Would Davinoff have second thoughts about Clershing? Best to avoid him. But before Sarah could attach herself to Madame Gessande, George waved to her. She could not pretend she hadn't seen him. Dr. Parry and Davinoff both turned to look in her direction. After a moment's hesitation, she made her way to George's side.
"Sarah," he greeted her. "I was just explaining to Parry here and Davinoff about my new syringe. Tell them that even you were able to draw blood from that young fellow's arm with it last week," he commanded. Sarah felt Davinoff on her left like a magnet.
"Even I," Sarah agreed, smiling crookedly at Dr. Parry. "I plunged the needle into that poor man's vein and proved that even an idiot could use Dr. Upcott's invention."
"Nonsense, my dear, don't say it like that," Dr. Parry sputtered. He was a man in his late fifties, his gray hair receding over a shiny crown. He had a lucrative practice among invalids drawn to take Bath's waters and performed research on the side. He was George's principal rival for academic honors in the city. "You have a great deal of courage, more than most any other woman I know. Why, just look at what you have done with Clershing."
"That is not courage, but necessity," Sarah replied. She resolved to keep the conversation as far away from Clershing as she might. "I must admit I did not relish using that syringe."
"We can take blood without incisions," George said, his lips pursed around a self-satisfied smile. "I can inject blood or drugs at will, even if the patient is unconscious."
"One might use it to inject a nutrient solution to give failing patients strength," Dr. Parry mused. "I have been working on the formula for just such a solution."
"You have?" George asked, his lips tightening. "You must tell me about it."
Davinoff interrupted what was likely to be a protracted discourse. "Lady Clevancy, will you have champagne?" He gestured to a footman bearing a tray with two bottles and several glasses he was about to set upon the sideboard.
"Yes, yes, of course, my dear, you must have some champagne," Dr. Parry chimed in. "Whatever were we thinking?" Davinoff poured the wine into a fluted crystal glass as the doctor continued, "What I want to know, Lady Clevancy, is whether you could feel the pulse as the tube filled, even though it was a vein." Parry had published a monograph called The Nature, Cause and Varieties of the Arterial Pulse that put George out of sorts for a week.
"Yes, the pulse was quite pronounced. It pushed the plunger back out as the tube filled." She could feel Davinoff's eyes upon her.
"You could not use an artery. The injection site would leak," George hypothesized.
"And have you resolved the inconsistency in your results, Upcott?" Parry queried.
"Not precisely." This subject was obviously less satisfactory. George frowned.
Davinoff, to Sarah's surprise, now entered the conversation. "Ah, some patients get better and some die," he observed in a most languid manner. "And you cannot predict the difference."
"You seem to be familiar with the problem," Parry said, examining Davinoff.
"A sidelight only to my own interests." Which the dark man dismissed without elaborating. "I suggest you examine the blood you are inserting under a microscope."
"I am not an idiot, Davinoff. The blood is not contaminated," George declared.
"I believe you will find it is a matter of matching," Davinoff elaborated as he finished his wine and gestured to a servant for another glass.
"Matching?" George asked, incredulous. "Matching what?"
"Types of blood, of course." With a small smile, he took his full glass and Sarah's arm. Sarah could see George's brain working furiously. Davinoff turned and led her away.
"I say, what is it you mean?" Dr. Parry called.
"I'm sure Upcott can tell you," Davinoff threw over his shoulder. "That ought to hold them for a while," he said, leaning toward Sarah.
Behind her, the voices of the two medical men rose in earnest conversation. She did not look forward to a'tête-à-tête with Davinoff but, though she meant not to encourage him, curiosity got the better of her. "How do you know so much about Dr. Upcott's researches?"
