A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  ‘Priessnitz?’ Mr Glynn asked. ‘Must be noon.’

  ‘He arrives every day at the same time,’ Dr Blackwell explained. ‘You could set your watch by him.’

  Sarah stood now, trying to see the man responsible for the existence of the spa and its world-renowned treatments. Son of a serf, with no formal medical training, and yet he had a list of patients any physician would envy.

  Reputation and celebrity fostered notions of physical stature, bodily eminence. Priessnitz certainly did not conform to these expectations. He was small, compact, older than she had imagined, his complexion marred by smallpox scars.

  Dr Blackwell stood up too.

  ‘It is time for my afternoon walk,’ she said and looked at Sarah. ‘Care to join me?’

  The air outside was wonderfully fresh: free from smoke, smog and dust. It smelled sweet, like freshly scythed grass, rather than replete with the foul aromas of the city. Sarah found herself taking deep breaths of it. There were wildflower-strewn meadows either side of the path, adding their fragrance to the air, and interspersed among these were clumps of alpine strawberries.

  ‘Feel free to pick them,’ Dr Blackwell said, noticing that Sarah was looking. ‘They are terribly good.’

  Sarah felt obliged to sample a few. They were indeed delicious. She scanned their surroundings as she ate, marvelling at the view. It was like a small piece of heaven. Little surprise then that invalids got better here. She wondered if these improvements were sustained when they had to return to their ordinary lives, although few of the patients fell into the category of ordinary. Aristocrats and minor royalty. The well-heeled of Europe and beyond.

  ‘I shall take you up to the Priessnitz spring,’ Dr Blackwell announced. ‘It is a pleasant walk. Not too taxing.’

  ‘I’m well used to walking,’ Sarah said, matching Dr Blackwell’s stride. They continued in silence for a while, the narrowness of the footpath forcing them to walk in single file. At the top of an incline the trail widened again. Sarah wondered how to begin. Now that she was here, she had no idea how to explain herself, her reason for coming.

  ‘Is there any hope of Mr Glynn having his sight restored?’ she asked. A tentative beginning.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Dr Blackwell said. She smiled. ‘He has been like a brother to me in this concourse of strangers. He is one of the smartest fellows that I have ever met, bears his terrible misfortune with real heroism and has rendered me numberless little services.’

  Sarah wondered if Mr Glynn considered his attentions to be brotherly. Dr Blackwell seemed to be entirely unaware of how attractive she was and oblivious to the fact that she drew male attention wherever she went, from the inebriated older gentleman in London, to the attentions of Monsieur Blot in Paris, to the blind American she had evidently become so fond of.

  ‘It is most amusing to watch the people who come here,’ Dr Blackwell continued. ‘Grafenberg is all the rage in Germany and all classes are represented. As Glynn is unable to see for himself, he relies on me to describe everything to him.’

  All classes. Does she mean me? Sarah wondered. She could not seem to shake the idea that her humble origins were in some way visible to others.

  ‘I shall have to sit down,’ Dr Blackwell said suddenly. She eased herself onto a low stone wall at the side of the path, obviously in pain. She placed a hand gingerly over her bandaged eye.

  ‘The inflammation has returned,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘I plan to return to Paris soon to see Desmarres there. He is an oculist of some repute who has been recommended to me.’

  ‘So, the water cure was not a cure after all,’ Sarah said, almost immediately regretting it. It sounded harsh to her own ears.

  ‘Well, I am stronger in myself and it has fortified me to cope with what is to come. It is not such a great disfigurement,’ she said, pointing to her bandaged eye. ‘But it has interfered in no small way with my plans. I wanted to become a surgeon, but if I lose the sight in this eye that ambition will have to be abandoned. Though my right eye remains strong and I can read and write without difficulty, so all is not lost. It could have been so much worse.’

  ‘Did you always want to study medicine?’ Sarah asked, sitting down beside her.

