The Americans

by John Jakes

  The mornings weren’t bad. Usually the group spent them ice-skating on the pond on the estate. But the afternoons and evenings were appalling. Following the main meal at midday, the group played inane parlor games such as wiggles and hunt-the-slipper. In the evenings, the young people sat with feigned expressions of interest while one of their number recited “Thanatopsis” or some other poem Will found equally sleep-inducing.

  When Will’s turn came, he said with a straight face that all he could recite from memory were passages from the fifth edition of Dr. Austin Flint’s Principles and Practice of Medicine. If that didn’t sound suitable, he might manage some of Professor Shattuck’s observations on auscultation and percussion.

  No one was amused, least of all Laura. Her smile grew stiff as she stung him with a reproving glance.

  He didn’t repeat the mistake. He also felt he’d learned a valuable lesson. The Pennels’ set didn’t appreciate humor, unless it was the bawdy variety heard when the gentlemen left the ladies and retired to another room with their cigars. Certainly Laura and her friends didn’t like any kind of joke which implied disapproval of established customs or accepted ideas.

  Because Charles Darwin defied accepted thinking, he was the favorite conversational whipping boy of the young people. Arguing about Darwin’s theory of evolution was popular at Harvard, too; Gideon called such argumentation the greatest intellectual craze of the century.

  The young people were quite opinionated on the subject, but Will wasn’t particularly surprised to find that none of them had read Darwin, and only he and Laura had read the sensationally popular, fictionalized version of the “ape or angel” debate, Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It had been published the preceding year, and Gideon had negotiated to bring out an inexpensive reprint edition. Despite the demands of his course work, Will had read it twice.

  One evening at Pennel House, there was a welcome respite from things literary. Laura persuaded Marcus to play the piano in the ballroom, so the young people could dance.

  After a few minutes of intricate Virginia reels and Germans, Laura declared her boredom and the group paired off for more intimate waltzes and gallops. Will was Laura’s only partner. The others seemed to understand that already.

  High above the ballroom floor, Marcus hunched over the piano in the musician’s gallery, smirking and puffing a cigarette as he played. He knew what his sister was up to, and was quite willing to cooperate.

  Thus, for a few delicious moments, Will was able to hold the soft blond girl in his arms. As they whirled and turned, he could feel the heavy steel stays of her corset against his palm. Occasionally the lace niching of her high, boned collar tickled his chin—an erotic sensation, somehow.

  He reveled in the nearness of her face. Her gray eyes were enhanced by the clarity and perfection of her pale skin. Being fashionable—and free of freckles that would need concealment—she didn’t use cosmetics, save for a bit of rice powder and a touch of rouge so expertly applied, it might have been mistaken for the natural glow of her cheeks.

  Altogether, she was the most desirable creature he’d ever met—and she knew he felt that way. He was overjoyed to realize there was a mutual attraction. She kept Marcus playing waltzes until he absolutely refused to run through another. When the last dance ended, she gave Will’s hand a quick squeeze—the only real intimacy between them thus far. She might be willful, but he knew beyond any doubt that she was morally upright. She was the kind of girl who would give herself only to the man she married.

  Will had promised to be back in Boston to celebrate the New Year with Drew and some other classmates. His departure was set for early afternoon on the thirtieth. That morning, while servants packed his luggage, he planned to go on a sleigh ride with the others. He really didn’t want to, but Laura was looking forward to it, so he didn’t object.

  After breakfast, he dressed for the outdoors and strolled to the foyer. He found Marcus and a young man named Taylor, a senior at Yale, discussing trends in men’s clothes.

  “They say the howling swells over in Mayfair and Belgravia are definitely going back to trouser creases front and back,” Taylor remarked. “It’s the British Army influence.”

  Marcus sighed. “What’s next? Creases on the side? Cuffs?”

  Taylor took him seriously. “Very possibly, old man. The Prince of Wales wore his trousers pressed four ways when., he visited America in—oh, hello, Kent. All ready, I see.”