"Blood is a special interest of mine, though perhaps in a different way than for our fine physician friends." He guided her to a sideboard set with a huge epergne. "Your Mr. Upcott understands much, but not yet everything." Sarah looked at Davinoff in astonishment, but he gave her no time to remark. "We have a matter to clear between us," he began. Seeing Sarah's face, he added, "I do wish you would contrive not to grimace at me. I saw young Lestrom. My intent was to determine his role in my proposed transaction. As you must know, I discovered the worst. I expected to have to take a hand in removing him from the scene." Here Davinoff paused. Sarah looked at her hands, her head bowed with the weight of his gaze. "But I found you were before me." He cleared his throat. "I want to assure you, Lady Clevancy, that I had no intention of driving you off your land without recompense. Though why I should feel obliged to tell you so, I cannot, at the moment, divine."
Sarah pressed her lips together and shook her head without looking up. Yet the point that bothered her bubbled to the surface in spite of her best intentions. "You did brandish your deed as a threat. Silas Lestrom went on Tuesday before last to verify it. Was that not in support of Rutherford's efforts to strip me of all proof of ownership?"
After a moment, he said, "You make me out to be a dupe in this affair, a role I do not relish. If you must know, young Lestrom asked for proof of the boundary lines, in order to draw up the terms of the sale. I produced the deed and showed it to his father, at his request."
There was an awkward silence. Sarah searched his eyes as she wondered whether to believe him. The hard eyes and sharp planes of his face gave her no clue. He looked only put out.
"I hear from Silas Lestrom that you have refused my price."
Now it would come, she thought. Would he bring up the fact that she still did not have a deed? "Yes. It was most generous. But Clershing means too much to me."
"A fact brought home to me," he acknowledged. "I am not used to being refused."
She might as well get it out in the open. She mustered her courage. "You can still use your deed. I have no proof against it, thanks to Rutherford Lestrom."
"I have considered it." Sarah quailed. What had she done? "But I think not," he continued. "Apparently, I am still capable of surprising myself."
"But how do I know that?" Sarah cried, then lowered her voice as she saw heads turn in the drawing room. Madame Gessande and Mrs. Piozzi looked as though they were about to stage a rescue. "I cannot live all my life wondering when you will think better of your resolution."
"You are much less trusting than you look, Lady Clevancy," he observed. "Have you not heard the expression, a man's word is his bond?"
Sarah eyed him warily. This man's word?
"I see I have not yet reconciled you to my devotion to honor." He sipped his wine and seemed to cast about. "Perhaps I have not yet reconciled myself. What will suffice you? I swear by the Goddess Minerva, patroness of Aquae Sulis." He lifted a brow. "No?" Another sip of wine. His voice was low and serious this time. "Very well. I swear on the stones at Avebury by the gods of those who made them, that for a time not less than they have been standing, I will not use my deed against you or your heirs."
She looked up, shaken, directly into his impossible dark eyes. Anarchy promised to restore order to her life, and she believed. "Accepted," she murmured.
"Now that we have that settled," Anarchy pursued, in a lighter tone, "When do you plan to start excavating the Roman villa on your land?"
Normally this was a subject upon which she could hold forth eagerly. But with Davinoff, she was cautious. "I hope to begin digging shortly, now that my affairs have been settled." What she needed was the income from this year's crop of potatoes, but he need not know that.
"Oh, has the site already been catalogued?" Davinoff asked. "I had not realized you were so far along. Who did the mapping and all that tedious recording of features?"
Sarah was taken aback. "Why, no one. Do I need to go through all that?"
"One really can't just dig up the place," Davinoff apologized. "That is, if one is interested in authenticity and leaving a record for posterity."
Sarah fumed. To have him lecture her was more than she could bear, especially since his knowledge of antiquities was got by smuggling, no doubt.
"Lord Elgin could put you on to one of those archaeologist fellows, I am sure. He is always digging up antiquities or cutting up friezes," Davinoff suggested.
More delay, thought Sarah, disappointed and angry at the man for being right. "Thank you for the advice," she returned in a voice as precise as she could muster. How soon could she get started on the cataloguing? First the money from the crops. Hire a scholar. She wanted nothing more, suddenly, than to show Davinoff she could excavate her villa and do it right.
