The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [86]
“You look quite dashing, Ephraim,” she said, touching my cheek. “Shall we go?”
I led the way out to the carriage, floating rather than walking, and this time when I offered my hand to help her in, she accepted it. The skin on her wrist was soft, smooth, and very white. As soon as the carriage was off, she asked about my visit to Baltimore. I eagerly described the wondrous facilities at the new hospital, my conviction that Johns Hopkins would change the entire course of medicine in America. I feared I was being transparent about my own heightened prospects, but Abigail listened with great interest and enthusiasm. When I had completed my description, she asked a number of perceptive questions about the staff, potential professional jealousies, and the envy that such a place might cause in other elite institutions. I responded that I felt certain the competition would spur improvements and upgrades and that ultimately there would be benefit to all.
Abigail expressed how pleased she was at my good fortune but, as we neared Barker’s, she abandoned talk of Johns Hopkins. Instead, she asked, “And what were your plans last night that you had to postpone our rendezvous?”
“I will tell you at dinner,” I blurted, realizing only after the words were out that my findings all pointed to grim confirmation of Abigail’s worst fears. I felt a rush of embarrassment that, in my zeal to solve the problem, I had forgotten the human stakes for her. I had been imprudent to agree to see her in a public place; I resolved to tread with extreme delicacy in my recitation of the facts.
“It has something to do with Rebecca, then,” Abigail said, oblivious to the truth. “I’m excited to hear all that you have found. I’m so grateful for your assistance.”
When we entered the restaurant, Abigail gave her name to the man in the striped vest. He gave a start upon seeing me, but I stared directly at him and he knew to keep silent. He simply nodded and led us across the room. Any hopes that I had for an intimate dinner à deux were dashed, however, when, as we reached our table, Thomas Eakins stood and offered his hand. “It is good to see you again, Dr. Carroll.”
I nodded resentfully to Eakins but did not take his hand. Abigail could not help but notice my reaction to the painter’s presence. As soon as we were seated and the man in the striped vest had left, she said evenly, “You said you wanted to know about Rebecca. I told you that Thomas had to be involved. He has agreed that you are a man to be trusted, and we want to tell you everything.”
Whenever she and I were alone, we seemed unutterably drawn to each other, but in the company of Eakins, our relationship became distant, fraught with suspicion, even adversarial.
“It was my idea,” said Eakins. “Abby didn’t want to deceive you as to my presence, but I thought that you might object and we very much need to talk.”
So it was “Abby,” was it? I suddenly hated Eakins, but envied the power he exuded. Unlike the Professor, whose magnetism emanated from intellect and self-assurance, Eakins’ strength was feral. Women, I decided with some envy, claimed to be attracted to the former but actually preferred the latter.
“It’s true, Ephraim,” Abigail said, placing her hand on mine. “We are all in a terrible predicament. We may not be doing everything correctly, but it is not because we wish to deceive you. Just the opposite. We want you to know the truth.”
“All right,” I agreed, speaking in measured tones. “Let me know the truth.”
“And then you will tell us what you have uncovered?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied. The painter’s presence had altered the equation entirely. If they wanted the truth, they would hear it.
Eakins began. “Very well. I assume you have surmised the nature of Rebecca’s medical problem.