by Lydia Kang
“Oh, they shan’t know the difference.”
“I suppose I can sign my name, and the institution, without the degree. That might suffice.”
“Yes. That might do,” Cora said.
Theodore frowned. “But I have to examine you. I won’t lie and say I have if I haven’t. And I do not mean to take advantage of your situation. If you are healthy, it will be only a moment of your time.”
“And this is where the favor comes in, Mr. Flint. We are colleagues, you see. I cannot have you examine me. It would be improper.”
Another frown. “Then why don’t you ask another doctor? A real doctor, with a real degree?”
“I know most of the physicians on this island. I don’t really wish to have any one of them examine me.”
“You could see that new female physician. Did you hear about her? She must be a little mad.”
“Oh. I hadn’t even considered it. By the way, her name is Elizabeth Blackwell, and she is perfectly sane. I’ve met her myself. However,” she said, thinking it over, “if that’s everyone’s response to a female physician, then it won’t help my situation, will it?”
“Then go to a regular physician,” Theo said.
“With my line of work, I simply cannot. It’s too . . . personal.”
“The practice of medicine is necessarily personal,” Theo said, not unkindly. He sighed, and looked beyond her to where the sky above the shops grew streaky with orange and rose. Storekeepers were lowering their awnings and shutting their doors for the evening. A voice yelled a friendly hello to Theo from far down the street; he waved cheerfully back, and for a moment, Cora was jealous. Perhaps Theo did have friends.
Cora clutched her reticule and smiled brightly. Her sanguine artifice began to weigh on her. This was more difficult than she’d hoped. “I understand. Thank you anyway. Good day. Good evening, rather. I mean, good afternoon.” She turned and walked quickly up the street. She couldn’t walk fast enough. What a terrible idea. Now he would be more than curious about why she needed a letter, or refused an examination.
A hand grabbed hers. She turned, to find Theo there. He had trotted to catch up, and his hand was warm and gentle in hers. She could pull away with very little effort, if she wished.
“If I may,” he said. She didn’t understand what he was asking. But then his hand slipped about hers, until his fingertip lay against the inner, soft aspect of her wrist. He was checking her pulse. Here, an exam of sorts, in public, on Broadway. She caught her breath, hoping her two hearts would behave, would not skip or play an erratic rhythm in the rivers of blood beneath her skin. Her cheeks warmed.
“There. Strong and steady as can be. If that’s all I can do, then it’s good enough for me. I spent enough time with you to recognize a healthy bloom on your cheeks, and to know that as long as you eat your breakfast, you’re well enough.”
“So, you’ll write my letter?”
“Better yet. I’ll tell them myself.”
“Oh,” Cora said. She was about to tell him how unnecessary it was, when she realized—this was a better idea. Anyone could read a letter and doubt its legitimacy. It would be harder to dispel the truth if given in person by a man of authority. She’d seen time and time again that an emphatic male voice was hard to disagree with. “Oh,” Cora said again. “That would be wonderful.”
“Where are these mysterious relatives of yours? When shall we go?”
“Now would be perfect,” she said.
“Now?” Theo looked down, and he seemed embarrassed by his plain trousers and smudged shirt. “I don’t really look the part.”
“I can fix that. You seem the correct height.” She took a slow walk around him as she regarded the width of his shoulders, and the narrowness of his waist. She liked the way his hair was trimmed so that the brown strands on his neck tapered to a point. “You’ll do.”
“Will I? I feel like I’m about to be traded for a horse.”
“Something like that,” Cora said, smiling. “Come with me. We can pay our visit by early evening if we hurry.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
They stood before the Grand Anatomical Museum. The front door was firmly shut for the evening, and many of the stores on the street were shutting up for the night.
“What are we doing here?” Theo asked.
“Looking for Alexander. He lives here, next to his new studio. But I’ve never visited him here.”
“But elsewhere?”
“Yes,” Cora said. “He used to do the wax works for Barnum’s Museum, but Duncan offered him more. His old studio is down near Henry Street.”
