beaky woman had asked her which Flanagans she meant, but she’d never heard of a Seamus.

Dispirited, Maggie wondered if she should go home. What if her aunt and uncle missed her? She could be in the greatest trouble she’d ever known… which made it all the more imperative that she succeeded in this foolhardy mission, and find Seamus.

She stood there on the street, people hurrying past her, wondering what on earth she could do—when suddenly, striding towards her, she saw the most wonderfully familiar, brawny figure.