by Tessa Harris
“Very good, Charles.”
She turned to go, but just before she went out of the door, he called her back.
“Tell Mistress Goodbody that my h-hands are very shaky,” he said, holding up his right hand and waving it loosely in jest. “I shall need you to feed me.”
Thomas had spent much of the afternoon lecturing on the physiology of the liver and was collecting up his papers as two or three dozen students were filing out of the theater when he spied a familiar face approaching.
“Ah, Carrington,” he said. The student smiled briefly, but seemed unusually earnest. Gone was the affable ease that had so impressed Thomas before. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“May we talk in private?”
The doctor ushered him into an adjoining consulting room and bade him sit. “What is it?”
The young man looked apprehensive and wrung his hands nervously in front of him on his lap. “It concerns Dr. Hunter, sir,” he began. “I felt you were the only person I could turn to.”
“Go on,” urged Thomas.
“Last week I went to his laboratory late to continue some work for him, but I was overcome with sleep. I went into the small room that lies just off the laboratory for a quick nap. I must have been asleep for about half an hour when I heard Dr. Hunter return. I did not want to be chastised, not again. I knew it could mean an end to my career with him, so I hid in the room. There was a knothole near the bottom of the door, so I crouched down to see what he was doing.” The young man reddened.
“And?” pressed Thomas.
“I wish in God’s name, sir, that I had not seen what I did.”
Thomas frowned. “What did you see, Carrington?”
The student swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, as if the words he needed to say were withering on his parched tongue. Staring ahead of him he said: “He infected his own genitals with pus from a venereal chancre.”
For a second or two Thomas remained silent, computing what he had just heard. “By God!” he exclaimed a moment later. “Who in their right mind would do such a thing?” But he could tell from the student’s face there was more.
“It was a great sacrifice in the name of medical research, sir,” he said solemnly.
Thomas nodded, but the shock was still shackling his tongue.
Carrington continued, twisting his hands as he spoke. “I am afraid one of the prices Dr. Hunter might be paying is his sanity.”
“What do you mean?”
“I fear he is becoming irrational,” said Carrington. His voice was more measured.
“In what way?”
“The other night he was with Mr. Haydn in his study.”
“Haydn, the composer?” Thomas recalled his encounter with the Austrian in the barber’s shop.
“Yes, sir. I was in the room next door and could hear them talking when suddenly their discussion became very heated.”
“Yes, and then?”
“Mr. Haydn suffers from nasal polyps.”
“I am aware.” Thomas nodded.
“I’d heard Dr. Hunter say that they should be removed before, and I assumed this is what they were discussing, but soon there was a commotion. It sounded like a chair was being knocked over and then the door burst open. I looked to see Mr. Haydn being chased by Dr. Hunter. He shouted for Howison and together they grabbed the poor gentleman and dragged him back into his chair. I rushed in to see a pair of forceps poised over him, but he kicked out and managed to free himself.”
“Then what happened?” urged Thomas, picturing the episode in his mind’s eye.
“Mr. Haydn persuaded him to put away his instruments and he left.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Yes, sir, and the strange thing was it seemed that Dr. Hunter pitied Mr. Haydn for not wanting to undergo the happy experience of enjoying his skill.”
“Strange indeed,” agreed Thomas.
Carrington nodded. “And I fear there will be more like that to follow, Dr. Silkstone,” he said.
“More?”
The student turned his head, making sure that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “I fear that the infection is turning Dr. Hunter mad, and there will be no end to what he will do.”
That evening Thomas called at Cockspur Street to check on his patient before accompanying Lydia and Count Boruwlaski to the Hanover Square Rooms.
“Mr. Byrne seems in remarkably good spirits,” he said, settling himself next to Lydia in the carriage after examining the giant.
“Yes, he is much restored,” she said, adding: “He says he will be strong enough to return to the cane shop tomorrow.”
“Whatever you gave him, it seems to have fortified him,” chimed in the count.
