The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [10]
“I am not sure how to respond, Ephraim. How do you know that I have not achieved domestic fulfillment?”
“I don’t,” I replied, stumbling over the words. “I just assumed that … well, with the hours you spend here … and you are not married … do not have children …”
Simpson suddenly flushed. “You know nothing of my private life,” she snapped. “Nothing.” She paused, regaining her poise. “I think, Dr. Carroll,” she continued evenly, “that you shall be forced to accept that the nature of womanhood is changing. You can expect to find the Mary Simpsons of the world becoming more commonplace.”
“Of course,” I replied hastily. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of insulting you. I value you highly. I would rather work with you than anyone else on the staff.”
“Thank you,” she answered, seemingly assuaged but yet not prepared to grant full absolution. “I as well. And I am not insulted. I’ve become inured to the shortsightedness of men, although I did not expect such Paleolithic sentiments from you.” She sighed and her expression softened. “I expect, however, Ephraim, that in your case, ignorance is vestigial.”
“I suppose I should accept that as a compliment of sorts.”
“It is.”
“Surely you consider Dr. Osler an exception,” I said.
“Of course,” Simpson replied, taking a sip of tea. “I expect we both owe Dr. Osler more than we can ever repay. But what of your own domestic fulfillment? Do you expect to find it stepping out with Turk?”
“Not fulfillment, perhaps, but at least a relief from tedium.”
“Is your life tedious, Ephraim? I would not have thought so.”
“Each of us seems to have misjudged the other, then,” I replied. “I’ve lived in Philadelphia for almost two years and have not succeeded in establishing any society outside of my profession, and not a good deal within it.”
“But you are young and successful. There must be no shortage of opportunities.”
“I prefer to live simply. I rent a small sitting room and bedchamber on Montrose Street from a widow named Mrs. Mooney. Most of my free evenings are spent in my rooms with a book or journal.”
I looked carefully to see what sentiments my confession of dullness would engender, but Simpson seemed unperturbed. “Dedication to self-improvement is certainly admirable.”
“Admirable perhaps, but hardly gratifying,” I rejoined, encouraged by her response. “Except for those times when I am invited to dine with Dr. Osler or other members of the staff, or occasional visits to lecture halls or museums, my existence away from medicine is reminiscent of that of an aging widower or cloistered monk.”
“So your monasticism is not altogether by choice?”
“Is your life so different?” I asked.
To my surprise, Simpson paused, considering her response. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “It is. One is not required to seek self-improvement in isolation. But I daresay my ardor is no less than yours.”
I began to ask her for elaboration, but she stood to leave before I could speak. “I have enjoyed this, Ephraim, but I must go now. I have other commitments.”
“Are you sure?” I found myself not wanting our conversation to end.
“Another time perhaps. I really must go.” Her expression turned serious. “Be careful tonight,” she said. “With Turk, I mean.”
I thanked Mary but assured her that there was no reason for concern.
As she left the lounge, I watched until the door had closed behind her.
CHAPTER 3
I PREFERRED THAT TURK NOT wait in Mrs. Mooney’s drab parlor, so I was downstairs at the door as the hour for his arrival approached. I had been unsure of how to dress for the evening, but finally decided on a dark wool suit, coat, and silk Gibus topper. As the hansom pulled up, drawn by an aging bay and driven by a swarthy man in a shabby black coat, I realized I had blundered. The driver gestured from his high perch at the rear of the coach for me to step in. Turk sat on the far side, dressed in a worsted jacket of broad checks, brown trousers, brown overcoat, and a