The Heart Specialist (9 page)

“Wait,” said the
Gazette
man, holding Felicity’s other arm. “Perhaps this friend could stay and clarify some things. Could I ask your name?”

Felicity yanked free and continued walking. Throughout the campaign she had kept herself hidden, avoiding any meeting at which the press might appear. She had also left the visiting of donors to me, preferring anonymous tasks like drafting letters and planning strategy. Her father was keeping tabs on her. He had given her a single lecture during which he had called me “a nefarious influence” and had ordered her to stay away. This afternoon, however, convinced of success, she had dared openly to disobey him.

“Are you also a candidate?” Andrew Morely called after her. “There are five aspiring doctoresses, are there not?”

“Oh come on now,” said Huntley. “What harm can it do to give us names? You ought to show pride instead of hiding yourselves away.”

I lifted Mrs. Drummond’s shiny brass knocker and brought it down hard. Then I spent what seemed an eternity staring at the door, willing it to open.

The room was absolutely packed. Everyone was dressed in party clothes and the table that Mrs. Drummond had laid out was nothing less than astonishing. Cut fruit, including sunny yellow discs of what appeared to be pineapple, gleamed on china plates. There were little triangular sandwiches, their crusts meticulously removed, and a vast spread of tarts, tea cakes and cookies. All in my honour. I could hardly bear it.

Grandmother was standing behind this well-stocked table in her familiar navy dress. What was unfamiliar was the smile beaming from her face. I lifted an arm to wave, but Mrs. Drummond appeared and clasped me in a clumsy, if well-intentioned, embrace. Mrs. D, as I called her, had been proprietary with me from the start, hugging me like a daughter, giving me tips on how to dress and what to say to Lady so-and-so or to her husband to win him to our cause. She even passed me clothes — discards from her own closet — which were slightly big but made from fabrics I could not have afforded myself.

“Mrs. Drummond,” I began. I said nothing more, for she had already turned her attention to Felicity. Mrs. D’s sister-in-law, Lady Dunston, now had me in her sights and Miss McLea was coming to shake my hand. No one mentioned the visit to the dean.

I was aching to cut through it all and unburden myself. “Mrs. Drummond,” I began again, reaching around her sister-in-law and Felicity. “I have bad news.”

Mrs. Drummond’s large brown eyes turned my way. “Now Agnes. You have only just arrived. Business can wait, can it not? Take off your coat. I will get you both some tea. And if I do say so, the jam cakes turned out marvellously.”

I looked over at Felicity, who at that moment was being dragged by well-meaning hands toward the table. Society women were odd. There was a protocol at these gatherings that they all mysteriously seemed to know. Each woman who walked in the door had to be greeted, seated and given tea before anything of substance could occur.

A short while later I was sitting on one of Mrs. D’s delicate carved chairs, a teacup balanced on my knee, listening to my hostess chatter about a cat she had just acquired. I glanced miserably across the room and saw Grandmother wending her way toward me with Laure.

“Agnes,” she said, walking up and clasping my hand. “You look splendid.” There followed a discussion of the dress I was wearing, which Mrs. D had given me. Grandmother had altered it, but now she pinched my waist. “It is loose,” she said unhappily. “My eyes are not what they used to be. I do not know how I missed it.”

“It is not your eyes,” I told her. “I think I have lost weight.”

Grandmother had recently celebrated her eightieth birthday and had quite suddenly turned old. Laure and I were still accustomizing ourselves to the change in her, but strangely, as her body stiffened and withered, her spirit grew suppler. This past year she had shown me more love than I could ever have imagined possible. Of course it helped that I had been successful, and that women like Mrs. Drummond and Lady Dunston were now backing my cause. What would happen, I could not help wondering, when Grandmother learned I had failed?

Laure, who had been busy scanning the room, turned to examine my waistline.

“Huntley Stewart is here,” I announced.

She blushed and looked away.