Having seen the way that his patient looked at Emily, who had been in attendance in the room at the time, Thomas was not sure that his sudden improvement could be attributed to any medicine he had administered, but he said nothing. Nor did he broach the subject of Lydia’s appointment at Lincoln’s Inn that morning. He did not want to stir up trouble. It was the count who raised the matter.
“Her ladyship’s meeting with Mr. Marchant earlier today was most fruitful,” said the little man.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Thomas coolly, looking at Lydia.
Dressed in all her finery for the concert, she appeared even more beautiful to him. He knew she could sense his desire and tauntingly she held his gaze.
“We are to engage his services officially next week,” she told him. He nodded but did not respond further, knowing that his own feelings of jealousy might surface once more.
For the rest of the journey, the count regaled them of tales of his friendship with Moreno and of how they used to entertain the crowned heads of Europe.
“But my dear angel no longer sings,” he bemoaned. “We are to see his protégé tonight.” Thomas had already read of this young singer in the newssheets. From all the talk of his “angelic” voice, he surmised he was a castrato. He knew from his research that in certain Italian states parents sometimes offered up their sons for castration to enhance their singing voices. The castrato’s voice was prized for its combination of pitch and power. The operation, usually performed when the boy was around eight years of age, meant that his voice would never break, enabling him to reach the highest notes, delivered by the powerful lungs of a fully grown man.
When he had first read of the custom, Thomas was shocked, but while the Roman Church also officially frowned on such practices, it was one way a poor household could make money, as such boys were much in demand in church choirs. He wondered at the irony of it; how ugly it was to pervert the power of surgery in order to replicate the beauty of angels’ voices. As a physician he could in no way condone such operations, yet he remained curious about the physical effect on the male body. Would its physiology be different? Would the chest be larger, the throat wider, he mused.
“I have heard this Cappelli can sing two hundred notes in one breath,” said the count excitedly.
Thomas had heard, too, that he could sustain a note for a whole minute, but he remained silent.
Lydia smiled and looked directly at the doctor. “I am sure it will be an evening to remember,” she said.
Chapter 15
The lords and ladies who spilled out of their carriages and up the steps of the Hanover Square Rooms that evening reminded Thomas of the exotic stuffed parakeets he had seen at the menagerie at the Tower of London. Bedecked in a dazzling array of colors—silks of crimson and blue, brocades in gold and green, and plumes of yellow and black—they squawked and preened themselves as they entered the lofty room where Carlo Cappelli was about to perform.
The count, himself looking resplendent in Polish military dress, complete with sword, waved Moreno’s card at a liveried attendant and was led immediately to the front row of seats, followed by Thomas and Lydia.
There were greetings from acquaintances and stares from onlookers as they made their way through the throng. Moreno
himself stood near the fortepiano at the front and went to greet his guests as soon as he saw them.
“All of London society is here, my friend,” said the count, surveying the audience behind them.
The Tuscan smiled. “The whole world loves to hear the voice of an angel.”
Thomas took his seat next to Lydia.
“I must tell you how beautiful you look tonight,” he whispered. She turned to him and gave him a smile that told him all was well between them.
Thomas looked about him. The room was bathed in a magical glow from hundreds of candles. This was only the second concert he had ever attended. Or was it the third? He preferred the theater, the visual spectacle, but just watching these knots of colorful gowns and frock coats was a show in itself. At the other concerts, they had all milled about chatting, or eating chicken legs and swigging wine, only stopping their promenade when a particular oratorio or soloist took their fancy. This was altogether more civilized.
From the back of the auditorium he saw a couple walking toward the stage. As they drew nearer he recognized Joseph Haydn and, on his arm, a tall woman of obvious refinement. They both acknowledged the cheers that rose from the audience as they progressed down the aisle. This lady, this handsome, talented, bright-eyed woman, must be Anne Hunter. For a moment he watched her and he pitied her. Had she already been infected by her husband, he wondered.
