The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [66]
“No, not immune, Doctor. Far from it. More deeply touched by those emotions, in fact. And by their causes. Which, I think, go far deeper than even an educated, progressive man like yourself suspects.”
“Really?”
Mrs. Cady Stanton nodded, touching at her white curls in the way that your average woman will do but—oddly, for someone of her age and opinions—not at all embarrassed by the passing display of vanity. “I agree with some of what you’ve written, Doctor. In fact, much of it. Your only problem, so far as I can see, is that you do not take your notion of context far enough.” She put both hands authoritatively on her walking stick. “What is your opinion of the effect of the prenatal period on the formation of the individual?”
“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said. “A favorite topic of yours.”
“So you dispute the idea?”
“Mrs. Cady Stanton—there is no clinical evidence to suggest that, beyond the impact of her physical condition, a mother has any formative effect on the fetus she carries.”
“Wrong, sir! You could not be more wrong. During the nine months of prenatal life, mothers stamp every thought and feeling of their minds as well as their bodies on the plastic beings inside of them!”
The Doctor had started to look like General Custer must’ve, the moment his boys told him there were a few more Indians around than they’d originally expected. Mrs. Cady Stanton pushed him ever deeper into an argument what he’d started out thinking of as a diversion but had quickly grown into a full-scale debate. It stopped making much sense to me after about ten minutes, mainly because I wasn’t really paying attention; I wanted to get around and see what the other three women were coming up with. So at a moment when I thought no one would notice, I slipped off my windowsill and around the outermost edge of the room, eventually reaching the spot where the sketch was taking form. As I approached I heard Señora Linares saying, “No … no, the chin was less—pronounced. And the lips slightly thinner … yes, so …”
“I see,” Miss Beaux said, her bright gaze fixed on the large sketch pad before her. “Overall, then, you’d say she had more Anglo-Saxon than Latin features. Is that right?”
Señora Linares thought it over, then nodded. “I had not thought of it in such a way, but yes, she was very American, in the way one sees in the older parts of this country—New England, perhaps.”
I edged up to Miss Howard’s elbow and looked at the sketch. It was still about as vague as one of Pinkie’s paintings, though in spots Miss Beaux had been able to pencil in sharper, more definite lines. The face that was taking shape was, just as the señora said, an angular, chiseled one, not unattractive but hard, like you might see in a Massachusetts or Connecticut farm town.
Miss Howard suddenly noticed my presence and smiled. “Hello, Stevie,” she whispered. Then she cast an evil little glance at the center of the room, where the Doctor and Mrs. Cady Stanton were still going at it. “I’ll bet you wish you had a cigarette along about now.”
“Do I ever,” I said, still watching Miss Beaux’s delicate hands as they moved with quick precision over the pad. She’d make a stroke, then line it again or smudge it for shading, as was wanted, or erase it altogether if the señora said it wasn’t right. She caught me watching her and smiled.
“Hello,” she said, also whispering. “You’re Stevie, aren’t you?”
I could only nod; to tell the truth, I think I was a little smitten by her.
“They sound like they’re having quite a time,” she went on, still sketching but occasionally showing me the same delicate smile that was lit up by those remarkable eyes. “What in the world are they talking about?”
“I can’t quite make it out,” I answered. “But Mrs. Cady Stanton sure got the Doctor’s goat—in record time, too.”
Miss Beaux shook her head, still amused. “She was so anxious to meet him…. She’s often that way with people she finds intriguing—she wants so much to exchange ideas that she ends up rushing into an argument.”
“Yes,” Miss Howard said.