A Distant Shore (7 page)

“The only way for the use of ether to be accepted by the medical community is to perform an experiment in public.” Wells paused, his face flushed, his mouth twisted in something like a sneer. “And what better place than the operating theatre of the Massachusetts General Hospital?”

Ian stared, excitement and trepidation warring within him. He agreed with Wells in principle, but the reality was that attempting to arrange such an experiment could cost him his position—and thus his livelihood. Then he really would have no choice but to rely on Riddell’s money.

Wells narrowed his eyes. “You’re not frightened, are you, Campbell?” he asked softly. “Not afraid to put the full weight of your position—your reputation—behind these experiments?”

“Of course not,” Ian said, knowing he was being drawn by the most obvious and base of methods, yet unable to respond in any other way. He drew himself up, his expression cool. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” Wells was already rolling up his sleeve. “Now let us get down to business. I want you to put me under the ether, and operate on my arm.”

“We’ve done this before—”

“This time you’re to only give me enough for my eyelids to flutter. We’ll see how low the dosage can go. That will give those fusty surgeons in Boston something to think about.”

Chapter Four

Boston, 1838

The sails of Henry’s clipper ship snapped in the brisk spring wind as he and Margaret stood on the quay of Boston Harbor. The
Charlotte Rose
, named after their daughter, was one of the fastest out of Boston and perfect for carrying tea and spices from China. Clipper ships were relatively new to the sea trade, and they did not have the storage capacity of other ships, although with their many sails they were certainly faster.

Even so, the thought of Henry battling the China Seas on board that flimsy-looking boat made Margaret suppress a shudder with fear. She turned to Henry with a smile, determined for him not to see how afraid she was.

“I shall miss you,” Henry said quietly, his expression tender as he gazed down at her. “I shall write to you as often as I can.”

Margaret nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She didn’t want to point out that letters would take months to arrive, or even longer, for he would have to find someone heading towards Boston at one of the ports where he put in. His promise to write provided little comfort.

“And I shall think of you every day,” she finally answered, her voice only a little choked. “And pray for you.” Pray for the safety of his ship and his men, his very life. The dangers and threats of an ocean crossing, never mind what waited for him in China, made her throat close up and she blinked rapidly.

“Ah, Margaret.” Gently Henry drew her into his arms. “I know this is not easy for you.”

Margaret pressed her face against the scratchy wool of his coat, her eyes closed against the hot onslaught of tears. She did not want to cry at this most precious of farewells, and with little Charlotte at her side too. She wished she’d been able to convince Henry of her good cheer, but he knew her too well.

Finally she drew in a deep breath and pulled away from him. “Go safely,” she said, and this time her voice sounded sure and strong. “I trust you to God.”

Henry stroked her cheek. “And you go safely as well, my love,” he said, softly enough that only she could hear. “I love you more than you could ever know.”

“Papa.” Charlotte yanked on the bottom of Henry’s coat, her lower lip pushed out as she gazed up at her father. “Aren’t you going to hug me too?”

“Of course I am, my poppet,” Henry said with a jolly smile, although Margaret saw his dear blue eyes were shadowed with worry... was it the same fear she felt, or was he simply worried for her own well-being? She had a terrible, creeping feeling that Henry was not being completely honest with her about the dangers of travel to China. The rough seas, the awful Opium Wars, the hostile Chinese government... all of it kept her awake most nights, staring at the ceiling, envisioning all the terrible ways things could go wrong. Ways she might lose Henry forever. And what if there was more he hadn’t even told her?

Henry swung Charlotte up into his arms, and then hoisted her to his shoulder. “See that ship there?” he said, pointing to the clipper readying to sail.

“Yes, of course I do,” Charlotte said. She clapped one hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away in the wind, the strings whipping against her wind-reddened cheeks.

“You see the name of it?” Henry asked, and Charlotte squinted, making out the black letters painted on the side of the ship.

“The
Charlotte Rose
!” she finally proclaimed in triumph. “That’s me!”

“It certainly is,” Henry affirmed, swinging her back down. He kept one arm around his little girl as he nodded towards the ship. “I’ll think of you every day while I’m on that ship. I’ll have to, won’t I, with your name right there on the side.”

“Every day?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “But how long will you be gone, Papa?”

Henry exchanged a quick, guarded look with Margaret; she kept her face as expressionless as she could. Henry already knew her opinion on this subject; a year was an incalculable amount of time to a child. Charlotte might not even remember him when he returned.
If
he returned.

“I shall bring you a present next Christmas,” Henry finally said.