“He is with
The Herald
now,” I continued. “You did not tell me.”

“You dislike him.” Laure’s eyes once more began to roam.

“He was out on the porch having a fag.”

“Agnes,” said Grandmother in a warning tone. She disapproved of slang, but the warning went further than that. She was aware of my opinions of Huntley Stewart and thought them disloyal.

As if on cue Huntley and Andrew Morely poked their heads into the room. The maid followed remonstrating, but Mrs. Drummond rushed over and dismissed her, ushering the men in herself. I was dumbfounded. The rule at our meetings was to exclude reporters. What was publicized had been tightly controlled.

Huntley turned toward me and Laure and waved. Then he executed a theatrical bow for my sister’s benefit, closing his eyes and making circles with his fingers in front of his bent forehead like a courtier.

He was creating quite a stir. All eyes, including my own, were on him when a clinking sound made us start. It was Mrs. Drummond tapping her teacup with a spoon.

“Attention,” she called. I had grown fond of Mrs. Drummond. She was a hard-working soul with a great deal of common sense, but her voice went reedy when she made speeches and a British accent suddenly installed itself. “Attention,” she said again. “Everyone must come to order.”

My stomach turned. Mrs. Drummond was smiling as though the world were a happy place. Soon she would ask me to speak and I would be forced to admit my failure and disappoint at least half of the women on the island of Montreal. Felicity Hingston was standing behind Mrs. Drummond, looking strangely unconcerned. I tried to catch her eye but she would not look at me.

“We are gathered here in honour of an exceptional young lady,” said Mrs. Drummond. Light applause rippled through the room. “She has set her sights high, and special though she is, she would not have been able to reach her goal alone.” Murmurs could be heard along with modest laughter.

“Strength is found in numbers, ladies, in solidarity.” The room erupted in delighted applause. Mrs. Drummond had to wave her hands like a conductor to quiet the crowd. “Without the help of every single one of you, whether you were part of the organizing committee, circulated to solicit funds, wrote letters or simply badgered your husbands until they signed a cheque, the dream of this young woman could not have come to fruition.”

I looked over at the men. Andrew Morely was scribbling in a pad, but it was Huntley Stewart who worried me. He was leaning against the wall, examining his fingernails, as if nothing Mrs. Drummond said would be considered newsworthy. His hands were idle at the moment, but I hated to imagine how they would spring to action when he learned the outcome of my most recent discussion with the dean.

“Over the past three weeks,” Mrs. Drummond continued, “we have worked extremely hard. Agnes White, especially, has had to contend with exams and a heavy load of meetings, solicitations and correspondence. She has given interviews to journalists” — here she made a gesture toward the male visitors — “and lived with what they printed, whether it was hurtful or flattering.

“And it has paid off,” she concluded, her voice dropping an octave. “As of this morning a sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars has been collected. This is an astonishing show of support from the Montreal community in three short weeks. It is a credit to Agnes White and a sign that the women and men of this city are primed for change.”

Applause erupted again, but I could not join in. I did not understand why Mrs. Drummond was so jubilant. She knew the sum was insufficient and that I had been forced to ask for an extension to find the remaining money.

Mrs. Drummond continued in the same animated tone. “We need another one hundred thousand dollars to meet the demand set by McGill.” It was madness. Impossible. Especially since no extension would be granted.

“This is a tall order. One that even this committee, with its enthusiasm and commitment, must consider daunting. Fortunately, there are others in the wings waiting to help.” She paused dramatically, looking around the room to make sure all eyes were watching.

“I have news, ladies. While Agnes was visiting the dean of medicine this morning, I dropped in on the solicitors of Lord Strathcona, whose name in Montreal is synonymous with women’s education. Lord Strathcona is presently in London. He returns to Canada next month, but in the interim he is following our campaign closely via correspondence with me and others who support the cause. The McGill Donaldas are his spiritual daughters, as you know.” Mrs. Drummond paused again, this time to withdraw an envelope from her purse. “Lord Strathcona wishes to extend his generosity to aspiring female doctors.”

