The cabinet of dr leng, p.25
The Cabinet of Dr. Leng, page 25
“Criminy!” Joe yelped, stumbling back once more in reaction to the unexpected onslaught.
As he regained his balance, his eyes met Constance’s over the playing field of snow. Their gazes locked…and something that could not be put into words passed between them.
His flight forgotten at this assault on his person, Joe abruptly reached down, grabbed a fistful of snow, packed it, and threw it hard at Constance, missing her. He’d hurled plenty of stones in his young life, but the weight and arc of a snowball were new to him. His second snowball did better, connecting with her shoulder, but meanwhile Constance—not holding back—had already launched another missile that hit him square in the stomach. He lobbed off a third, and this one caught her in the neck, spattering her bare skin. Joe laughed despite himself as he watched her try to shake off the snow in discomfort. Binky joined in, tossing a snowball at Joe, who returned it, and soon they were all throwing snow at each other with abandon. Even Murphy, instead of hoisting himself back into his seat, joined in. Several passing carriages, filled with well-to-do couples taking the air, slowed to stare at the highly improper free-for-all among the woman, her children, and the coachman.
As suddenly as it erupted, the contest came to an end. Constance busied herself with brushing the snow from Binky’s coat and hair, careful not to take any notice of Joe, who was approaching—first with hesitation, then with a freer step. As he came up, she turned and brushed the snow from him as well, allowing herself a gentle sweep of the fingers across the face she had so recently struck in anger…with a snowball.
Then, with a brisk “up you go,” she bundled the children back into the coach and Murphy urged Rascal toward home. Binky talked almost nonstop, excited beyond description by the experience, but both Joe and Constance were content to ride in silence. Until moments before, she had forgotten the name, Half Jigger, by which her father called Joe on those occasions he misbehaved—it had surged up out of her memory unbidden. She did not know what Joe himself might be thinking, but one thing she now felt confident of: her relationship with him had rounded a corner. Though Joe might not yet fully trust her, he accepted her…and she no longer needed to fear his running off from this, the only family he knew.
51
MARY GREENE SWAM SLOWLY back into consciousness from a dream. It was a dream that seemed to have been going on a long time, days or even weeks, one that she’d occasionally felt she was half awakening from—like a diver rising toward the water’s surface—before slipping back into what seemed like a fairy tale. In the endless dream, she was reclining in the pergola of a castle above a bay: shimmering in the summer’s light, cool breezes stirring the hanging silks. Now and then, a handsome man in white armor had appeared—no doubt a prince. And, as in most fairy tales, there were frightening creatures, too…one in particular who occasionally approached out of the mists…a misshapen figure, who she assumed was a servant. Usually when he intruded upon her dream he was carrying a silver platter of some sort or other. And now, as the veil of unconsciousness began to part, the figure returned once again, carrying his silver platter, which held something that—as the veil parted still further—revealed itself to be a bloody knife.
This image of a knife swept away more fragments of hazy dreaminess. She looked around and, to her amazement, found herself half buried in a princess bed, enclosed in the same hanging silk curtains that had been in her dream. She tried to sit up and was immediately seized by dizziness. She closed her eyes for a moment; the dizziness began to clear—and then she opened them again, content for the time being to look around. Instead of a castle pergola overlooking the sea, she found herself in a small but sumptuous room with red velvet wallpaper, paintings in gilt frames, shelves of books, a writing desk, velvet chairs, and a floor covered with a Persian carpet. Globes of cut glass on the walls cast a yellow light from the gas flames within.
Wherever could she be?
Vague recollections darted like minnows through the depths of her memory; it was all she could do to occasionally catch hold of one. There had been the workhouse, of course. And then, suddenly, the great doctor, singling her out for treatment. This had been followed by a ride in a magnificent carriage…but after that, all her memories slipped into the endless dream as the carriage continued on its way to the magic castle.
