The Devlin Diary (21 page)

19 November 1672

D
R.
S
TRATHERN IS
already there when Hannah arrives in the morning to check on Mr. Henley. Strathern sits on a three-legged stool next to the cot, gazing upon Henley’s face. At first, before her eyes recover from the sharp, stinging aroma of the stables and the murky light of the tack room, she thinks they are engaged in conversation. As she gets closer, she sees that that is not possible.

Strathern looks up when he hears her footsteps and, seeing her, rises to his feet. They don’t bother with greetings but in silence keep their eyes turned to their patient. The horse blanket has been carefully drawn back, exposing Henley’s upper body and his bandaged leg. His eyelids have been mercifully shut.

“When did it happen?” Hannah asks. She guesses within the past two hours. Mr. Henley is pallid but has not the blue, marblelike appearance he will take on once the blood in his body collects in his lower extremities.

“About an hour ago. The captain said that Henley had been resting peacefully when he suffered a violent convulsion and died.”

“He never woke up?”

“Apparently not.”

“I should have stayed,” Hannah says. “I might have stayed if not…” She trails off. If not for her headache and her need for poppy syrup. After she got home she discovered that she hadn’t any left, so she took laudanum instead, which lulled her into a deep, hallucinatory sleep. When she woke up, she felt fatigued, as if she had traveled great distances in the night. But the pain is bearable now, almost gone, as if it had been wrestled, tamed, and trapped in a small corner of her brain.

“Even if you had stayed, you could not have saved him,” Strathern points out. “What do you imagine you would have done?”

“Changed his plaster and given him a syrup, and told him that these measures would ease his pain and speed his healing.”

“And if your medicines did nothing?”

“I would tell him that they were working, regardless of their actual efficacy.”

He looks at her quizzically. “Do you believe that simply saying it makes it so?”

“In the absence of true medicine, a few harmless lies and our sympathy may be the most we can offer.”

“You surprise me. I would not have thought that you had so little faith in your profession.”

“How long have you been studying medicine, Dr. Strathern?”

“For the best part of the past eight years.”

“I have been studying all of my life. At the same time that I was learning to read and write, I was making plasters and pills with my mother. Indeed, I cannot recall a time when I was not doing so. It’s not that I have so little faith but that I have discovered, through my parents’ practice and my own, that there are few treatments for illness that consistently produce the results we strive for. What is taught in the English universities appears in many cases to do more harm than good. My father had the good fortune to study with Dr. Sydenham, who believes that physick cannot be taught from books, but only by observation and practice. His is the example I follow.”

“I have heard a story about Dr. Sydenham, in which a young man asked which books he recommended to his medical students and the doctor replied,
‘Don Quixote.’
”

Hannah smiles. “That is a true story.”

“It may surprise you to learn that I share his views. I belong to a society of like-minded men—other physicians, natural philosophers, chemists, astronomers—who believe that all philosophic theories should be developed after careful observation, not before.”

“The Royal Society?”

“Yes.”

“I have heard of it, and its motto—
Nullius in verba.
”

“‘Nothing in words.’ It means, in essence, that we don’t base our beliefs on untested theories. We have rejected the old way of natural philosophy, in which philosophers simply debated and believed that the truth existed in whichever theory was the most elegant. We believe that only close observation of the physical world will lead us to the truth. First we inquire into the properties of things, then slowly proceed to hypotheses for explanations of them.”

“It sounds extraordinary.”

“The meetings are quite remarkable,” he continues, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “We discourse on anatomy, astronomy, botany, the properties of light, air, magnetism—anything and everything that man can investigate. Sometimes we conduct experiments, or the fellows will give accounts of their own trials.”