Mrs. Drummond accepted an ivory-handled letter opener from her maid and slit the top of the envelope. Then she turned to me. “You will do the honours, Agnes dear?”

I had to look at the cheque twice, counting all the zeros to make sure I was not dreaming. There were five. “One hundred thousand dollars,” I read aloud.

In the seconds of silence that followed I raised my head. Directly in front of me, still leaning against the wall was Huntley Stewart, jaw sprung wide open. Beside him was Andrew Morely, but his face was concealed by the black box of a camera.

In the next moment a flash exploded, blinding me. People began chanting my name. Felicity was beside me now, hugging me, hopping up and down. Grandmother put her hand on me, and even Laure squeezed me and said my name. I stood in the middle of this swaying, boisterous mass, speechless with surprise.

7

MAY 1, 1890

The doorbell rang just as Laure was jabbing the last pins into my hair. “Oh no,” she said, snatching the small hand mirror from me and peering into it. “He’s here!”

Laure’s face was, as usual, just fine. Her hair too. The previous night she had spent two hours tying it up in rags, and this morning a mass of rich, honey-coloured ringlets spilled out from under her stylish hat.

“You look perfect,” said Grandmother, moving toward the door. “Shall I bring him in? Is Agnes done?”

I reached a hand up to feel my hair and the bonnet lent to me by Laure. I certainly hoped I was done, but there was no way to tell because Laure had the mirror and was now running with it in rings around the kitchen. “Oh jeez,” she kept saying, staring at her curls. “Oh jeezlumbud!”

The front door opened and we heard Huntley Stewart’s brusque hello. Grandmother laughed then, girlishly, and there was a pause as Huntley removed his galoshes. He was here to take Laure and Grandmother to meet his mother. It was an occasion as important to our family as my meeting would be at McGill. Neither Laure nor I had slept much the previous night. All morning we had been edgy, even though we both believed our meetings would be successful.

“Mister Stewart is here,” Grandmother sang out, leading Huntley into the kitchen.

He stopped in the doorway, repeating his French-courtier bow from the day before. When he straightened his eyes were fixed on my sister. “You are as lovely as a spring day.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks. Had he not noticed it was pouring outside? Spring days were not all the same, but Laure was blushing as if the simile were a wonderful compliment.

Huntley then looked at me. “I brought you these, Agnes,” he said, holding out a soggy bag. “They got wet but I figured you would want to take a look.”

Laure and Grandmother crowded in as I spread the newspapers out on the table. There were three of them and my face shone from the front page of each one. The photograph was the same, taken the previous day at Mrs. Drummond’s party.

“Three pictures!” Grandmother exclaimed.

“She’s front-page news on every single paper,” said Huntley, “although our headline is the best.”

“‘McGill’s quarter-million-dollar girl,’” I read aloud.

Huntley beamed with pride. “Thought it up myself.”

I smiled back. As nicknames went, it was tolerable. He had always had a knack for one-liners. His writing, I had to admit as I skimmed the piece under his byline, was not bad.

“I hear you’re meeting Laidlaw today,” Huntley said when I looked up.

“At noon,” said Grandmother. “The same hour as your mother’s invitation.”

Huntley grinned. “I am off work today, or I might have ended up accompanying the elder sister instead of the younger.” He gazed at Laure, who lowered her eyes demurely.

I waved as though it didn’t matter. “You’ve already written the scoop, Huntley. The rest is denouement.” I lifted up
The Herald
, pretending to read Huntley’s article, but really looking at my grainy face. I was not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but unlike in my school photograph my face here was not displeasing. I liked my eyes, which looked alert even through my glasses.

We talked for a few more minutes. Huntley surprised me by offering to drive me to McGill in his trap before returning for Laure and Grandmother, but I refused even though rain was now pummelling the kitchen window.