She continued looking around the room. It had two doors but no windows. Something had been troubling her, not only during the dream but even before—at the workhouse—but everything had been so rushed and she’d had no chance to tell the doctor…
Binky. Her little sister. Where was she? If she, Mary, was here in this strange magical room, how was Binky getting enough to eat?
She tried again to sit up, intending to get out of bed, only to find herself overwhelmed once again by dizziness and—instead of rising—half collapsed on the side of the bed with a cry of confusion.
A moment later, one of the doors opened. She saw a slender man standing in it, backlit by a bright light. This must be the prince of her dreams, because he was dressed in white—but, rather than white mail, it was the coat of a doctor. He paused a moment at the threshold, then stepped into the dim light of the room. Now she recognized the keen, aquiline face, the deep-set eyes, the wet red lips, the pale-blond hair combed back—and the small, oval, gold-rimmed glasses. He was not as handsome as the prince of her dreams, but he was elegant, and neat, and now she managed to remember his name: Dr. Leng, who had taken her from the Five Points House of Industry. But when had that been? Everything was in such confusion.
“Ah, Mary, I’m so glad to see you’re awake,” said the doctor in a gentle voice, stepping into the room and coming over to her bedside. “You’ve been rather ill these past few weeks, but luckily with the resources of my private clinic, you’re over the worst of it now and well on the road to recovery. You’ve been sedated, though, and I expect you’re a trifle confused.”
Mary nodded mutely.
“Of course you are. Please do not discompose yourself. You’re safe here in my house, and you’ll continue to be well taken care of. I got you out of that workhouse just in time. I don’t want to frighten you while you’re still on the mend, but given your illness, you would not have fared well had you remained there—not fared well at all.”
He held out his hand and grasped hers, then gently raised her up and helped her sit back on the bed.
“But…” Mary stopped, trying to focus her thoughts. “But what about my little sister, Constance? Who’s looking after her?”
At this, Leng tilted his head. “Ah. A sister?”
“Yes, yes. Our parents are dead, she was living in the streets. I gave her food through the window of the workhouse.”
“I see.”
“And Joe, my brother.” She sobbed at this additional, sudden, unexpected recollection. “He’s on Blackwell’s Island.”
“A brother, too? Dear me.”
She tightened her grip on his gloved hands. “Oh, Doctor—can you help them?”
He returned her tearful look with a kindly gaze. “Of course I can help them. I’m so sorry to hear about this. I didn’t realize, when I took you from the workhouse, that you had any family at all.”
“I’m so worried. How…?” She tried to organize her thoughts once more, but the confusion and fog just made her feel weary all over again.
“How long have you been ill? I don’t know when exactly you first contracted it, but you’ve been under my care now for—oh, almost a month.”
“That long? Oh! Constance is only nine years old and…and it’s wintertime!”
He released her hands, only to pat them again comfortingly. “I’ll find her. You have my word. Of course, you’ll have to tell me all about her: where she lives or hides, what she looks like, and that sort of thing. As for—Joe, was it?—I have some acquaintances at Blackwell’s; I can certainly find out how he’s faring, and perhaps manage to do something for him as well.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” She tried to grasp his hand again, as a drowning person might, but even as she did she felt her strength giving way.
He rose. “I will have Munck, my manservant, bring you something to eat and drink. Do not be alarmed—nature was unkind when forming his appearance, but he is an excellent nurse and as obedient as a puppy. But please remember, Mary: you’ve had a close call, and we have to be careful. For the time being, you’ll have to stay here until you recover a little more of your strength.” He strolled to the door and turned. “I’m so glad to see you better, my dear, and I shall undertake a search for your siblings forthwith.”
He departed and Mary, her head feeling a little clearer, was able to stand up and, one hand on the frame of the canopy, look around the room. The doctor must be very rich, that was clear, to have a private clinic like this in his very own house. Everything was of the richest quality: the spines of the books stamped with gold; the thick writing paper on the desk, with a gold fountain pen and inkwell ready to use; the old pictures of horses and dogs on the walls. And she’d never seen anything like the bed, with its carved wooden frame below a shining canopy of embroidered silk, creating a sort of cocoon, and within it a feather bed covered with a peach-colored satin puff. Just looking at it made her feel sleepy all over again.