“I must admit I’m rather envious. I should enjoy being part of such a learned society.” It occurs to her that this is the first time she has had a conversation about the things she cares about most, medicine and philosophy, since Nathaniel and her father died. The three of them spent their days practicing physick and continually shared their observations, speculations, and discoveries, each of them contributing to an ongoing dialog that ended with her father’s death. She is acutely aware of how much she misses them, their minds, their thoughts. And how much she misses her mother, too, whose presence—whose very self—has gradually slipped away. Suddenly Hannah realizes how terribly alone she has felt. She finds herself wondering how Dr. Strathern regards her. Most men think her immodest for having interests beyond her home and family. Even the desire for greater knowledge is considered immodest, and immodesty is considered a woman’s greatest fault. Dr. Strathern
may be forward-thinking and a proponent of the new philosophy, but that does not mean that his attitude regarding women is different from any other man’s.

“I suppose you think it odd for a woman to be interested in these matters.”

“It seems quite natural coming from you. But I think you are unlike anyone I have met before. Of all the women I know, you would be the one most welcome in the Society.”

“Thank you.” She is surprised by the sting of tears in her eyes. It feels as if it’s been a long time since someone has seen her for who she truly is. She hides her emotion by covering Mr. Henley’s body with the blanket.

Strathern’s glance slides down to the dead man’s foot, still in the box of straw underneath the cot. His chest rises and falls with a small, resigned sigh. “Mr. Henley’s brother is coming to take him to be buried,” he says. “Unfortunately I can’t stay any longer. The king has asked me to handle the terrible tragic business of last night.”

“What tragic business?”

“You have not heard? Sir Henry Reynolds was brutally attacked and killed in St. James’s Park.”

“Sir Henry?”

“Did you know him?”

“I know of him. My father mentioned him a few times. I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t recall that he ever said anything good.”

“I’m to do the postmortem. His body has already been taken to the college, so I must go.”

Oddly, though, after stating his intention to depart, Dr. Strathern does not do so. He stands awkwardly, glancing at his hands, at the floor, at any place other than directly at her. “I was very sorry to hear about your father. He was a fine doctor.” He finally looks into her eyes. “And so are you. Do not think badly of yourself. You did well by Mr. Henley, Mrs. Devlin—as well or better than anyone I know. I would have cut too high on the leg,” he admits. “An anatomist has no need to think about how people will heal.”

Mr. Henley’s brother arrives to retrieve the body. Hannah gives him money to help with the burial at their parish church in Aldgate. He accepts it with thanks and a polite nod, but the charity does not assuage her feelings of remorse. After he carries the dead man away in a wheeled handcart, she stands at the door of the tack room for a long time, looking out at the stable yard.

The yard is filled with the red-coated King’s Guards, both foot and horse, and their well-groomed mounts. She should have realized when she arrived this morning that something was amiss, just by the increased show of force at Whitehall, a palace normally undefended and lax in its security. A search is being launched for Sir Henry’s murderer. The urgency is apparent in the voices of the guard captains as they round up their men, in the shiver and nervous stamp of the horses. If her father had remained a courtier and had been murdered in St. James’s Park, instead of being a doctor to the poor who was struck down near the Fleet, would the same have been done for him? She cannot help feeling resentful, for surely no great effort was made to find the man who killed him.

Hannah pulls her hood up as she walks through the yard, skirting the men, the horses, the squawking chickens that run loose. She thinks of Dr. Strathern, who left gracelessly without saying good-bye, and wonders if she will see him again. There will be no cause for it now that their mutual patient has died. She regrets that this is so; her initial impressions of him were ill founded. Dr. Strathern is nothing like his uncle, that much is certain, and his philosophic beliefs intrigue her. But what kind of man makes a career of dissecting bodies?

She weaves through the crush of sedan chairs and carriages on Whitehall Street to pass through the main gate into the palace courtyard, with hardly a glance from the sentry. Even though the King’s Guards are out in force, admission to the palace is as easy as ever. Courtiers and carpenters, London merchants and foreign dignitaries, the king’s councilors and his cooks, numerous lords, ladies, footmen, and maids hurry to and fro on their individual affairs. As she approaches the covered walkway leading to Mademoiselle de Keroualle’s
apartments, a young lady of the court in a silk gown and velvet cloak falls into step with her.