“Christmas!” Charlotte exclaimed. “That’s ages away.”

And more than she even knew, Margaret thought sourly, for Henry did not mean this

Christmas, but the one next year. Seventeen months away. Forever, especially to a five-year-old girl.

“Never mind, Charlotte,” she said briskly, drawing her daughter close. “We’ll have fun plotting Papa’s journey on the big map in his study. You know the one I mean, don’t you? And the time will go by quickly enough, I promise you.”

Charlotte frowned, still trying to comprehend such a large amount of time. Margaret squeezed her shoulder. “Say goodbye now, sweeting,” she said softly, and Charlotte dutifully stepped forward.

“Goodbye, Papa.”

“Goodbye, my precious girl.” Henry enveloped his daughter in a great big bear hug before turning to his wife. “Margaret...”

“Godspeed,” Margaret said, blinking hard. “You are in my thoughts always.”

Mindless of the crowds of stevedores working the docks, Henry swept his wife into his arms and kissed her soundly on the mouth.

“Henry
!” Margaret tried to sound scandalized, and failed. She needed that kiss to sustain her for many long, lonely months to come.

With one hand pressed to her lips, her other holding tightly onto Charlotte, she watched as Henry boarded the
Charlotte Rose
, and as the ship pushed off from the dock, she felt her heart die a little within her.

Both she and Charlotte were quiet on the carriage ride back to their home in Back Bay. Charlotte rested her head against her mother’s shoulder, as if to absorb the pain Margaret felt coursing through her. She stroked her daughter’s soft cheek, grateful for her company at least in the long months ahead.

Back at the house, Margaret listlessly sifted through the post that had been left on a silver salver as she waited for their maid, Ella, to bring tea. “A letter from Prince Edward Island,” she said aloud. Her sister-in-law Harriet wrote her regularly once a month with all of the family’s news, but since she’d only received a letter from her a week ago, Margaret was surprised to find another sent so quickly after. She hoped it did not bring ill news.

“What is it, Mama?” Charlotte asked as she perched next to Margaret on the settee.

“It’s from your aunt...” Margaret scanned the letter, her frown of concern quickly turning into an excited smile. “She’s asking if your cousin Maggie can come to stay for awhile, perhaps even until Papa returns. Keep us company, hmm?” She smiled at her daughter, the pain in her heart lightening just a little. Company, at this moment, would be most welcome.

Isobel sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs pushed to the side of the ballroom and tapped her slippered foot in tempo with the lively waltz that was playing. She watched, feigning a disinterested air, as several couples waltzed by her, the woman’s bright skirts brushing Isobel’s tapping foot in a swirl of silk.

She glanced at Elizabeth Ascott, the nineteen-year-old girl sitting next to her; she watched the waltzing with forlorn eyes, her empty dance card dangling from one wrist. Isobel felt a stab of pity for the girl; she at least, had never had to deal with the disappointment of an unfilled dance card. She had always been in demand, until Ian had married Caroline Campbell and overnight Isobel had been become unwanted... a spinster, and in this case, a chaperone, for the girl’s mother had asked her to keep an eye on her. Isobel had agreed, trying to ignore the indignation and hurt this innocent request caused. Of course no one would think she was going to dance. She hadn’t been asked to dance in years.

She hadn’t quite minded so much, until now. Now, remembering Rufus Anderson’s all too compassionate gaze, the reality of a score or more of wallflower years stretching ahead of her, she minded very much indeed.

The waltz finally ended, and Isobel stood up, shaking out her skirts. “I, for one, am parched,” she informed the disconsolate Elizabeth. “Shall we get some punch?”

Elizabeth eyed her reluctantly. Isobel could see a dark emotion in the girl’s eyes, something between pity and fear. Undoubtedly Elizabeth was imagining her own future, and praying she would not end up like Isobel, facing thirty with a future of nothing but dull days and evenings such as this one.

Abruptly Isobel turned and strode across the ballroom. Elizabeth could come if she wished. Impotent rage and worse, desperation, fired her body and made her clench her gloved fists before she forced herself to relax. She could not live like this. Not for the rest of her life. She could not remain a pitied spectator, a dreaded wallflower.

Isobel accepted a glass of cool punch and took a much-needed sip. She should not have come tonight. She rarely went to such evenings, knowing all too well the desolation they could cause to well up within her. Yet tonight she’d agreed because her father had cajoled her, and she hated to disappoint him. She knew he still sometimes pretended as if, at almost thirty, she had a chance at a normal life, marriage and children, even if everything pointed to the opposite.