A timid knock came at the door, then it opened and a small man came in. It was the misshapen servant of her dreams, with a knobbly face and two bright green eyes, dressed in simple but clean clothes. He bowed several times as he approached, in a crabwise scuttle, carrying a silver tray with a cup of sherbet, a tall glass of juice, and a platter of meats and other delicious-looking tidbits. He set it down on a small table beside her bed, still bowing incessantly, an unctuous smile on his lips.
“’Ere you go, miss,” he said. “The doctor’s special order. Lemon sherbet, juice, and some Eyetalian delicacies. ’E’s one for the meats and cheeses, miss! Please now, eat hearty—doctor’s orders, as they say!”
He retreated backward out the open door with more bowing, shutting it quietly behind him.
Mary realized she was quite thirsty, and drank down the juice quickly—it was orange juice, or at least she thought it was; she’d never tasted anything so fresh and delicious. Her appetite sharpened, she gobbled up the sherbet with a silver spoon. She glanced at the meats and cheeses set around the platter, then began plucking up first one and then another, wolfing them down with slices of bread. She felt famished.
A small basin of water sat on one side of the platter, with a linen napkin beside it. She had some faint recollection of what this must be: a finger bowl, she thought it was called. She dipped her fingers in the cool, faintly scented water, dried them on the napkin and dabbed her lips with it. The dizziness was stealing over her again—strange that she would feel sleepy so soon after waking—but it was a delicious kind of sleepiness, and one after the other she let her cares and uncertainties fall away. The doctor would see to Binky and Joe. The doctor would see to everything. As the languorousness continued to steal over her, she lay back down on the feather bed, sinking in deeply, and immediately fell asleep.
52
THEIR TABLE STOOD IN the center of Delmonico’s dining room. On one wall, a flickering gas fireplace gave the ornate chamber a cozy feel. Against the opposite wall, a veritable army of waiters in white ties, black coats, and white aprons stood at attention, backs ramrod straight, their eyes roving the room for the barest raising of a finger or glance of an eye. Behind the table, a magnificent flower arrangement conferred a sense of privacy, as well as scenting the air with the fragrance of roses and peonies.
It was half past two, and Delmonico’s was serving tea to a busy room full of Fifth Avenue ladies. There was a low murmur of conversation, the tinkling of cups and spoons, and the hushed comings and goings of waiters bearing pots of tea and magnificent silver tiers of teacakes and sandwiches.
Leng had insisted on holding Constance’s chair, taking the duties of their waiter upon himself. He then took the seat opposite her and whisked his napkin into his lap as the waiter hovered to take their order.
“May I ask what you will have, sir?”
“The high tea,” said Leng crisply. “Earl Grey. With sandwiches, teacakes, and petits fours.”
“Yes, sir, coming forthwith.” The waiter scurried off.
Leng turned to Constance. “I’m so glad we were able to arrange this rencontre, Your Grace.” He gave her a slow, sensual smile. “The tea and cakes here are good, but the petits fours are sublime.”
Constance did not respond immediately. Now that they were free from the mania of the ball, she had a chance to study his face more closely. He looked exactly as she remembered: the colorless skin, the eyes set like pallid sapphires in an oddly delicate face, the white-blond hair and the slender frame that nevertheless radiated strength. It unnerved her to see so clearly the Pendergast family resemblance in this face, with a habitual expression of icy indifference that reminded her of Diogenes.
Leng’s charming, probing conversation as they danced—and in particular, his invitation to tea the very next day—had alarmed her. Once again, she was reminded just how clever and dangerous he could be. But it was that very fact, she’d decided, that made it necessary for her to act. January 7 was close—closer than it seemed. There was no way of knowing for sure what Leng would do or how he’d react. She had no choice but to put him off-balance and seize the initiative, aiming for his most vulnerable spot—the thing he coveted most.
