A Distant Shore (9 page)

Isobel flushed. There was no greater sin in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She stared blindly down at her book. “I have quite a lot on my mind,” she continued, her words coming out in no more than a whisper.

Arabella raised her eyebrows. “I did not realize you were so preoccupied.” She completed several neat stitches before raising her gaze to Isobel once more. “That school takes too much of your time. I have always thought so. Perhaps it is time to consider other pursuits.”

Isobel knew her mother didn’t like her spending so much time at the First School. A bit of charity met with approbation, but eight hours a day, in her mother’s mind, smacked of being a bluestocking or worse, a reformer.

“It is not the school that preoccupies me,” she said. “But it is just as well you have mentioned a change of pursuits.” Both her parents must have heard some of the stridency in her tone for her mother simply waited, her embroidery forgotten, her lips slightly parted, and her father looked up from his paper, rustling its pages as a signal that he was not entirely pleased by this interruption. Isobel took a deep breath. “I have made a decision regarding the rest of my life.”

Arabella’s eyebrows arched once more. “There is no need to be melodramatic, surely.”

Stephen tried for a smile as he laid his paper down on his lap. “What is this all about, sweetheart?”

Isobel took another breath. She felt almost dizzy with nerves. “I spoke to Mr. Rufus Anderson of the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions—”

“Missions,” Arabella interjected, her tone scandalized. “You cannot be considering becoming a missionary!”

“No,” Isobel replied evenly, “I am not. Single women are not allowed to become missionaries.”

“And rightly so,” Stephen said. “It is a far too dangerous for a lady.”

“Missionaries,” Isobel continued, staring straight ahead, her hands clenched around her book in her lap, “need to be married.” This was met with a profound silence.

“I cannot,” Arabella finally said quietly, “conceive what you are thinking to propose.” She sounded genuinely mystified, which made it all the more difficult for Isobel to explain just what her intention was.

“Mr. Anderson told me of a—a list,” Isobel said. She continued to clutch the book in her lap tightly, her knuckles turning white. “A list of—of suitable women, women who might wish to...” She stopped, took another breath, her fingers aching now. “Who might wish to marry a missionary,” she finished, her voice dropping to an apologetic whisper. The silence that followed this information was, Isobel thought numbly, quite deafening. It rang in her ears.

“Izzy,” Stephen said, using her pet name, “I’m confused. What does such a list have to do with you?”

“I can quite see where this is going,” Arabella told him frostily. She shook her head slowly, her stony gaze trained on Isobel. “Our daughter thinks to put her name on this list.”

Stephen stared at her in mute appeal, clearly expecting her to deny such an allegation. Isobel forced herself to let go of her book and smoothed her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. “It is true, Father. I do wish to put my name on Mr. Anderson’s list. It is perfectly respectable.”

“It is not,” Arabella countered, her tone suddenly turning fierce. “A list! Of spinsters! You cannot think to include yourself in such a number.”

“I am a spinster, Mother,” Isobel reminded her quietly. “I shall be thirty years old this spring.
Thirty
.”

“You have no idea what sort of men would go fishing for a wife,” Arabella countered. “They could be the lowest, basest of creatures! And to marry a man you barely know—”

“I would come to know him,” Isobel answered. “And we are talking of missionaries, Mother, men who wish to serve God. Hardly the lowest or basest of creature.”

“Still, a stranger. A man with possibly no connections, no social standing at all—”

“I no longer care,” Isobel said, “for social standing.”

Arabella sat back in her chair, her embroidery hoop momentarily forgotten as she stared at her daughter. “I cannot believe you could seriously entertain such an idea. And if some man selects your name from the list? What then?”

“Then we would meet,” Isobel said hesitantly. In truth she did not know exactly how it would play out; Mr. Anderson had not told her such details. “We would discuss—arrangements—”

“Like a cattle gone to market, sold to the highest bidder?”

“Arabella, that is crass,” Stephen protested, although he still looked winded by Isobel’s unexpected announcement.

“It is crass,” Arabella agreed. “And yet our daughter actually thinks to offer herself in such a fashion!”

“Is it not so different from what would happen in a drawing room?” Isobel countered. She had thought as her mother did only a short time ago, but now she found herself a staunch defender of Mr. Anderson and his list. “It’s sensible, Mother, really—”

Arabella shook her head, the movement alarmingly final. “No,” she said flatly. “I cannot believe you considered it for a moment! A missionary’s wife.” She shook her head again. “No.”

“To be a missionary is a high calling,” Stephen said mildly. He looked at his daughter, clearly troubled, although Isobel was glad to see her father did not object the way her mother was. She was not surprised; Arabella had been born to wealth but Stephen was a self-made man. Her mother had more pretensions to snobbery than her father ever would.

