The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [34]
“Dr. Carroll,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand assertively, as would a man. She was not wearing gloves, revealing long and graceful fingers. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. I expect you to regale me over dinner with exotic tales of modern medicine.”
I took her hand and bowed, unsure if I was being mocked. How could anyone be sure of anything, standing amid the wealth of the pharaohs in a room the size of an operating theater, opposite a rich and beautiful woman who expected me to be witty and entertaining?
“I believe I warned you to wear armor, Ephraim,” said the Professor.
“Oh, I hope I am not as frightening as all that,” Miss Benedict said.
“Perhaps you would like to escort Dr. Carroll into the drawing room to join the other guests?” suggested Mrs. Benedict.
“I would be happy to, Mother,” Miss Benedict replied. She took my arm properly, not like Monique, but I found the very propriety somehow more discomfiting. The drawing room was cavernous and created the illusion of seeing those inside as at a distance, in the manner one would observe an acquaintance walking on the other side of a boulevard. The ceiling was at least twelve feet high, ringed with dentil molding. A chair rail divided the walls between the buff-painted bottom third and the deep green brushed silk wallpaper that covered the rest. Another immense crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, again lit by electricity rather than gas or candle.
What must it be like, I wondered, to live in such luxury?
The guests had divided themselves into two groups, split according to profession. Drs. Mitchell and Agnew stood in a small knot near the door, chatting and sipping champagne with their wives. Mitchell was invariably the first person to be noticed in any gathering. Tall and gaunt, he wore an imposing full gray beard and had more than once been compared to Uncle Sam or President Lincoln. I’d once overheard a student exclaim that to sit in Weir Mitchell’s class was “like being taught neurology by Jehovah himself.” Agnew, short, bald, and jovial, with a full white mustache, was a perfect match for his short, jovial, white-haired wife.
The Mitchells and the Agnews apparently knew Miss Benedict well, and everyone spoke quite cordially. There was an ease to their manner, a nonchalance that I knew I must perfect if I was ever to fit into this society. I did not say a great deal, preferring to observe, but nor did I embarrass myself.
“Excuse me, please,” said Miss Benedict after a few minutes, “but I must introduce Dr. Carroll to our plutocrats.” She nudged me gently from the physicians and escorted me toward a group of six people across the room.
The three couples varied greatly in age. Abigail Benedict led me first to a wizened, sallow man named Elias Schoonmaker, who, from the tone of his skin, appeared to be suffering from a liver disorder. His head bent slightly forward when he spoke, eyes rolled upward, as if he were a stern clergyman passing judgment on a sinner. His wife was a squirrel-like woman whose dress and demeanor seemed more suited to the Puritan era.
The second couple was much younger, in their early thirties. The man was tall, full but not fat, clean-shaven, with dark hair parted on the side. He wore spectacles, but they did not obscure a pair of powerful Benedict blue eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” He thrust his hand forward. “I’m Albert Benedict.” His smile held charm and distance. “I’m a great admirer of your profession. How thrilling it must be to save a life.”
I acknowledged the compliment, but there was a serrated edge to Albert Benedict’s casual manner that was unsettling, as I assumed it was meant to be.
“The excitement of science,” he continued, too enthusiastically, “so much more vital than the idle pursuits.”
Miss Benedict’s jaw tightened. “My brother is a banker, Dr. Carroll, which is hardly an idle pursuit,” she responded immediately. “Of course, it becomes a bit more idle when one works for one’s father.”
“It is true,” her brother agreed amiably. “My father’s dynastic aspirations