And yet she had to be careful—exceedingly careful—not to overplay her hand. Not with Leng. She covered her internal disquiet and revulsion at his person, keeping her face light and insouciant.
“Dr. Leng, you mentioned you’re interested in poisons. I find that curious. To what end?”
“Just one interest among many,” said Leng, with an offhand wave. “My primary training is in psychiatric surgery—by that I mean surgery of the brain to alter behavior in patients suffering from psychosis.”
“That sounds rather alarming.”
“Not at all!” He chuckled. “I was lucky enough to study with a young, iconoclastic, and brilliant German doctor, Emil Kraepelin, who believes dementia praecox is a clinical disorder, deserving of treatment rather than imprisonment. As for the surgical aspect, penetration of the skull—for beneficial reasons—is one of the oldest medical operations for which we have evidence…although of course the early practitioners were woefully misguided. Today, it’s a gift to be able to permanently relieve the dreadful and sometimes violent symptoms of mental alienation.”
“I know, of course, about trepanning. But I didn’t know surgery involving the brain was possible.”
“In that sense, it is new. But progress has been remarkable.”
“And where are you consulting?”
“At Bellevue Hospital.”
“Nowhere else?”
“I also offer my services to the poor and unfortunate.”
“How lovely for them—and how generous of you. But getting back to your interest in poisons…You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m interested in the action of compounds that interfere with normal biological processes. The study of biological toxins can help illuminate life’s fundamental secrets.”
“Do you conduct experiments with poisons? I mean on animals, of course.”
“Your Grace! You are certainly a curious young woman.” He chuckled again. “No, all my work is done in vitro—that is, in cell cultures.”
“I should think the temptation to experiment in vivo would be strong.”
Constance saw, finally, a faint look of displeasure, possibly even suspicion, pass like a ripple across his face. “Your Grace, shall we speak of more pleasant subjects? Here is our tea.”
The waiter busied himself placing the pot on the table, while a second waiter arranged two silver tiers, one resplendent with petits fours, the other with assorted finger sandwiches from which the crusts had been removed.
“Shall I pour, sir?” he asked Leng.
“We’ll pour for ourselves.”
“As you wish.” The two waiters departed.
Leng paused a moment before speaking again. “Now: do tell me more about your illustrious family and how you came to leave your native land. I must confess I’ve never met a duchess before.”
Constance forced a knowing smile. “And you still haven’t.”
He looked at her inquisitively. “How so?”
“Because I’m no duchess—as you no doubt already surmised.”
His eyebrows rose. “No?”
“And while we’re about it, let’s clear up another misconception: I am not here at your invitation. You are here at mine.”
At this, Leng looked momentarily flummoxed. Constance went on. “I’ve engineered this meeting from the start. I was the one who suggested you be invited to the ball. I was the one who intercepted you. I was the one who arranged for the Ozymandias sculpture, knowing your fondness for that poem.”
She took great satisfaction in seeing his pale face grow paler. But it took him only a moment to recover.
“Allow me to serve you, Your Grace.” An ironic tone crept into his voice as he tipped the teapot toward her cup.
“Thank you.” Constance put a cube of sugar and a little milk into her cup, and Leng poured out the steaming beverage. With tongs he placed an assortment of sandwiches on a plate for her, then served himself.
“Now: tell me why you were so anxious to meet me.”
“Who wouldn’t want to meet the celebrated Enoch Leng, Surgeon, Mental Alienist, and Consulting Psychiatrist at Bellevue?”
He waited for her to go on, his face remaining studiously neutral.
She sipped the tea—perfectly steeped, rich with the fragrance of bergamot: one sip, two, and then a third—before she put the cup down. “I have taken an interest in you, Dr. Leng.”
“I shall consider myself flattered.” A smile played about his lips.