“Henry Street. That part of town.” Theo crinkled his nose a little. “Does he know we’re coming?” he asked.
“Of course not. Come,” Cora said. On the left side of the museum was a narrow alleyway crowded with spent billets and boxes of trash. Cora had to pick up her skirts to navigate the piles of refuse, and on occasion Theo held out a hand so she could jump over a muddy puddle that stank of piss and sour porter.
In the back of the building was a tiny lot shared by the building on Duane Street. Not that there was much to share—it, too, was crowded with discarded boxes, broken glass, a large decaying cabinet in pieces, and more refuse.
But there was a door here, down a few well-swept steps.
Cora rapped her knuckles on the door.
After a minute, Alexander opened it, wiping his paint-covered hands on an apron.
“Cora! What on earth are you doing here?” Alexander’s gray eyes landed on Theo. “What is he doing here?” And there was an unspoken question in his eyes, leveled at Cora: Why are you with this boy?
“We need some good toggery, Alexander,” Cora explained.
“Clothes? Pardon me?”
“I’ll explain it to you. May we come inside?”
Alexander nodded, and stepped back to let them inside. The entranceway was dark. He led them forward, and they saw a room on the left full of pieces from the museum that were not currently on display—wax figurines of a gentleman’s face riddled with smallpox, a rather small taxidermied zebra, shelves and shelves of large illustrated tomes, glass cloches both empty and full of shells and dried pieces of vegetation and insects preserved in lifelike, occasionally menacing positions.
On the right, there was a windowless room lit by an oil lamp. Here were several pieces of work draped in linen, and a fireplace with a sizable cauldron for melting plentiful amounts of beeswax. Blocks of yellowish-brown wax were piled upon a large worktable, and Cora saw some of the familiar items she’d remembered from his last studio—a vise that held ceramic eyeballs that needed their irises painted and glass corneas attached; a cabinet full of human hair in different hues. On another table, an enormous tome of Vesalius’s anatomical drawings was open, showing a man with his internal organs on display.
“Amazing, look at that hand! It’s so lifelike.” Theo pointed at a wax hand that appeared to be dissected down to the ligaments.
“You’re not here for a tour,” Cora whispered when Alexander frowned at Theo’s comment.
The next room was small, containing a clean and orderly apartment, with a hearth and a rough but neat table and two chairs. Alexander ushered them inside and brought with him the lamp from the other room. A large rat scurried past, and he stomped at it. It ran behind the table and disappeared.
“I’m so sorry. They eat the wax in my studio. I must set some more traps soon.”
He set down the lamp and crossed his arms. “What does he need to borrow? And why?”
“Will you excuse us for a moment, Theo?” Cora said.
“Theo?” Alexander repeated, eyebrows raised. He looked at Cora seriously, then at Theo, and back at Cora.
“Of course,” Theo said, and hastily backed out into the corridor. Cora closed the door behind him.
She explained, as quickly as she could, about Leah, and the letters, and the Cutter family, and the plan. Alexander sat down on a wooden c
hair by the fire and rested his forehead on his hand.
“Oh, Leah. If I had known, Cora, I would have stopped her. What an absolutely atrocious mess.”
“Yes. And now I have to clean up her mess, and Theo is going to help.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t know about your condition?”
“Absolutely.”
“What if Miss Cutter mentions it?”
“I’ll interrupt her before she can say the words. Dr. Grier made it clear that such a person couldn’t survive, and here I am. I’ll battle that issue with Theo if it comes up.”
“Is he really going to be believable as a physician? He’s so young, Cora.”
“It will work.” She touched Alexander’s hand, and he put his on top of hers.
“But then,” he said, “you’ll owe him a debt. Jacob owing him is one thing, but you—I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either. But I can pay him back in what I’ve learned, and that’s valuable. It will be all right.”
