A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [30]
“The doctors said she was quite healthy, and of course we watched her nutritional intake most strictly—most strictly—fascinating paper I read from Germany about prebirth care, they translated it over here—we gave her good dairy and beef, not too many vegetables—hearty fare, you understand—and I fully expect everything to go well—I feel quite certain it will.”
Lenox and Lady Jane nodded thoughtfully and said “Oh, yes!” and “Mm, mm” in all the right spots.
When the carriage arrived only a couple of minutes later at the massive Bond Street house, McConnell darted out and into the door, apparently quite forgetting about his guests.
“He’s got the nerves of all first fathers,” Lady Jane said quietly as they walked up the steps to the open door. “I’m glad we came.”
Lenox nodded, but saw something different in his friend’s mien than Jane did. He saw a man looking for redemption, both for not preventing the loss of Toto’s first baby (even though every doctor had concurred that it was an act of God) and for something greater: his whole mess of a life, which had begun so promisingly when he was a young surgeon and made such a happy, spectacular marriage, but which had somehow gone awry. This was his chance to amend all that. It was a fresh start.
Jane rushed straight upstairs to the vast second bedroom, which had been arranged for Toto’s comfort and where a small huddle of doctors and nurses, all hired at great expense from the best hospitals in England at McConnell’s insistence, consulted with each other. As for the doctor and his friend, their fate was to wait hour upon hour in McConnell’s study.
It was a wonderful room of two levels; first a comfortable sitting room with desk and armchairs, plus a comprehensive laboratory against the back wall, and then, up a winding marble staircase inlaid with cherubim, a library full of scientific texts. The ceiling, twenty-five feet above them, was a white Wedgwood design.
“Would you like a drink?” asked McConnell, heading for the table with the spirits on it.
“Not quite yet—Thomas,” said Lenox hastily, “before all that will you show me what you’ve been working on?”
McConnell looked at him inscrutably. “Of course,” he said after a moment. “Although I shouldn’t touch any chemicals—I’ve been staying away from them for the past few weeks, and before that scrubbed my hands and arms very thoroughly whenever I worked at my table. For Toto.”
Against the back wall were three long wooden tables, very rudimentary things. Stacked above these were many small shelves, on which were lined hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bottles of chemical. On the tables themselves were chopping blocks, microscopes, scientific instruments, and formic-acid-filled jars, some otherwise empty, some containing samples. In all, a first-rate chemical laboratory.
For a diverting half hour McConnell explained his various endeavors. His face brightened, and soon he was lost in the world of his work. It wasn’t the same as surgery to him—Lenox had known him then—but it had its own merits.
After that Lenox acceded to the inevitable drink, a gin with tonic water, and he and McConnell sat, sometimes talking easily, sometimes silent. At one thirty Lady Jane came in and told them, very hurriedly, that all was well. Perhaps fifteen minutes later one of the doctors strode in with a quick step, causing McConnell to gasp and rise to his feet, but the news was the same. At two o’clock they had a plate of cold chicken and a bottle of white wine sent up and ate. After that, time seemed to slow down. Each had a book, but neither read much.
At three Lenox nodded off. McConnell coughed softly, and Lenox startled awake. It had been an hour since they had seen anyone and half an hour since they had spoken to each other.
“What names have you thought of?” asked Lenox.
McConnell smiled privately. “Oh, that’s Toto’s bailiwick.”
There was a pause.