The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [71]
I left the Benedict home drifting as if on a cushion of air. This had been a week of remarkable happenings, but none more so than this.
I had never been in love before.
February 1, 1889
SINCE SHE WAS SMALL, SLEIGH rides in the country had been her favorite winter frolic. Swathed in furs, the rush of the wind against her cheek, the muffled clomp of hooves in the snow, the gaiety of her companions—all pure joy. Pure freedom. Why, then, could she not abandon herself, if only for a few moments? Why must fear intrude, even here?
She had been resolute in her determination to forget. If she willed it never to have happened, it would not have. And so, she had said nothing and shown nothing, not to family, not to friends. She had thrown herself into the season. No one had sparkled more at balls, had shown more wit or enthusiasm for the theater, museums, or exhibitions.
And then she was late.
At first, she would not think about it, could not confront it. When she did, the horror overwhelmed her. Private shame might be borne, but public disgrace was unthinkable. Her position and that of her family would be forever sullied. For the remainder of her life, she would be unable to look anyone in the eye and not see her shame reflected back at her. But worst of all, by far worst of all, was that all this must be endured not for the one she loved but rather for the one she loathed.
As the sleigh emerged from the wood onto an open field, she looked up at the sun, dulled by a gray sky. Perhaps it would still come. Perhaps she might still bury the incident within her. Yes, certainly. It would all come out right in the end. It had to.
CHAPTER 15
I HAD BUILT MY LIFE on discipline, on gathering data and making decisions only after reflection and analysis. Even after circumstance had thrown me into a maelstrom of intrigue, I had tried to maintain the scientific principles that had brought me success in the past. But love is a glorious compulsion to behave against one’s own best interests, and, if the risks were greater, so were the rewards. To be sure, without fulfillment of the heart, all other success is hollow.
The irony that my only chance at such fulfillment had been created by the murder of George Turk and the enigma of Rebecca Lachtmann did not escape me. What if, after the skullduggery had ended and the mysteries were resolved, I was left with the love of a woman to whom mere access would have been unthinkable before? What a strange and welcome turn of fate.
Thus, in my sorry state of hope and rapture, I met the Professor at the Broad Street Station at ten the next morning for our journey to Baltimore. Daniel Coit Gilman, president of the Johns Hopkins University and director of the hospital, had reserved a first-class compartment so that we would be allowed to pass the two hours in peace and comfort. How different this would be from my third-class journey from Marietta to Chicago a decade before.
We settled in opposite each other, and were soon under way. The locomotive gained speed and we headed west, crossing the Schuylkill in view of the hospital, the immense Blockley complex standing like a leviathan just beyond. As Philadelphia slipped by, the Professor gazed out the window, as if it were a segment of his life receding rather than a spot on a map.
“It will be a great adventure, Carroll,” he said softly, but did not turn from the window.
“Yes,” I agreed. “To be a part of the finest medical facility in the nation …”
“And what will be the finest medical school. Think of it. We’ll be able to help prepare the next generation of doctors … perhaps even to set the standards of medical education. Even if we each treated ten thousand patients in the course of our careers, it pales before