  Will nodded. He searched for Laura in the group just entering the foyer. She was at the back, brushing something from her sable muff. She didn’t look at him.

  By now Will could recognize a deliberate delay. He was growing accustomed to Laura’s need to dominate any situation. As long as that need didn’t conflict with anything he considered important, he’d indulge her. Eagerly, in fact.

  Finally she smiled at him. A manservant wearing a dark vest over his white shirt entered the foyer. He was carrying a large feather duster.

  Laura spoke sharply. “Jackson, where are you going?”

  The man stopped. “The library, ma’am. Mrs. Pennel wants all the books dusted. She gave me full instructions before going out this morning.”

  “Be careful of the ladder when you do the top shelves. When it was delivered two weeks ago, I noticed it was none too sturdy. It came from a Scottish castle, you know. It can’t be replaced.”

  “I shall exercise care, ma’am.”

  The man continued to the library, leaving the doors open behind him. Will frowned. He had trouble understanding a system of values which placed more importance on furniture than on the safety of a human being. There was a simple and cynical explanation, of course. Jackson wasn’t a human being, merely a servant.

  Laura joined Will as the group moved toward the front door. “And how are you today, Mr. Kent?” she said with mock formality, gazing up at him from beneath a little fur hat.

  He seemed to be drawn into those gray eyes as he answered. “Very happy to see you. And sorry I have to leave this afternoon.”

  “Well, we shall just have to make the most of the morning.”

  She slipped her arm through his. He felt the contour of her breast again. The others, especially the girls, noticed her minor infraction of the rules of propriety but said nothing.

  The young people trooped outside. The day was dark. The white lawns stretched away to woods that looked black under the heavy overcast. More snow was starting to fall. A pair of sleighs came gliding up the drive from the stables, the horses snorting and stepping smartly. The scene had a storybook quality—the look of one of the immensely popular Currier and Ives lithographs.

  The girl accompanying Taylor made counting motions, then giggled. “Ten people for eight places. We’ll be packed tight as sardines.”

  “Will and I are the only ones who’ll be sardines,” Laura told her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The first sleigh holds five passengers. I’ll ride in the second one. I’ll sit on Will’s lap and risk being pilloried in Town Topics. That way there’ll be ample room for all.”

  The thought of that kind of intimate contact with Laura rekindled erotic feelings in Will. He had only a moment to anticipate the sleigh ride, though. From inside the house there suddenly came an anguished cry and a loud, prolonged crash.

  ii

  The sleighs pulled up, bells on the horses jingling. Behind the hiss of runners and the clop of hooves, he heard a second outcry.

  “Someone’s hurt.” He started away.

  She caught his arm. “The servants will see to it.”

  “Maybe it’s something the servants can’t handle. I should think you could wait five minutes without spoiling your ride.”

  His sharpness brought a resentful glare. He turned away from it and strode into the foyer, melting snow glistening in his dark hair.

  Servants were hurrying to the site of the accident. As Will followed them, he heard the front door open behind him.

&nb
sp; Then Laura exclaimed, “Oh, it’s the library! I warned that oaf to be careful.”

  The servant named Jackson lay in an awkward position on the library floor. Books and the broken pieces of the ladder were strewn on the carpet all around him. Midway between his left knee and ankle, something white and sharp stuck out through a bloody rip in his trousers.

  “Stand back and let me examine him,” Will said as he hurried forward.

  The servants quickly gave him room. He knelt, studying but not touching the leg from which the bone protruded.

  Jackson was a man of about fifty. He gazed at Will with apprehensive eyes and tried to change position. The effort made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “Get me a scissors, please,” Will said.

  A servant ran past Marcus and disappeared into the foyer. All the guests were trooping back into the library now. One of the girls complained about the delay. Jackson again tried to move; he clenched his teeth and uttered another groan.

  “Try to relax and lie quietly,” Will said. “I know it hurts.”

  “Hurts—isn’t the word for it,” Jackson gasped.

  “I’ll snip that pants leg off for a better look.”