Constance had the sudden urge to remove it—but at the same time, that smile reminded her to keep to her plan and not push things too far. “I know quite a bit about you.”
As he regained his balance, his eyes met Constance’s over the playing field of snow. Their gazes locked…and something that could not be put into words passed between them.
His flight forgotten at this assault on his person, Joe abruptly reached down, grabbed a fistful of snow, packed it, and threw it hard at Constance, missing her. He’d hurled plenty of stones in his young life, but the weight and arc of a snowball were new to him. His second snowball did better, connecting with her shoulder, but meanwhile Constance—not holding back—had already launched another missile that hit him square in the stomach. He lobbed off a third, and this one caught her in the neck, spattering her bare skin. Joe laughed despite himself as he watched her try to shake off the snow in discomfort. Binky joined in, tossing a snowball at Joe, who returned it, and soon they were all throwing snow at each other with abandon. Even Murphy, instead of hoisting himself back into his seat, joined in. Several passing carriages, filled with well-to-do couples taking the air, slowed to stare at the highly improper free-for-all among the woman, her children, and the coachman.
As suddenly as it erupted, the contest came to an end. Constance busied herself with brushing the snow from Binky’s coat and hair, careful not to take any notice of Joe, who was approaching—first with hesitation, then with a freer step. As he came up, she turned and brushed the snow from him as well, allowing herself a gentle sweep of the fingers across the face she had so recently struck in anger…with a snowball.
Then, with a brisk “up you go,” she bundled the children back into the coach and Murphy urged Rascal toward home. Binky talked almost nonstop, excited beyond description by the experience, but both Joe and Constance were content to ride in silence. Until moments before, she had forgotten the name, Half Jigger, by which her father called Joe on those occasions he misbehaved—it had surged up out of her memory unbidden. She did not know what Joe himself might be thinking, but one thing she now felt confident of: her relationship with him had rounded a corner. Though Joe might not yet fully trust her, he accepted her…and she no longer needed to fear his running off from this, the only family he knew.
51
MARY GREENE SWAM SLOWLY back into consciousness from a dream. It was a dream that seemed to have been going on a long time, days or even weeks, one that she’d occasionally felt she was half awakening from—like a diver rising toward the water’s surface—before slipping back into what seemed like a fairy tale. In the endless dream, she was reclining in the pergola of a castle above a bay: shimmering in the summer’s light, cool breezes stirring the hanging silks. Now and then, a handsome man in white armor had appeared—no doubt a prince. And, as in most fairy tales, there were frightening creatures, too…one in particular who occasionally approached out of the mists…a misshapen figure, who she assumed was a servant. Usually when he intruded upon her dream he was carrying a silver platter of some sort or other. And now, as the veil of unconsciousness began to part, the figure returned once again, carrying his silver platter, which held something that—as the veil parted still further—revealed itself to be a bloody knife.
This image of a knife swept away more fragments of hazy dreaminess. She looked around and, to her amazement, found herself half buried in a princess bed, enclosed in the same hanging silk curtains that had been in her dream. She tried to sit up and was immediately seized by dizziness. She closed her eyes for a moment; the dizziness began to clear—and then she opened them again, content for the time being to look around. Instead of a castle pergola overlooking the sea, she found herself in a small but sumptuous room with red velvet wallpaper, paintings in gilt frames, shelves of books, a writing desk, velvet chairs, and a floor covered with a Persian carpet. Globes of cut glass on the walls cast a yellow light from the gas flames within.
Wherever could she be?
Vague recollections darted like minnows through the depths of her memory; it was all she could do to occasionally catch hold of one. There had been the workhouse, of course. And then, suddenly, the great doctor, singling her out for treatment. This had been followed by a ride in a magnificent carriage…but after that, all her memories slipped into the endless dream as the carriage continued on its way to the magic castle.
She continued looking around the room. It had two doors but no windows. Something had been troubling her, not only during the dream but even before—at the workhouse—but everything had been so rushed and she’d had no chance to tell the doctor…
Binky. Her little sister. Where was she? If she, Mary, was here in this strange magical room, how was Binky getting enough to eat?