“Very well,” Alexander said. He was always so complacent when it came to Cora putting her foot down on what mattered. Like when she decided she would follow in Charlotte’s footsteps and scout the cemeteries for bodies to unearth. Then, too, he had agreed to her plan even though both he and Leah thought it was an abominable idea they’d hoped would stop after Charlotte died. Alexander stood up. “What would you like me to do?”
“Make him look respectable, please,” Cora asked, and Alexander laughed.
“I’m a sculptor and a painter, not a haberdashery clerk.”
She smiled warmly. “You know how to look handsome, Alexander. I’m sure ladies do appreciate it when you step out.”
He waved his hand. “Never mind that. Send him in.”
Cora opened the door and told Theo to step inside.
“He’s all yours,” Cora said, and shut the door.
About ten minutes later, the door opened. Theo stood next to Alexander, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. Not quite a splendid fit, but he and Alexander were close enough in size that the illusion worked. Theo’s unruly brown hair had been slicked with a touch of grease, the curls now in better-behaving waves. A crisp shirt of broadcloth under a simple but elegant gray silk vest showed under a long jacket of neatly brushed brown wool, with trousers to match. There was a gold fob hanging from his vest pocket, and his shoes were polished.
Alexander was fastidious about the details. Theo looked like a gentleman—not too rich, but good enough to be earning an excellent income. Good enough to look like a successful physician. This would work.
“You’ve done it, Alexander! We’ll return the clothing tomorrow, without a single snag. Thank you.”
Theo went out the door, nervously scratching where his collar rubbed under his chin.
When he was out of earshot, Cora whispered, “Be honest, Alexander. Did you threaten him?”
“Like any good uncle, I told him that if he crossed you or hurt you in any way, I’d find a way to put a thick layer of boiling hot wax on him and he’d end up as Frederick Duncan’s newest, latest exhibition.”
“You didn’t!” Cora stifled a laugh.
“Well, I was tempted.” Alexander smiled. “You know, Cora, I believe he genuinely cares for you.”
“Oh. Well. Oh.”
“Just be careful.”
“I will.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Wish us luck.”
Alexander nodded, and they were off. They didn’t speak for the entire time that they rode the omnibus up to Fifth Avenue and Eighteenth Street, where Leah had been sending her letters. When Cora had brought up her family, Charlotte would say, We don’t speak of the Cutters. They aren’t our family anymore. And Cora would go outside and catch frogs instead, all the while repeating Charlotte’s words to herself. She learned to say the words with disdain and detachment, as if remarking, We don’t have elephants here. They aren’t our pets.
Cora’s thoughts drifted to the only Chinese woman she’d ever heard of or seen (at least in drawings)—Afong Moy, a Chinese woman who toured the country years ago. At exhibitions, people would gawk at her bound feet, her silken clothing, the decorative objects of porcelain and jade about her. But in her imaginings, Cora would ignore all these things. She would take Afong’s small hand in her own, and nestle next to her on a carved ebony chair, to ask, “Tell me about who you are. Tell me who I am.” But she knew that such a conversation could not happen, nor would it reveal what she truly wanted to know. Her identity was not so easily discerned. It was up to her to decide who she would be.
The omnibus would go no farther than Fourteenth Street, so they left and walked the rest of the way. As they approached the correct address, Cora regarded the row of stately new mansions. Marble-clad Italian facades lived beside rich French châteaux styles and Gothic-like miniature castles, each politely calling for attention at an appropriate distance. No simple, quiet Federal houses here. With every decade, a wave of conspicuous wealth crept upward into the wooded and occasionally boggy land of New York City. Where it would end, Cora had no idea.
“Here it is,” Cora said. The building was one of the more austere on Fifth Avenue, but larger than the others, with Corinthian columns and marble aplenty, three stories tall and taking up half the block. In front of the mansion, Cora readied herself.
“Nervous?” Theo said, pulling again at his collar.
“A bit. Here, allow me.” She straightened his collar and smoothed the curls that had bounced back on his head. He looked young, and nervous, and together they didn’t look altogether very confident. This would not do. “Remember,” she said. “You know more medicine than anyone in this house.”