  The scissors arrived. He cut slowly and carefully, fearful of a mistake. Two fragments of bone, not just one, jutted through the bloody tear in the skin. “An open tibial fracture—” he began as Laura walked up next to him.

  “I’m sure Charlie Brassman can handle it. I’ve sent for him.”

  “Who’s Charlie Brassman?”

  “One of our grooms.”

  Disgusted, Will stood up. “This man needs help from someone who treats people, not horses.”

  “I tell you Charlie Brassman’s perfectly competent!”

  “I still prefer to take care of this myself.”

  “Very well,” she said, her voice pitched low. “But if you do, you’ll make me extremely unhappy.”

  “Good God, Laura, that’s an unreasonable—”

  “Please don’t curse. There is no need for theatrics. Charlie Brassman—”

  “Someone send for me?”

  Heads turned. A small, shabbily dressed man bustled into the library. He touched a knuckle to his forehead, and Will noticed that he had hands like wrinkled hide.

  “Miss Laura—Mr. Marcus,” Brassman said, nodding a greeting. Then he looked down. “What’s this, what’s this? Ain’t you a sight, Jackie! What the devil did you do to yourself?” He dropped to his knees beside the injured man. Jackson eyed him with fright and distrust.

  Laura tugged Will’s arm. “Everything’s under control. Do come along.”

  He didn’t want to anger Laura. Didn’t want to risk an abrupt end to a friendship so well begun—a friendship with so many auspicious possibilities for the future—

  His hesitation annoyed her. Smiling, she slipped her arm in his and lashed him with her soft voice. “I insist.”

  Will turned away from Jackson’s imploring gaze. His shoulders slumped. “All right,” he said.

  iii

  Taylor, the Yale man, pursed his lips. “I’m thankful the ride won’t be delayed any further.” He led the others back to the foyer. Will was moving toward the library door, Laura clinging to him, when the groom clucked his tongue and said, “We’ll have to set this, Jackie.”

  In a terrified voice, Jackson breathed, “Be careful, won’t you? It hurts like sin. Go easy.”

  “Sure, sure. Leave me take a closer look.”

  Will and Laura had just reached the foyer when Jackson screamed. The scream rang through Will’s mind, raising echoes of the cries of Chris Tompkins the night he died. Echoes of the little gray, Boston, bellowing and slamming his head on the ground in the glare of the lightning—

  A few words about your duties.

  Laura gasped as he took hold of her hand and lifted it away from his arm.

  Then he pivoted and walked back toward Charlie Brassman. He knew his decision would probably cost him dearly, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t silence his conscience any longer.

  Brassman had both hands fastened on Jackson’s bleeding leg. Livid, Will said, “You’re not treating a horse. Let go of him.”

  Scowling, the groom obeyed. Jackson gasped with relief.

  “I thought you were competent,” Will said to Brassman. “Don’t you know better than to maul him when you haven’t given him anything for the pain?”

  The groom was indignant. “You’re an expert, are you?”

  “I’m a medical student.”

  “Oh, yes, the Harvard boy. Someone did tell me you was visiting here. Well, Doctor, I’m mighty sorry to inform you that we ain’t got any spirits of ether sittin’ around the house.”

  “I assume you have brandy. Get some.”

  The groom hesitated, his surly eyes communicating his instantaneous dislike of the younger man. The delay infuriated Will. He took a step toward the groom.

  “Go!”

  Brassman muttered something and stormed out. Trying to ignore the stony look on Laura’s face, Will looked at the others. Only Marcus, who was leaning against the library door at the back of the crowd, looked sympathetic.

  Behind him, Will heard Jackson’s rough breathing as he said, “The rest of you go enjoy the ride while I look after Mr. Jackson. I’ll send Brassman for anything I need.”

  Laura fixed him with those imperious gray eyes. A smile slowly curved her mouth. An executioner’s smile, he thought with sinking spirits.

  When she spoke, her voice was as cold as the winter day. “Yes, let’s go enjoy ourselves while Mr. Kent does his humanitarian duty. Come along, now. Come along—”

  She spread her arms and herded the others into the foyer without a single backward glance.