She tried again to sit up, intending to get out of bed, only to find herself overwhelmed once again by dizziness and—instead of rising—half collapsed on the side of the bed with a cry of confusion.
A moment later, one of the doors opened. She saw a slender man standing in it, backlit by a bright light. This must be the prince of her dreams, because he was dressed in white—but, rather than white mail, it was the coat of a doctor. He paused a moment at the threshold, then stepped into the dim light of the room. Now she recognized the keen, aquiline face, the deep-set eyes, the wet red lips, the pale-blond hair combed back—and the small, oval, gold-rimmed glasses. He was not as handsome as the prince of her dreams, but he was elegant, and neat, and now she managed to remember his name: Dr. Leng, who had taken her from the Five Points House of Industry. But when had that been? Everything was in such confusion.
“Ah, Mary, I’m so glad to see you’re awake,” said the doctor in a gentle voice, stepping into the room and coming over to her bedside. “You’ve been rather ill these past few weeks, but luckily with the resources of my private clinic, you’re over the worst of it now and well on the road to recovery. You’ve been sedated, though, and I expect you’re a trifle confused.”
Mary nodded mutely.
“Of course you are. Please do not discompose yourself. You’re safe here in my house, and you’ll continue to be well taken care of. I got you out of that workhouse just in time. I don’t want to frighten you while you’re still on the mend, but given your illness, you would not have fared well had you remained there—not fared well at all.”
He held out his hand and grasped hers, then gently raised her up and helped her sit back on the bed.
“But…” Mary stopped, trying to focus her thoughts. “But what about my little sister, Constance? Who’s looking after her?”
At this, Leng tilted his head. “Ah. A sister?”
“Yes, yes. Our parents are dead, she was living in the streets. I gave her food through the window of the workhouse.”
“I see.”
“And Joe, my brother.” She sobbed at this additional, sudden, unexpected recollection. “He’s on Blackwell’s Island.”
“A brother, too? Dear me.”
She tightened her grip on his gloved hands. “Oh, Doctor—can you help them?”
He returned her tearful look with a kindly gaze. “Of course I can help them. I’m so sorry to hear about this. I didn’t realize, when I took you from the workhouse, that you had any family at all.”
“I’m so worried. How…?” She tried to organize her thoughts once more, but the confusion and fog just made her feel weary all over again.
“How long have you been ill? I don’t know when exactly you first contracted it, but you’ve been under my care now for—oh, almost a month.”
“That long? Oh! Constance is only nine years old and…and it’s wintertime!”
He released her hands, only to pat them again comfortingly. “I’ll find her. You have my word. Of course, you’ll have to tell me all about her: where she lives or hides, what she looks like, and that sort of thing. As for—Joe, was it?—I have some acquaintances at Blackwell’s; I can certainly find out how he’s faring, and perhaps manage to do something for him as well.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” She tried to grasp his hand again, as a drowning person might, but even as she did she felt her strength giving way.
He rose. “I will have Munck, my manservant, bring you something to eat and drink. Do not be alarmed—nature was unkind when forming his appearance, but he is an excellent nurse and as obedient as a puppy. But please remember, Mary: you’ve had a close call, and we have to be careful. For the time being, you’ll have to stay here until you recover a little more of your strength.” He strolled to the door and turned. “I’m so glad to see you better, my dear, and I shall undertake a search for your siblings forthwith.”
He departed and Mary, her head feeling a little clearer, was able to stand up and, one hand on the frame of the canopy, look around the room. The doctor must be very rich, that was clear, to have a private clinic like this in his very own house. Everything was of the richest quality: the spines of the books stamped with gold; the thick writing paper on the desk, with a gold fountain pen and inkwell ready to use; the old pictures of horses and dogs on the walls. And she’d never seen anything like the bed, with its carved wooden frame below a shining canopy of embroidered silk, creating a sort of cocoon, and within it a feather bed covered with a peach-colored satin puff. Just looking at it made her feel sleepy all over again.