Countess Delmont and Madame d'Arblay interrupted her train of thought. "How dare you monopolize our guest, Lady Clevancy?" the countess began. She turned coquettishly to add, "Mr. Davinoff, may I introduce one of our most illustrious citizens, Madame d'Arblay? You may know her best as the authoress of Evelina, Fanny Burney."
Madame d'Arblay was perhaps sixty and still a beauty. She had fine, sensitive eyes that saw right through one. She was said to keep a diary that laid open Bath society as efficiently as one of George's scalpels.
Davinoff bent over the author's hand. "I am charmed to meet so beautiful and so talented a woman."
Her bright eyes drank him up. "Nonsense. Do you always flatter old women?"
"Let us say I look through age," Davinoff replied.
"Nonsense yourself, Madame." Sarah laughed. "Mr. Davinoff is right. That portrait you have hanging over your mantel still shines out through every pore."
"Any portrait painted by one's brother is not objective," Madame d'Arblay said dismissively with a wave of her hand. "I like you, Davinoff. Get me some champagne." He allowed himself to be led away with surprising good grace.
"Well, what do you think, Sarah?" The countess watched Madame d'Arblay carry off her prize. There was a look of peculiar longing in her eyes.
"Of Davinoff? I am hardly the person to ask, Your Grace. I am afraid I wrangle with him within five minutes of saying 'how do you do.'"
"You did seem to be at cross-purposes," the Countess observed.
"It seems I can hardly be civil to him, or he to me. Oh," Sarah pleaded, "let us talk of anything but him. You know, I have wanted to compliment you upon your scarf."
The countess seemed to come to herself. "Is it too noticeable?" She fingered the item. "I was driven to distraction over how to hide these horrible insect bites." Pulling the scarf down on the left side, she revealed two red and swollen perforations.
Sarah was shocked. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"No, no. I do not want to see one." The woman pushed the scarf back into place.
"But they look inflamed," Sarah persisted.
The countess paused. "I may have a fever from them. I have had strange dreams."
"Nightmares?" Sarah asked.
"No. I wouldn't call them nightmares." The woman seemed remote. "Not nightmares."
"Promise me you will let Dr. Parry look at them."
The countess gathered herself and chuckled. "I am sure that is unnecessary. Now let us get this crowd into the dining room. Dinner, ladies and gentlemen," she called.
Davinoff surprised Sarah by appearing out of nowhere to take her arm. Other guests trailed after them. Sarah could hear whispers behind her linking Davinoff's name and her own. Why did he distinguish her? If she were not careful, she would cause as much talk as Corina.
The countess was famous for her dining room. It had a round table just for the purpose of easing conversation. The woman took her seat, glaring as Davinoff seated Sarah. Courses began appearing from the kitchen: veal shanks and poached salmon, buttered lobsters and pigeons with rosemary, potatoes of every kind. Just as Sarah felt exhausted by variety, trays streamed in again with stewed lamb and mussels, sweet yams and buttered peas, then syllabubs and trifles, fruits and cheese.
Through all coursed the conversation. What roles best fit Edmund Kean on the stage? Who the author of Frankenstein might be. Was it a social tract or a Gothic novel? They talked about the repeal of the suspension of Habeas Corpus, the death of Princess Charlotte, the prospects of the regent actually ascending to the throne. Madame d'Arblay had attended one of Mr. Coleridge's lectures. Mr. Wilberforce was scandalized that an act abolishing the practice of sending climbing boys up to clean chimneys had been defeated. Each subject blossomed and entwined with others until the evening's conversation grew into a living plant, pruned and shaped by the particular interests of these particular people on one particular night in early November.
Sarah stole surreptitious looks at Davinoff. She hardly knew what to think of him, since he had forsworn his role as persecutor. Once she believed he was a murderer. Now that belief seemed the product of a mind overwrought with stress. If he was not a criminal when it came to the matter of the deed, what was left of her other conjectures?