“And to be a missionary’s
wife
,” Arabella returned, “is to be subjected to all sorts of rude deprivations, to have your children succumb to all manners of dreadful disease, and then die alone in a foreign and hostile land!” Her voice rang out shrilly, and Isobel blinked in shock at the force in her mother’s voice. It occurred to her that her mother’s objection might not come from snobbery, but from concern and even fear. Fear she felt herself, for hadn’t she considered such a bleak picture already?

And yet she was still determined.

“Arabella,” Stephen murmured and with visible effort her mother controlled herself.

“I will not allow it. Your father will not allow it.”

Stephen turned to Isobel with a frown. “This is unorthodox, to say the least, Isobel.”

“It is respectable,” she insisted. “Allowed by the Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions! How can you object?”

Stephen rubbed a hand over his face. “It is not,” he said after a moment, “what we ever envisioned you.”

“And what did you envision?” Isobel asked, her voice trembling with emotion. “To live with you all of my days? To watch as friend after friend marries and has children while I wait alone, an object of pity and even scorn?”

“It is not so,” Stephen said. “You have many pleasant and worthwhile occupations—”

“They are simply ways to pass the time,” Isobel said flatly. “I want more.”

“And more is this—this plan of yours?” Arabella demanded. “Isobel, you are not thinking clearly. You are not considering all you would be sacrificing, all you would endure! And to be the wife of a stranger, a man who could be hard or harsh, who might abuse you—”

“I hope I have more discernment than that in choosing a husband,” Isobel said stiffly.

“You are not showing such discernment by presenting such a plan to us in the first place!” Arabella exclaimed.

Isobel turned to her father, knowing her fate lay in his hands. He stared at her sorrowfully for a long moment and then slowly shook his head. “I am sorry, Isobel. I appreciate that the lot God has granted you in this life holds its own tribulations, but I cannot countenance such a plan as this.”

Isobel’s hands clenched into fists in her lap. “I am of an age—” she began, and her father shook his head.

“You are a member of my household,” he stated flatly. “And if you draw me thus, I will have to speak more plainly.” His face settled into a frown. “I tell you, Isobel, I forbid it.”

Ian straightened his frock coat and cravat before knocking on the door of the office of the Chief of Surgery, John Collins Warren. Warren had granted him an audience when Ian had written him a note, asking to discuss “matters of consequence in regards to the new science of anesthesia”, but Ian was under no illusions about his time with the renowned and revered doctor. He would have ten minutes to make his case, maybe less.

“Enter.”

Ian opened the door and slipped inside. Warren sat behind his desk, papers spread out in front of him. He did not rise as Ian came to stand before him.

“Campbell,” he acknowledged, his tone neutral. “You wished to discuss something with me, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. The subject of anesthesia—”

“I assume you are speaking of the use of nitrous oxide to dull pain,” Warren interjected dryly.

“Dr. Holmes himself suggested the word,” Ian countered, trying to keep his voice mild. Oliver Wendell Holmes had coined the term only recently, but Warren would not necessarily applaud a man who was known as a reformer. Holmes had just stared at the Boston Dispensary, the hospital for the city’s poor, and often wrote tracts and pamphlets on subjects that Warren would readily dismiss. Ian had considered trying for a position under Holmes, but the city’s medical community was small, and he did not dare risk offending those above him.

Warren waved his hand in impatient dismissal. “Never mind Holmes. Continue.”

“I have taken an interest in the matter myself,” Ian resumed. “With a certain gentleman, a dentist—”

“I know,” Warren interjected dryly, “of your rather frequent visits to Hartford.”

Ian flushed. Dr. Warren did not sound precisely disapproving, but there was no hint of approbation in his tone either. Ian had not realized the Chief of Surgery was so aware of his movements. “The time I’ve taken has been my own, sir, funded—”

“I am not interested in explanations or excuses,” Warren said shortly. “What is it you wish to suggest to me, Dr. Campbell?”

Ian swallowed. “My colleague, Mr. Wells, would like to demonstrate the use of ether in a formal setting,” he said. His voice, he thought, sounded too loud, almost brash. “Preferably in the Bulfinch operating theatre.”

His words seemed to echo in the sudden frosty stillness of the room. Ian could feel his heart thumping hard under his shirt. Had he just jeopardized his position? Lost it, even? If so, then he would be dependent on his wife’s inheritance... and the fortune of James Riddell.

“You have been a doctor here for how long?” Warren asked after a moment. “Five years?”

“Six.” Ian swallowed. He tried not to fidget like a schoolboy under Warren’s narrowed gaze.

“Not as long as all that, then,” Warren mused. “I have been here, you know, since the doors of this institution opened in 1821. Nearly twenty years.”

“Your accomplishments are well known, sir,” Ian said, hoping he did not sound sycophantic. He spoke the truth; John Collins Warren had helped to found the hospital, established the New England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, and had also served as Dean of Harvard Medical School. His surgical skills were unparalleled.