Chapter Thirteen 1896 #2
The next day, she returned from visiting Hermione to find him standing by her writing desk.
The drawers were all open, the contents spread in disarray across the top – pen nibs and envelopes and blotting paper.
He looked up, wholly unabashed at being discovered, and Theo stared, outraged, her heart leaping to her throat.
‘Ralph, what—’
‘You still write to that man?’ he said, eyes snapping. In his hand was her latest letter from Crudge.
‘He is my—’
‘Even after what I told you about him? Even though you know how I feel about him – him, and all men of his sort? Do you feel no loyalty to me whatsoever, though you are my wife?’
‘Forgive me, Ralph, but I will always write to him,’ Theo whispered. It was the truth, and she didn’t know what else to say. ‘He has been close to me since I was a little girl. Closer than my mother, in many ways.’
‘Indeed? And do you not apprehend how perverse that is, Theo?’
‘I do not,’ she said, shaking a little. ‘He is a good and kind man.’
Ralph screwed the letter in his fist and Theo darted forwards to snatch it back. He lifted it out of her reach, blocking her with his other arm.
‘Desist,’ he said, with such terrible calm that Theo obeyed. His arm remained raised, the fist hovering above her. She sank back. ‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘What possible harm can come of my writing to him?’ Her voice cracked as she spoke.
‘Do not weep! What cause have you to feel aggrieved? You are secretive, Theo – hiding in here, where I am not supposed to come!’
‘My letters are my private property, Ralph—’
‘In fact, this room is mine and this desk and everything in it. As you are mine, Theo.’
‘I have no secrets from you,’ she lied. ‘What has made you . . . do this? What were you looking for?’
Ralph glared at her. ‘You’ve never been able to lie particularly well, have you? I want to know what you do here, while I am out all day. And who you do it with.’
‘But . . . you cannot suspect me of . . . of behaving inappropriately?’
‘Why not? Plenty of women are adulteresses. And I know you feel more for that Meriwether man than you will admit.’
Theo’s face burned. ‘Felt, perhaps – a long time ago, when I was little more than a child.’
‘Indeed? But you ignore my wishes regarding your precious Mr Crudge, so why not in other matters?’
This shocked Theo to her core. ‘You . . . you cannot believe that I would ever behave in such a way? To separate me entirely from Timothy Crudge is cruel. Do you wish for my unhappiness?’
‘Do you wish for mine?’ he thundered.
Theo flinched, and shook her head. But she would not promise not to write to Crudge. She could not.
‘Upon my soul,’ she whispered, ‘I want only your happiness.’
It was true. Life was barely tolerable when Ralph was unhappy.
Her words seemed to break something in him; the anger dissipated. His shoulders drooped. He frowned down at the crumpled paper in his hand, then smoothed it somewhat before putting it back on her desk.
‘I am . . . Am I not worthy of your love? Is that it, Theo?’
‘You have my love, Ralph,’ she lied without hesitation. ‘You have it.’
‘Do I?’ A bitter little twist of his mouth. ‘Theo . . .’ He didn’t look at her. ‘You are my wife. You belong to me. Do not forget it.’
He left, and she heard his study door slam.
Then she sank on to the small chair at her desk and tried to breathe normally.
As quietly as she could, she tidied away her scattered belongings.
Then she glanced at the bookcase, and her copy of Le Morte d’Arthur, in which she’d hidden Albert Mackie’s first letter.
His latest reply had come that morning, and was in her pocket.
She didn’t like to think what would have happened if Ralph had found either one of them; and it occurred to her that she had begun to fear her husband.
This particular, unpredictable mood of his.
Eventually, ears still straining for Ralph’s approach, she opened the letter.
Your question troubles me a great deal, Mrs Anscombe.
The answer is that yes, in theory, it may be possible for a specialist to tell from the examination of a preserved skull whether a head injury was serious enough to have proved fatal.
However, it would be all but impossible to give a definitive answer without having seen the condition of the patient prior to death.
The implication, however, that an operation as dangerously invasive as an intracranial trephining was carried out in error, or without good cause, is extremely serious.
The cutting of the human body after death in order to further medical knowledge, and during life in the attempt to preserve that life, are both entirely justified.
The cutting of the human body during life in any kind of experimental manner is wholly wrong.
It is known as ‘vivisection’, a practice both rife and of particular concern in our present age.
I myself have written to the medical press to condemn it, and to urge vigilance against it.
It is the exploitation of poor and ignorant patients, who are offered free treatment by a surgeon bent upon personal advancement and ‘gaining experience’.
For any physician to undertake an operation as risky as a trephining were he not completely convinced of its necessity would be worse than reckless. It would, in my opinion, be criminal.
Mrs Anscombe, I can only reiterate my unease, given your proximity to the protagonist, and beg you to think carefully before talking to any other person about such things, or taking any action. For my part, I can assure you of my complete discretion.
Theo didn’t sleep well for several nights.
She hadn’t meant to imply that Ralph might have operated on Missy without just cause, and she couldn’t believe that he would.
But she was troubled. It was something that happened, and it had a name: Vivisection.
Her husband was determined to make advances, and to make his mark.
He had offered to treat Missy without charge, in return for being allowed to dissect her afterwards.
But he wasn’t so hungry for subjects that he would operate where it wasn’t necessary. She would not believe that of him.
But what, then, had she meant to imply? That he had made a mistake – that he had ‘botched’ Missy’s operation?
She had wanted to hear that there might be a way for Kit to be pardoned.
That was the truth of it, barely acknowledged even to herself.
But if that could only come at her husband’s expense, what then? You are my wife. You belong to me.
It tangled her up. She was distracted, and wished she could discuss it with somebody.
Dr Mackie was at a safe enough distance, but everyone else was too close.
There was danger in even thinking such things, let alone in speaking them.
She felt the threat in her bones, and blamed it, at first, for her decreased appetite, her tiredness, and her unsettled gut.
Until she realised, of course, that she was pregnant again.
Then the baby – and her fears for it – chased everything else from her mind.