The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [33]
Dr. Samuel W. Gross had recently died of sepsis at age fifty-two. Although a noted physician and surgeon in his own right, he had toiled in the shadow of his father, Samuel D. Gross, who himself had died at age seventy-nine only five years before. The elder Gross had been the dominant figure in American surgery and medical education for four decades.
“Mrs. Gross is a direct descendant of Paul Revere, you know,” the Professor observed, “although that is not as significant in the wilds of Ontario as here.”
“Perhaps you should carry a single lantern, since you come by land,” I offered. “Do you know who has been invited as my companion?”
“I believe you will be seated next to Abigail Benedict, the old boy’s daughter. Do you know of her?”
I admitted I did not.
“Well, Carroll,” he said, reveling in my ignorance, “it might have been best to wear armor.”
All too soon, we pulled up to the Benedict home, a wide-fronted, granite Greek revival with a small second-floor balcony over the entrance on Walnut Street, facing south on Rittenhouse Square. The carriage came to a halt and we were met by a liveried Negro coachman who helped us down and ushered us into the house.
I had on occasion strolled across Rittenhouse Square and seen the mansions, a line of monuments to rewards of class, but had never before been inside one of them. However exalted my expectations for what I would find, they nonetheless proved inadequate. The second I stepped across the threshold, I was overpowered by opulence. The foyer was a huge oval, two stories high, with a promenade ringing the second floor, and topped by a stained-glass skylight, a celestial incarnation of the layout in the Dead House. The entire building appeared to be illuminated by electric lighting. Directly opposite the front door, a staircase of gleaming white marble snaked up to the second floor, lined with oil portraits of gloomy colonials or musty dowagers. Thick, ornately patterned Oriental rugs lay on either side of the mouth of the staircase. As I perused art and furnishings worthy of a museum, the four thousand dollars I was to receive at Johns Hopkins did not seem at all like a great deal of money.
Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Benedict waited to greet us. Benedict was in his late fifties and immense, well over six feet, with a large gray mustache and an even larger stomach. He wore what seemed to be an embedded glower, and there were tufts of white hair growing from each ear, giving him the mien of an angry Etruscan god. Mrs. Benedict was portly as well, white-haired, and handsome, wearing a gown of green lace, buff lace gloves, and a diamond tiara. Four long strands of fat pearls draped over her more than ample bosom.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Osler,” said Benedict, stepping forward. “We are honored that you have joined us this evening.” He turned to me. His eyes were sapphire and, although a bit rheumy, his gaze was nonetheless penetrating. “And this must be your young protégé. It is good to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” Benedict’s voice was deep and seemed to roll out from within him. He spoke with the casual ease of a man comfortable in his supremacy. “May I present my daughter, Abigail.”
I had not seen Abigail Benedict as we entered but, from the moment she appeared at her father’s side, I knew she was remarkable. She was not pretty in the way that women were typically thought to be pretty—her nose was a trifle long and her lips a bit full—but I was transfixed all the same. She wore a high-necked gown of black velvet and no jewelry whatever. She was tall, like her parents, auburn-haired and lean, with her father’s extraordinary blue eyes.
I knew those eyes. I had seen them at Barker’s restaurant two days before. A fleeting smile played across Miss Benedict’s face and I knew that she remembered as