A timid knock came at the door, then it opened and a small man came in. It was the misshapen servant of her dreams, with a knobbly face and two bright green eyes, dressed in simple but clean clothes. He bowed several times as he approached, in a crabwise scuttle, carrying a silver tray with a cup of sherbet, a tall glass of juice, and a platter of meats and other delicious-looking tidbits. He set it down on a small table beside her bed, still bowing incessantly, an unctuous smile on his lips.
“’Ere you go, miss,” he said. “The doctor’s special order. Lemon sherbet, juice, and some Eyetalian delicacies. ’E’s one for the meats and cheeses, miss! Please now, eat hearty—doctor’s orders, as they say!”
He retreated backward out the open door with more bowing, shutting it quietly behind him.
Mary realized she was quite thirsty, and drank down the juice quickly—it was orange juice, or at least she thought it was; she’d never tasted anything so fresh and delicious. Her appetite sharpened, she gobbled up the sherbet with a silver spoon. She glanced at the meats and cheeses set around the platter, then began plucking up first one and then another, wolfing them down with slices of bread. She felt famished.
A small basin of water sat on one side of the platter, with a linen napkin beside it. She had some faint recollection of what this must be: a finger bowl, she thought it was called. She dipped her fingers in the cool, faintly scented water, dried them on the napkin and dabbed her lips with it. The dizziness was stealing over her again—strange that she would feel sleepy so soon after waking—but it was a delicious kind of sleepiness, and one after the other she let her cares and uncertainties fall away. The doctor would see to Binky and Joe. The doctor would see to everything. As the languorousness continued to steal over her, she lay back down on the feather bed, sinking in deeply, and immediately fell asleep.
52
THEIR TABLE STOOD IN the center of Delmonico’s dining room. On one wall, a flickering gas fireplace gave the ornate chamber a cozy feel. Against the opposite wall, a veritable army of waiters in white ties, black coats, and white aprons stood at attention, backs ramrod straight, their eyes roving the room for the barest raising of a finger or glance of an eye. Behind the table, a magnificent flower arrangement conferred a sense of privacy, as well as scenting the air with the fragrance of roses and peonies.
It was half past two, and Delmonico’s was serving tea to a busy room full of Fifth Avenue ladies. There was a low murmur of conversation, the tinkling of cups and spoons, and the hushed comings and goings of waiters bearing pots of tea and magnificent silver tiers of teacakes and sandwiches.
Leng had insisted on holding Constance’s chair, taking the duties of their waiter upon himself. He then took the seat opposite her and whisked his napkin into his lap as the waiter hovered to take their order.
“May I ask what you will have, sir?”
“The high tea,” said Leng crisply. “Earl Grey. With sandwiches, teacakes, and petits fours.”
“Yes, sir, coming forthwith.” The waiter scurried off.
Leng turned to Constance. “I’m so glad we were able to arrange this rencontre, Your Grace.” He gave her a slow, sensual smile. “The tea and cakes here are good, but the petits fours are sublime.”
Constance did not respond immediately. Now that they were free from the mania of the ball, she had a chance to study his face more closely. He looked exactly as she remembered: the colorless skin, the eyes set like pallid sapphires in an oddly delicate face, the white-blond hair and the slender frame that nevertheless radiated strength. It unnerved her to see so clearly the Pendergast family resemblance in this face, with a habitual expression of icy indifference that reminded her of Diogenes.
Leng’s charming, probing conversation as they danced—and in particular, his invitation to tea the very next day—had alarmed her. Once again, she was reminded just how clever and dangerous he could be. But it was that very fact, she’d decided, that made it necessary for her to act. January 7 was close—closer than it seemed. There was no way of knowing for sure what Leng would do or how he’d react. She had no choice but to put him off-balance and seize the initiative, aiming for his most vulnerable spot—the thing he coveted most.