  Dr Blackwell laughed. ‘No, I did not. When it was first suggested to me, I found the idea abhorrent. I had no interest in the human body or the diseases that it fell prey to. I could not bear the sight of a medical book.’

  ‘What made you consider it?’

  ‘A close friend was ill. She suggested it to me. She said that her distress would have been less if she could have been cared for by a female physician. I could see the truth in that and so I began making enquiries about the possibility of pursuing such a course. It was unanimously decreed by all the medical men of my acquaintance to be impossible.’ She laughed. ‘That just made me more determined. Once obstacles were put in my way it became something of a moral struggle for me.’

  ‘Do you have any regrets?’

  ‘Given what has happened? No. None. Perhaps that is surprising to you.’

  Sarah shook her head.

  ‘And what about you? Why do you wish to pursue such a career?’

  Sarah thought for a moment.

  ‘I wish to be of use. I find the subject fascinating. I think that I am as capable as any of the apprentices that I have seen.’

  ‘But that is the thing. In order to compete you must be better than they are: more than merely competent. You must avoid any perception of being inferior yet without seeming to be a threat. Like walking a tightrope. Perform poorly at any point and they will dismiss you. Outshine them and they will hate you for it. We are invading their territory here and you must be prepared for them to defend it.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Are you in a position to apply to any institutions?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘How is your Latin?’

  ‘My Latin?’

  Sarah felt a precipitous anxiety, akin to the rare occasions when she had forgotten to carry out a required task.

  ‘Natural philosophy? Advanced mathematics?’

  Sarah’s blank expression said everything.

  Dr Blackwell shook her head. ‘It is a long journey that you wish to embark upon. You must ensure that you are suitably equipped before you set out on the road. Have you really considered what will be required? It is all very well having an interest. One that has been fostered, no doubt, by your work with Dr Simpson. But you will need so much more than an interest and rudimentary competence in a few nursing tasks. It seems to me that you lack the very basics required to get started. You cannot hope to compete if that is the case.’

  ‘I can learn,’ Sarah insisted. ‘I know that I have the ability to do so.’

  ‘But the commitment required demands more than merely a willingness to study. Have you considered the sacrifices that you will be forced to make? Marriage? Children?’ She pointed to her eye, lifting the bandage to reveal the damage done – the iris and pupil obscured, clouded by the ravages of infection. ‘Your own health?’

  Sarah averted her gaze. She could feel tears forming and blinked them away. This speech felt like a rebuke, one that she felt she did not merit. She had been married and widowed already, there was little prospect of her ever becoming a mother, and she was well aware of the risks attendant upon looking after the sick. Medical knowledge offered little protection from infectious fevers; not all of Raven’s medical school contemporaries had made it to the end of their studies, sacrificed at the altar of professional duty. She was not that naive. Even if her rudimentary knowledge of Latin was inadequate at present, she would learn. Of that she had no doubt. And surely Dr Simpson’s faith in her had not been misplaced.

  She had a sudden, horrible thought. Was this why he had encouraged her to take this trip around Europe in pursuit of this woman?

  A dose of reality. A harsh lesson that he did not himself wish to deliver.

  Sarah swallowed, forced herself t
o smile, and turned back to her companion.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me a little of your own journey. How you managed to achieve what you did. Give me some notion of what is required.’

  ‘Well, it was far from easy,’ Dr Blackwell said. ‘I applied to several medical schools in Philadelphia and New York but was roundly rejected by all. The dean of one school admitted that his objection was on the grounds of female competition. He said, and I am quoting verbatim here, “You cannot expect me to furnish you with a stick to beat our heads with.”’ She raised her arm, brandishing an imaginary weapon. ‘They cannot have it both ways. How can we be deemed incapable but threaten an unwelcome competition at the same time?’

  She shook her head then winced, placing a hand over her eye again.

  ‘I kept going and applied to some of the smaller schools. Geneva Medical College in New York state responded favourably. The students were supportive – largely because their opinion had been canvassed before I was offered a place. I kept my head down, worked conscientiously, gave no cause for complaint.

