The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [124]
“Ephraim,” he intoned at last, “come to Baltimore and be a doctor. That is where your brilliance lies.”
There was little to say. I agreed to do as he asked, and left.
I did, however, have two more days.
I arrived at the Benedict home just before five. It was earlier than I had said, but circumstances had altered my schedule. Standing at the front door, I felt the familiar tightness in my stomach that always preceded seeing Abigail. As I had neared her home, I became conscious how terribly I missed her. How desperately I craved the solace of her embrace. Doubts as to her feelings for me, or even of her truthfulness, no longer mattered. I wanted her to be with me always, loving me the way I loved her.
I heard the latch disengage from the inside. How different this sound from that of the padlock on the police wagon. When the door opened, I found myself face-to-face with the Benedicts’ emaciated butler.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Carroll,” he said in a servant’s monotone, “I’ve instructions not to admit you.”
“Instructions from whom?”
The butler did not answer, but began to close the door. Purely by reflex, my right arm shot out and pushed the door back open. The butler looked astonished. In his world, someone forcing their way into a house was as unique a phenomenon as witnessing an active volcano.
“You must leave,” he gasped. “If not, I will call—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” I growled. “You will fetch Miss Benedict and you will do it now.”
The butler’s head began to swivel back and forth as if on a spring. “I cannot …”
“It’s all right, Martin,” an unexpected voice said from up the stairs. “Let Dr. Carroll in.”
“Abigail!” She stood at the head of the stairs in a black silk gown.
“Hello, Ephraim,” she said in tones as mournful as her garb. She descended the stairs like a magnificent butterfly, seeming to waft rather than walk and, when she reached the bottom, took my hand, but did not kiss me.
Without speaking further, she led me through the house to the sitting room, the same one in which she had showed me the portrait of Rebecca Lachtmann. Not only had that painting been removed, but so had Eakins’ depiction of the rowers. Two smaller, nondescript still-lifes now hung in their place, leaving a dark halo on the buff wallpaper around each, as if the Benedicts had wished to provide a reminder of the disgrace that had sparked the change. Abigail bade me to take a chair, but I could not sit.
“Abigail,” I began, “they tried to keep me from you. I know that you would never—”
She put up her hand. Her movements were graceful, deliberate. “Ephraim,” she said softly, “in one hour I am leaving for New York with my parents and Albert and Margaret. From there, we are sailing for Europe.”
“Europe?” I echoed, stunned. “How long will you be gone? How can I reach you?”
“Father has planned an extensive tour of the Continent. There is no date for our return. And he has insisted that our itinerary remain secret.”
“But what about us?”
Abigail did not drop her gaze or alter her expression. “I treasure our time together, Ephraim. Truly I do. I have deep feelings for you. But circumstances have overtaken both of us. I cannot bear to remain here with the memory of the horrible fate that befell my friend so fresh in my mind. I ache terribly. I need time and distance so that my soul may heal.”
My throat had gone completely dry and I felt my heart tripping against my ribs. “What about my soul?” I whispered.
“I’m sorry, Ephraim.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“I said I have feelings for you. I never once said I loved you. I have never loved any man. I’m not convinced that I ever will.”
“But the night in the studio … the portrait …”
“Lovemaking is not the same thing as love, Ephraim.”
“It was to me.”
Abigail sighed. “It isn’t my fault, Ephraim, that you made me into something I’m not.”
I felt desperation, as does