“Mrs. Devlin,” she says softly, “please walk with me.” She glances about warily and, convinced there is no one watching them, gestures for Hannah to follow her out of the courtyard into a quieter corridor. Although all of the young court ladies are handsome, this one is prettier than most, with black hair, angular but pleasing features, and intense dark eyes. Eyes in which Hannah perceives cunning, guile, and furtiveness. Or perhaps she’s been at court too long already to so quickly accredit such base emotions to someone she doesn’t know.

Hannah stops as soon as they find an isolated spot. “Who are you?”

“My name is Jane Constable. I’m one of the maids to the late Duchess of York. I’m told that you are a doctor.”

“Yes.” There seems little point in trying to keep it concealed any longer.

“I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I am an unmarried maid. Perhaps you can deduce for yourself.”

Hannah lowers her voice. “You are with child?”

Jane glances around nervously. “Careful, there are ears everywhere.”

In court vernacular, the early termination of a pregnancy is known as “slipping a calf,” a nonchalant phrase for something Hannah is aware is neither simple nor easy. Although many midwives, physicians, and apothecaries are willing enough to prescribe an herbal means of inducing abortion, it is illegal, and the penalty if caught—for the mother and for the doctor—is steep. It occurs to Hannah that Jane could have been sent by someone, perhaps one of the court doctors, to embroil her in a scheme that could get her banished from court, prohibited from practicing physick, sent to prison, or worse. Already the court physicians are set against her, if Sir Granville is any indication. If her treatment of Louise is successful, the king and Arlington will favor her, which will only expose her to more scrutiny and jealousy. It occurs to her just how dangerous success might be. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Hannah says, turning away.

Jane clutches her arm. “Wait! Do not be so hasty. Do you understand what will happen to me? As soon as my belly begins to swell I’ll be banished from court, sent to the country, and branded unmarriageable for life. Only the king’s whores can have bastards without paying a price.” She laughs bitterly. “And then they’re made dukes, of course.”

“The father of the child has not offered to marry you?”

“Of course not. Have you not seen for yourself the manner of men at court? They look upon maids of honor only as amusements, placed here for their entertainment. This man—the father—was charming and kind, and I thought at first he was unlike the others, but he is not. The courtiers require us to be easy prey, but they will not marry us, not unless a great deal of money is involved in the match.” She looks at Hannah, her black eyes pleading. “Surely you have helped women before.”

“Just because I am a woman does not mean that I am especially skilled in such matters. But I have heard that Dr. Fraser—”

“If I go to a court doctor, everyone will know. It’s because you’re not a courtier that I came to you. Don’t you know of a potion that helps a woman slip her calf?”

“There are certain herbs that are known to help bring on the terms, but they are not meant to be used on pregnant women. They are powerful and can be quite dangerous. If taken in too large a dose, they can cause your death.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“But I am not. I could be hanged just for helping you.”

“Then what am I to do?” Jane’s mouth quivers and her feral eyes swim with tears. Either the girl is sincere, or she’s an excellent actress.

Perhaps she’s wrong to distrust her. Hannah thinks through a list of potential abortifacients. They are all dangerous; poisonous, actually, if not handled correctly. “Please, do not make yourself unhappy,” Hannah says, “lest others discover the cause of your sorrow. Give me a day or two. I may be able to come up with a safer solu—”

Jane catches sight of something behind Hannah and suddenly bolts, her skirts sliding around the corner and quickly out of sight. Hannah turns to find Mr. Maitland walking toward her. He stops a few feet away
and bows. “Mrs. Devlin, Lord Arlington has bid me to say that your presence is desired at Mademoiselle de Keroualle’s.”

“I was on my way just now.”

“It would be my pleasure to escort you.” He smiles contritely at Hannah’s hesitation. “Please do not be alarmed. I promise to behave with perfect propriety. I have long hoped for the opportunity to apologize for my actions of that night. Especially as you are such a fine doctor.” He holds up his cut hand. “See how well it has healed.”