  ‘I had hoped to extend my studies in Europe, and I was made welcome in London during my short visit there, though I was not seeking a formal position at that time. Once in Paris it quickly became clear that it would be impossible for me to study there as I wished to, as any man with an MD could easily have done. No one would grant me the slightest favour. I was eventually permitted to enter the maternity hospital but only on the same terms as any woman entering to train as a midwife.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, looking out over the field in front of them. A few poppies swayed in the breeze around its edge, crimson petals obscuring a dark heart. Papaver somniferum. There were some things Sarah did know. She wasn’t entirely ignorant.

  ‘I learned a great deal there, at the maternity hospital,’ Dr Blackwell continued. ‘I will always be glad that I went, despite what happened to me. Because of my injury I have had to relinquish the idea of becoming a surgeon, but I still hope to pursue a career in medicine in some shape or form.’

  She looked at Sarah.

  ‘If I have learned one thing through all of this, it is that persistence is key.’

  Persistence, yes, Sarah thought, contemplating the tortuous route Dr Blackwell had navigated, the obstacles thrown in her path, the sacrifices she had made, and the reduced version of her aspirations that even she had been forced to settle for.

  But persistence had not been the only resource required to make such an arduous journey. It had also taken the right background, the right social standing and the right education.

  Sarah was in possession of none of these.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  arly morning found Raven awake and restless. Sleep had come in short stretches when it wasn’t evading him completely, or was interrupted by intrusive thoughts about Gideon, Eugenie and Sarah. Eventually he gave up and got out of bed, washed and dressed. It was so much easier to do at this time of year when the daylight began creeping into his room just after four. He had to be up earlier than usual anyway because of the planned trip to Bridge of Allan. He would under other circumstances relish the prospect of a ‘scamper into the countryside’, as the professor liked to put it. It would usually provide welcome respite from the near-constant demands of patients at the Maternity Hospital and Queen Street, but right now he had too many claims on his limited time.

  Raven went downstairs to his consulting room, relishing the quiet of the house at this hour. He made use of this peaceful interlude by dealing with the piles of correspondence that littered his desk and reading the latest edition of the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, or at least skimming through the articles that caught his attention. At breakfast-time he entered the dining room in urgent need of some strong coffee.

  He found that Dr Simpson was already seated at the table, his hand immersed in a wide-necked jar of clear fluid. The sweet smell of chloroform indicated what the jar contained.

  ‘Good morning,’ the professor said. He offered no explanation for the chloroform, as though this kind of activity at the breakfast table was to be expected. Raven had to concede that in this household it was.

  The professor’s parrot, perched by the window, was unusually quiet – it had the tendency to greet his entrance with a series of ear-piercing squawks – and Raven wondered if the bird was falling under the influence of the fumes. He walked to the window, intending to open it, then decided that a mildly soporised parrot would be preferable to a fully conscious one. He sat down at the table and poured himself some coffee.

  ‘Experiment?’ Raven asked.

  ‘I still have that splinter in my hand. I have been trying, with some difficulty, to extract it.’

  ‘And how is sticking your hand in a jar of chloroform intended to help with that?’

  ‘I am investigating whether or not local application produces anaesthesia in the part exposed to it. If it does it would permit me to dig about in the palm of my hand with impunity.’

  ‘And does it? Produce local anaesthesia?’

  Simpson gave the jar a forlorn look.

  ‘Not so far,’ he said.

  They took the early train headed for Aberdeen, disembarking at Stirling. A carriage had been sent to collect them, the horses stamping impatiently as though instructed to do so by their owner.

  The carriage transported them from the station through the countryside to an imposing sandstone villa situated in a sprawling plot of land. Lady Mackenzie greeted them at the door herself. The house belonged to a friend who was travelling around Europe for the summer, she explained. Raven wondered if he would ever be in a position to afford such a residence or have such well-endowed friends. He doubted it. Lady Mackenzie kept referring to the house as a cottage. Raven wondered what her own home was like. A castle, perhaps.