He said quite little, but his remarks were pithy, often a difficult question posed simply or a sarcastic remark that defined the problem of the argument. The countess was clearly entranced. So was Mrs. Piozzi. Men, too, were drawn to seek his approbation, hardly won.
After dinner, the men were given leave to retire for smoking and brandy for half an hour only. When they returned to the drawing room, Countess Delmont read selected verses from Byron's Childe Harold. She seated herself by the large window that looked out into the Crescent with her book. The others lounged about the room with glasses of brandy or coffee, and listened to the words roll from their hostess's fulsome lips.
She had chosen passages about Byron's type of hero, who so fascinated readers that the author had grown famous overnight. The hero was a wandering man with terrible secrets that isolated him from his fellows, a soul capable of ecstasy and keen suffering but with a strength and pride that gave him a strange power in spite of his fate.
I stood among them, but not of them, in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
The countess's eyes stole from the page to look at Davinoff. She cared not for the reaction of the rest of her audience. Davinoff seemed lost in his wineglass, not even listening.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
"Bravo," Mr. Wilberforce cried when the countess was done, and had sunk her chin upon her breast in dramatic self-deprecation.
When the clamor subsided, the countess turned to Davinoff. "What do you think, sir?"
"Ask Lady Clevancy," Davinoff replied in clipped tones. "Young ladies are the most enthusiastic experts on Byron." He made "young lady" sound interchangeable with "criminal."
To Sarah's dismay, everyone in the room turned toward her. "His verse does have a certain clarity of conception." She hesitated. "He uses simple abstract language to sweep you along and make you see the panoramas and the large actions just as he felt them, with a peculiar kind of vehemence." How dare Davinoff corner her like this?
"But surely," Reverend Jay said, distaste obvious in the curve of his thin lips, "he does not have the intensity in his language of Mr. Wordsworth or Mr. Southey." Reverend Jay was well regarded for his good works, but Sarah had always found him narrow.
"That is part of his success," she returned. "And he is in good company, since Chaucer and Homer were much the same."
"But what did you think of the subject?" pleaded the countess.
"I would like to know the man," Mrs. Piozzi remarked, "if I were thirty years younger."
"I think he is an example of the declining morals of our youth," insisted the reverend.
"What do you say, Mr. Davinoff?" The countess turned limpid eyes on him. ,
"I think the pup does not know whereof he spea
ks," Davinoff said with such low intensity that everyone was startled into silence.
"He is much the same as that Shelley fellow." Reverend Jay continued his thought.
"You cannot say Shelley has no density of language," Sarah protested.
"I am speaking of morals. Why, Shelley was practically living with that Mary Godwin at Myler's last summer, in spite of her father being in the house with them. And he a married man."
"I expect you were relieved when he posted up to London to make her Mary Shelley," Madame Gessande said.
"Two weeks after his first wife drowned in the Serpentine?" Mayor Palmer objected.
"You cannot hold poets to the same standards of conduct as we mere mortals," the countess weighed in.
"Mr. Shelley seemed so idealistic with all his talk of pantisocracies and perfecting society," Sarah mused. "Mary told me he married his first wife because his ideas had shaken her faith in religion and he felt obligated to do so. That seems very moral. I believe that when he found himself in love with Mary, Mr. Shelley thought it would be dastardly to deny it."
"Come, Reverend," Madame Gessande asked. "Could a poet deny love?"
"Actually, Mayor Palmer, Mr. Shelley had quite a bit in common with you," Sarah said, smiling at the reaction she knew she would elicit. She was not disappointed.
"What, what is that?" The old man harrumphed in astonishment.
"With Mr. Wilberforce, too," Sarah added. "He believed men could shed their imperfections if one could find the perfect form for society. He planned a society based upon simplicity, living off the land and off of poetry."
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