From the stage before him, he could hear movement. He turned to see Leonardo Moreno striding into view. Now, as the Tuscan stood in front of the orchestra and choir to address the audience, a reverential hush descended, just as it did among Thomas’s own students at the anatomy school as soon as he took to the floor.
The handsome former soprano smiled broadly. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me sie greatest of pleasures to introduce a new work by si esteemed composer Herr Joseph Haydn.” There was a burst of applause. “The libretto for sis new piece was written by Mrs. John Hunter.” Another pause for applause. “And for the first time in sis great city of London, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you a voice sat is so out of sis world that you will sink it is that of an angel. I give you Signor Carlo Cappelli.”
More enthusiastic clapping greeted the young singer as he appeared on the stage and bowed low. Thomas estimated he was no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age and was possessed of very fine features. His eyes were large and fringed by long, dark lashes and his nose was aquiline. He was also extremely tall, he noted, and his chest was very broad. He strode purposefully toward the fortepiano, confidently surveying his audience just before the orchestra struck up under the guidance of Haydn himself.
From the first note to the last chord, the music was, indeed, ethereal. Cappelli’s voice certainly surpassed anything that Thomas had heard before. Although he was no expert on the aria, it seemed to him that every trill, every roulade, and every cadenza was truly astonishing in its execution. The end of the first half of the concert was greeted with tumultuous applause.
“Is he not wonderful?” enthused Moreno, seeking out the count’s party immediately.
“Indeed so, sir,” agreed Lydia.
“Truly amazing,” said Thomas.
“Bravo. Bravo,” chimed in the count.
While the count and Moreno were engaged in singing Cappelli’s praises, Thomas caught Lydia’s gaze. He wished he could spend time with her alone, but their commitments in London had been so great that stolen moments were all they seemed to manage. He longed for the peace and quiet of Boughton Hall. But as he watched her, half-listening to the conversation of his male companions, he could see she found their talk tedious. She was scanning the room herself, looking for someone, anyone, she knew who might give her an excuse to break away. He would rescue her. He was about to suggest that they take a turn around the room together when something strange and inexplicable happened. He saw her expression change in an instant. Suddenly all the blood seemed to drain from her complexion and her eyes widened in terror. She turned hastily toward Thomas.
“What is it, Lydia?”
“I-I need some fresh air. It is a little stuffy in here.” Her words were quick and there was a note of panic in her voice.
“You are right. Let us go outside,” he replied.
She lifted her horrified gaze up at him. “No . . . no, please. I need to go alone.”
“But you can’t . . .”
“Yes. Yes. Leave me, please,” she said breathlessly, glancing back over her shoulder once more. “I need to get away.”
With these words, she brushed past Thomas, almost breaking out into a run as she headed toward the exit. The young doctor followed her as far as the door, but just as he was about to step outside, he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Lady Marchant, the old harridan he had met at the cane shop.
“Ah, Dr. Silkstone. How fortunate to see you here.”
Thomas managed a polite smile, but before he could make his excuses, the woman launched forth. “I mean to ask you about an ache I suffer in my left arm that is putting me in a very sour humor.”
“I am sorry to hear that, your ladyship, but perhaps we could discuss the matter in my surgery,” he replied, all the time glancing over her shoulder toward the door.
“I can see you are distracted,” said the dowager, somewhat annoyed by the doctor’s anxious manner. “I shall make an appointment.”
Thomas smiled, bowed politely, then started off again, stepping out into the night. Of Lydia there was no sign. All he could see under the glow of the street lamps was a carriage pulling away and heading back toward Cockspur Street with Lovelock at the reins.
When he rejoined the count inside he was short of breath and deeply distracted.
“Ah, Dr. Silkstone,” said the little man, standing beside two gentlemen who were familiar to him. “This is Dr. John Hunter and Mr. Giles Carrington.”
Thomas gave a cursory bow. “Indeed, we have met before. How do you do, Dr. Hunter, Mr. Carrington?”