  She seemed delighted to see them, having finally secured a visit from the great Dr Simpson after so many years of trying. Raven marvelled at the professor’s patience with such people: relentlessly demanding in spite of their evident good health.

  No offer of refreshments was made despite their early start. Raven wondered about those who set such great store in decorum and appropriate behaviour, policing with vigour any perceived lapses in others but failing to see any deficiencies in themselves. He was grateful he had consumed a hearty breakfast otherwise his rumbling stomach would have interrupted Lady Mackenzie as she poured forth her litany of complaints, none of which Raven considered in any way serious or sinister.

  ‘I have dispensed with the leeches but have persisted with the mustard baths,’ she said, referring to the prescription made some time ago.

  ‘It may be time to dispense with the mustard baths as well,’ Dr Simpson suggested. ‘If your symptoms have subsided.’

  ‘Well, they have,’ she admitted with an air of disappointment. ‘But others have arisen in their place.’

  The woman lacked attention, Raven thought. Or a sense of purpose, perhaps.

  The lack of hospitality was starting to grate on him. Not even the offer of a cup of tea! Raven was beginning to think more fondly of his visits to Old Town slums. Those with considerably less seemed to be more ready in their generosity, offering to share what little they had. This woman was so self-obsessed she could spare not even a thought for anyone else.

  Dr Simpson listened attentively for half an hour before insisting on examining her son, the purported reason for their visit. Evidently, he could find little wrong with Harry either, as after a brief examination he prescribed the white of an egg and some lime juice. Presumably as a tonic for the boy, as Raven did not think scurvy was a realistic possibility.

  Lady Mackenzie accepted this prescription with good grace but became visibly upset when Dr Simpson then announced his intention to depart, complaining bitterly about the brief nature of the visit. ‘When Sir Benjamin came to see my husband, he stayed for a full two days and gave four long consultations,’ she admonished the professor, even as he was putting on his coat.


  Raven had no idea who Sir Benjamin was, but if he had spent two days in this woman’s company, then he deserved whatever exorbitant fee he had undoubtedly charged.

  Half an hour later Raven was tramping through a muddy field behind Simpson, wondering where they were and what they were supposed to be doing.

  ‘Not much further,’ Simpson called back to him.

  Not much further to where? Raven thought. He scanned his immediate surroundings but apart from some clumps of grass and the odd forlorn-looking tree there was not much to see. Whatever they were looking for, Raven knew that it had nothing to do with medicine or obstetrics.

  Lady Mackenzie’s complaints were still ringing in their ears as they had climbed back into the carriage. Raven had made some rapid calculations and concluded that, barring any unanticipated delays, they would be back at Queen Street in time for dinner. He was curious as to why they had travelled such a distance for such a short consultation, but all became clear when their journey home was interrupted by this impromptu excursion. Raven wondered if this had been the main purpose of the trip all along.

  As they continued their expedition across this nondescript marshy field in rural Stirlingshire, Raven marvelled at Dr Simpson’s ability to ignore his bodily needs. He frequently went for hours without sustenance and spent many a night without sleep but never seemed the worse for any of it. Raven had great difficulty functioning without food or rest, hence his growing grouchiness and lack of enthusiasm for whatever it was that they were supposedly about.

  Dr Simpson stopped suddenly and spread his arms wide.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announced.

  Raven looked around again. The landscape had not changed. There was nothing to see.

  ‘You’ll have to enlighten me, Dr Simpson. I have no earthly idea where “here” is.’

  ‘Bannockburn.’

  When Raven did not respond, the professor continued. ‘Site of the great battle! Where Robert the Bruce defeated King Edward’s army.’

  Raven knew about the Battle of Bannockburn – what Scotsman did not – but the great battle had taken place hundreds of years ago and in 1850 they were just two men standing in a muddy field as the clouds gathered overhead threatening rain.