The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [36]
“I am sure he is misguided in that sentiment.”
She laughed. It was deep, throaty, and enticing. “My brother and I do like each other, you know,” she said, in a quick pivot. “He can be horribly bossy though. Albert thinks he’s Father.”
“And it is your role to prevent his delusions from progressing.”
She placed her hand on my shoulder, a remarkably forward gesture, but one that sent a charge through me. “Why, thank you, Doctor. Your description is perfectly apt.”
At that moment, Hiram Benedict and Mrs. Benedict entered with the Professor and another woman, obviously the aforementioned descendant of Paul Revere. Although I learned that she had been considered a “Boston beauty” in her youth, Grace Revere Gross was, in fact, a plain woman, thickset with a broad, square face. Her deep maroon gown was of a hue dark enough to suggest mourning, but not so much so as to render her unapproachable. She had taken the Professor’s arm, and seemed enthralled with him in a manner quite transparent in one so recently widowed. At the sight of her father, Miss Benedict removed her hand to her side.
“I’m sure your doctor will like her,” she whispered, gesturing toward Mrs. Gross. “She’s extremely rich.” Before I could protest, she asked abruptly, “Do you dine at Barker’s often?”
That this beautiful heiress had frequented the same establishment as I had with George Turk defied belief. “No, it was my first time,” I replied, unwilling to expose my lack of sophistication by elaborating further.
Miss Benedict tilted her head for a moment and stood perusing me as if I were a curious tissue sample. Finally, she asked “Are you an art lover, Dr. Carroll?”
“I think I can appreciate a fine painting, but I am scarcely a connoisseur.”
“Let me show you something then,” she offered, leading me once more across the vast drawing room out into a hall. I stopped when I noticed a photograph on the wall of three soldiers, one of whom was instantly familiar.
“That is General Grant,” I said, and then noticed the tall thin officer next to him in the picture. “Your father?”
“Yes.” Miss Benedict nodded. “Father was a colonel. That picture was taken in Virginia just before General Lee’s surrender.”
“Your father was present at the surrender?” I felt as if someone were squeezing me about the chest. The privileged in peace seemed to be privileged in war as well.
“Father had distinguished himself at Petersburg, so he was promoted to General Grant’s staff and served in the honor guard at Appomattox,” Miss Benedict replied with obvious pride. Then she grinned, gesturing to the trim officer in the photograph. “As you can see, he did not always appear as he does today.”
“My father served with General Grant as well,” I blurted before I could stop myself, “although earlier in the war.”
Miss Benedict insisted on hearing particulars, so I was compelled to recount the tale of my father’s service—although I did so in far less detail than with Turk—his return home, and my birth on July 2, 1863, the first day of the bloody struggle at Gettysburg. When she pressed for more, I explained how the Reverend Audette had noticed my promise in school and had sponsored me, even providing the funds for me to journey to Chicago to study at Rush Medical College.
“Your life could have sprung from Horatio Alger,” Miss Benedict remarked, and once again I was uncertain if I was being praised or mocked.
We continued on to a sitting room that opened onto the hall, and Miss Benedict directed my attention to two paintings hanging next to one another on the near wall. The first was a richly detailed depiction of two men in a racing scull, resting over their oars after obvious exertion, drifting down a river that ran through a public park. Looking closely, I could detect the exhaustion in their faces, and it gave them a nobility