  Will ran a hand through his hair, listening to the merry voices as the young people boarded the sleighs. The drivers whipped up the horses. The voices and the tinkling sleigh bells began to fade.

  He looked down at Jackson, who said, “Sorry—if I— ruined the outing for you, sir. Didn’t—mean to fall. Damned ladder just—broke apart under me.”

  Will waved. “Never mind.”

  His thoughts were less forgiving. The outing isn’t all you ruined, my friend.

  CHAPTER X

  LAURA’S VICTORY

  i

  WHEN BRASSMAN RETURNED WITH a decanter of brandy, he met Will in the foyer. Will had been in the kitchen, scrubbing his hands with strong yellow soap. His coat was gone, his sleeves rolled up.

  He gestured for the groom to precede him, then used the heel of his boot to close the library doors. Brassman poured some brandy down Jackson’s throat. Will touched nothing in the room or on the patient until he started to work.

  It took him forty minutes to reduce the fracture, close the wound and suture it with seven stitches, each put in place with straight needles Brassman found in the sewing room. Will kept the groom busy; he proved to be a competent if disgruntled helper.

  All seven needles were first boiled in the kitchen, then soaked in brandy and brought to the library on a clean towel. At the prick of the first needle, Jackson’s eyes rolled up in his head. He’d borne a good deal of pain, but he couldn’t deal with the thought, sight, or feel of a steel sewing needle piercing his skin. He fainted.

  One by one, Will aligned and inserted the seven needles through the edges of the wound, exactly if he were sewing up a holiday goose filled with stuffing. To each needle he attached a strand of boiled cotton thread, the heaviest Brassman had been able to find.

  When all the needles were in place, he went back to the first, pulled it through and tied the thread. Then he finished the second stitch in similar fashion, and so on until the wound was closed. Brassman soaked up the excess blood with wads of cotton.

  During the entire procedure, Will fought off a pervading certainty that he wasn’t doing things according to the instructions he’d received in class. The lack of confidence persisted until the last suture was tied off
and he stepped back, gloomily wondering how he’d behave when confronted with his first major surgical procedure. Perhaps he’d never even start it for fear of botching it.

  He passed a hand across Jackson’s brow. The man’s skin was clammy but cool. He was breathing satisfactorily. Will walked to a chair, sat down, and put his palms against his eyes, letting his tension drain away.

  He had to wait another thirty minutes for Brassman to bring in the old-fashioned fracture box he had sawed and hammered together out of scrap lumber, following a crude sketch Will had provided.

  “A good job,” Will said as he examined the hinged sides of the box. “Doubly good considering the short time you had to make it. Where’s the young lady who volunteered to take care of Mr. Jackson?”

  “Said she’d be right along.”

  “Did you explain that the care entails extra work for seven, possibly eight, weeks? It’ll take at least that long for the fracture to mend. And Dr. Barton’s bran treatment has to be carried out faithfully, every day.”

  “I explained,” Brassman told him, smirking. “She don’t mind the work. She’s sweet on Jackie.”

  Soon the subject of the discussion, a homely maid named Nell, appeared. She was carrying linen Will had requested because there was no gauze in the house. As Will dressed Jackson’s leg, Nell watched carefully, making notes on a slate with a piece of chalk.

  “A new dressing once a day,” Will said to her. “Wet it here—here—and here with a five percent carbolic acid solution. Have an apothecary prepare the solution so it isn’t ten or fifteen percent. When you apply it, do so sparingly. Lister himself isn’t using the stuff as freely as he once did. He used to cover an entire operative field with carbolic mist sprayed continuously from a steam atomizer. Now there’s speculation that too much carbolic may injure tissues. So be careful.”

  The maid nodded, although Will suspected she had grasped little of what he’d just said.

  “Now we’ll position Jackson’s leg in the fracture box. Watch how I do it. The foot must be tied to the end board exactly the way I’m going to show you.”