“And you’re healthier than a horse,” Theo said, smiling nervously. “And probably smarter than anyone in this house too.”
Cora tried not to beam from the compliment. “Be on your best behavior,” she whispered.
“I’m always on my best behavior.” Theo winked.
She turned to the grand double doors, burnished in perfectly stained chestnut. The large brass knocker was so heavy, it nearly made her gasp. When it dropped, it thundered so loudly that she and Theo both shuddered.
Now, all Cora could do was wait.
CHAPTER 14
Footsteps approached the door, and it opened silently on well-oiled hinges.
A maid stood there, taller than Cora, and looking even richer than she, despite the fact that one wore livery of crisp black and white and the other, her best burgundy silk dress, only three years old.
“Yes?” the servant asked. “May I help you?”
Cora blinked at her accent. Good God, they’d even imported a maid from England.
“My name is Cora Lee, and I am here to see Miss Suzette Cutter. This is Dr. Flint, from the University of the City of New York. We have a matter to discuss.”
“Is she expecting you?” the maid asked.
“Yes,” Cora lied.
The maid stepped back and allowed them inside. Cora tried not to gawk at the ebony entrance table inlaid with ivory, or the lilies in a Chinese vase set in the center. Italian moldings decorated the walls, and a small crystal chandelier lit the foyer. The oil paintings on either side of the hall were enormous—nearly six feet tall—and of countrysides she’d never seen, abloom in poppies and wheat. A staircase with scrolled handrails on both sides stood before them in carved mahogany and crimson carpeting nailed down with polished brass rivets and bars.
Cora sniffed the air. It smelled of beeswax polish and clean linen, and faintly of the gaslights in their small wall-mounted lamps.
“Please wait here,” the maid said, and they stared at their surroundings, attempting to keep their mouths from dropping open.
“You’re related to these people?” Theo whispered.
Cora nodded, not wanting to speak out loud.
Down the hallway, voices murmured behind closed paneled doors. One voice went higher than the other, and there was a light thumping sound, as
if a book had been dropped onto a table. The pocket doors opened, and the servant emerged, her face red.
She curtsied before Cora and Theo. “My apologies. Miss Cutter is unable to speak to you tonight as she is otherwise engaged with guests. If you would be so kind as to leave your card, I will be sure she receives it.”
Cora and Theo looked at each other.
“I suppose we could return tomorrow . . . ,” Theo began.
“Miss Cutter,” the maid said, unsmilingly, “made it clear that she will be occupied all day tomorrow.”
“Thursday, then,” Cora said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” The servant’s pressed lips made it clear—they would not be seen. Not now, not ever.
Cora narrowed her eyes, and her hearts thumped an extra, irreverent beat. “Well, that just won’t do, will it?” Cora said. She stepped aside and marched down the hallway to the doors that the servant had recently left.
“Miss! You cannot—I cannot allow this—you must leave now—”
But Cora was not to be stopped. Theo, too, followed her but tried to grab her elbow. Cora threw his hand off.
“If I cannot speak to them, it will be the end of me, and I cannot have that,” she said, more fiercely than she had intended. She gripped the polished brass handles of the pocket doors.
The doors slid away, revealing a beautiful, lush salon, complete with fireplace, enormous marble mantel, velvet chairs, and two extremely surprised Cutters. A lamp fringed with dewdrop crystals graced a nearby table. Several books were piled neatly upon it: The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Castle of Otranto, The Old English Baron. Someone here had a taste for macabre reading.
Suzette was there, along with another woman, an older and heavier version of Suzette. Presumably her mother. Charlotte had only one other sibling, Charles—Suzette’s father—but he had died some years ago from a fever. And Cora’s mother, Elizabeth, had been Charlotte and Charles’s only cousin. The two women were dressed in silk and enough lace to make Cora itch from a distance. They both stood. Even though they entertained no one, Suzette wore a costly parure of garnet, and her mother wore pearls. Cora doubted the mother was the consumer of those scandalous novels.