And yet she had to be careful—exceedingly careful—not to overplay her hand. Not with Leng. She covered her internal disquiet and revulsion at his person, keeping her face light and insouciant.
“Dr. Leng, you mentioned you’re interested in poisons. I find that curious. To what end?”
“Just one interest among many,” said Leng, with an offhand wave. “My primary training is in psychiatric surgery—by that I mean surgery of the brain to alter behavior in patients suffering from psychosis.”
“That sounds rather alarming.”
“Not at all!” He chuckled. “I was lucky enough to study with a young, iconoclastic, and brilliant German doctor, Emil Kraepelin, who believes dementia praecox is a clinical disorder, deserving of treatment rather than imprisonment. As for the surgical aspect, penetration of the skull—for beneficial reasons—is one of the oldest medical operations for which we have evidence…although of course the early practitioners were woefully misguided. Today, it’s a gift to be able to permanently relieve the dreadful and sometimes violent symptoms of mental alienation.”
“I know, of course, about trepanning. But I didn’t know surgery involving the brain was possible.”
“In that sense, it is new. But progress has been remarkable.”
“And where are you consulting?”
“At Bellevue Hospital.”
“Nowhere else?”
“I also offer my services to the poor and unfortunate.”
“How lovely for them—and how generous of you. But getting back to your interest in poisons…You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m interested in the action of compounds that interfere with normal biological processes. The study of biological toxins can help illuminate life’s fundamental secrets.”
“Do you conduct experiments with poisons? I mean on animals, of course.”
“Your Grace! You are certainly a curious young woman.” He chuckled again. “No, all my work is done in vitro—that is, in cell cultures.”
“I should think the temptation to experiment in vivo would be strong.”
Constance saw, finally, a faint look of displeasure, possibly even suspicion, pass like a ripple across his face. “Your Grace, shall we speak of more pleasant subjects? Here is our tea.”
The waiter busied himself placing the pot on the table, while a second waiter arranged two silver tiers, one resplendent with petits fours, the other with assorted finger sandwiches from which the crusts had been removed.
“Shall I pour, sir?” he asked Leng.
“We’ll pour for ourselves.”
“As you wish.” The two waiters departed.
Leng paused a moment before speaking again. “Now: do tell me more about your illustrious family and how you came to leave your native land. I must confess I’ve never met a duchess before.”
Constance forced a knowing smile. “And you still haven’t.”
He looked at her inquisitively. “How so?”
“Because I’m no duchess—as you no doubt already surmised.”
His eyebrows rose. “No?”
“And while we’re about it, let’s clear up another misconception: I am not here at your invitation. You are here at mine.”
At this, Leng looked momentarily flummoxed. Constance went on. “I’ve engineered this meeting from the start. I was the one who suggested you be invited to the ball. I was the one who intercepted you. I was the one who arranged for the Ozymandias sculpture, knowing your fondness for that poem.”
She took great satisfaction in seeing his pale face grow paler. But it took him only a moment to recover.
“Allow me to serve you, Your Grace.” An ironic tone crept into his voice as he tipped the teapot toward her cup.
“Thank you.” Constance put a cube of sugar and a little milk into her cup, and Leng poured out the steaming beverage. With tongs he placed an assortment of sandwiches on a plate for her, then served himself.
“Now: tell me why you were so anxious to meet me.”
“Who wouldn’t want to meet the celebrated Enoch Leng, Surgeon, Mental Alienist, and Consulting Psychiatrist at Bellevue?”
He waited for her to go on, his face remaining studiously neutral.
She sipped the tea—perfectly steeped, rich with the fragrance of bergamot: one sip, two, and then a third—before she put the cup down. “I have taken an interest in you, Dr. Leng.”
“I shall consider myself flattered.” A smile played about his lips.
Constance had the sudden urge to remove it—but at the same time, that smile reminded her to keep to her plan and not push things too far. “I know quite a bit about you.”