The Scot was looking customarily disheveled. There was mildew on the back of his frock coat and he smelled of preserving fluid.
“Och, yes, we met at Charlesworth’s funeral. You’re the man from the Colonies, yes?” He was every bit as brusque in his manner as before.
“I do come from America, yes, sir,” replied Thomas wryly. He found himself in no mood for pleasantries.
The Scotsman raised a thick eyebrow and put a hand on his shoulder. Turning him away from the count, he confided: “I dunni care where ya come from, laddie, I’ll wager you’d love to get your knife into that young singer.” His hand fell hard on Thomas’s back in a playful slap.
Carrington witnessed the bizarre incident and held Thomas’s gaze knowingly. There was no suitable reply to such an inappropriate statement, Thomas told himself, so he let it pass.
“I am content to hear him sing, sir,” he replied.
It seemed Carrington might be right. The accursed disease could already be affecting the anatomist’s judgment, he thought. He turned back to face the others.
Sensing a natural enmity between the two men, Boruwlaski intervened, tugging at Thomas’s coattails. He endeavored to change the subject. “Dr. Hunter has heard of Mr. Byrne and would very much like a private audience.”
Once again Hunter’s hand found its way onto Thomas’s shoulder. “So what do you make of him, this Irish giant?” he asked, almost confidentially.
There was a derogatory tone in the question that irked the young doctor. “He is my patient, sir.”
Hunter nudged him. “Yes, but speaking as an anatomist . . . Come, you must have thoughts, man?”
Thomas smelled his stale breath and pulled away without wishing to seem discourteous. “I am only an anatomist when I am dealing with a corpse, Dr. Hunter. To the living I am a surgeon and a physician,” he replied, his eyebrow arched.
The Scot pulled away just as surely as if he had touched hot coals. “Then you are not the man I thought you were, Dr. Silkstone,” he said coldly.
At that moment the master of ceremonies took to the stage to announce the concert would resume in three minutes.
“But where is Lady Lydia?” asked the count, his little head spinning around.
Thomas frowned. “I am afraid she is unwell and has returned to your lodgings, sir.”
“Lady Lydia Farrell?” interjected Hunter. “The pretty young filly I saw you with earlier? Husband was a murderer, yes?”
Thomas stiffened, but he managed to keep his anger in check. “No murderer, sir, but murdered,” he replied.
“Och, yes, but he died in jail, awaiting trial, I think you’ll find,” sneered the Scot.
Thomas resented his tone. Ignoring his last remark, he turned to the count and said: “I must see that her ladyship is safe.”
“Of course,” said the little man, giving a bow.
“Dr. Hunter, Mr. Carrington.” Thomas nodded, taking his leave.
“No doubt our paths will cross again shortly,” replied the anatomist.
Thomas feared they would, but for now, his main priority was to see what, or who, had so disconcerted Lydia.
Arriving back at Cockspur Street shortly before nine o’clock, Thomas was greeted by an anxious Mistress Goodbody.
“Oh, Dr. Silkstone! Thank the Lord you are here,” she wailed. “Her ladyship is most agitated and will not let anyone into her room.”
“I will go and see her now,” he said, striding up the stairs. He knocked softly on Lydia’s door. Mistress Goodbody and Eliza, Lydia’s maid, followed.
“Your ladyship,” he called. “ ’Tis Dr. Silkstone.”
They waited in silence, with their ears pinned to the door, until a few seconds later, Lydia’s voice could be heard, soft and tremulous.
“Eliza may enter, but no one else. I do not wish to see anyone.”
The lady’s maid looked at Thomas. He nodded, sanctioning her entrance into the room, while he remained outside until Eliza reemerged a minute or so later.
Looking uneasy, she delivered Lydia’s message to Thomas. “Her ladyship says that she is sorry to cause you concern, Dr. Silkstone, but that the evening tired her so much that she feels she needs to rest.”
