Rittenhouse Square. The carriage came to a halt and we were met by a liveried Negro coachman who helped us down and ushered us into the house.
I had on occasion strolled across Rittenhouse Square and seen the mansions, a line of monuments to rewards of class, but had never before been inside one of them. However exalted my expectations for what I would find, they nonetheless proved inadequate. The second I stepped across the threshold, I was overpowered by opulence. The foyer was a huge oval, two stories high, with a promenade ringing the second floor, and topped by a stained-glass skylight, a celestial incarnation of the layout in the Dead House. The entire building appeared to be illuminated by electric lighting. Directly opposite the front door, a staircase of gleaming white marble snaked up to the second floor, lined with oil portraits of gloomy colonials or musty dowagers. Thick, ornately patterned Oriental rugs lay on either side of the mouth of the staircase. As I perused art and furnishings worthy of a museum, the four thousand dollars I was to receive at Johns Hopkins did not seem at all like a great deal of money.
Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Benedict waited to greet us. Benedict was in his late fifties and immense, well over six feet, with a large gray mustache and an even larger stomach. He worewhat seemed to be an embedded glower, and there were tufts of white hair growing from each ear, giving him the mien of an angry Etruscan god. Mrs. Benedict was portly as well, white-haired, and handsome, wearing a gown of green lace, buff lace gloves, and a diamond tiara. Four long strands of fat pearls draped over her more than ample bosom.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Osler,” said Benedict, stepping forward. “We are honored that you have joined us this evening.” He turned to me. His eyes were sapphire and, although a bit rheumy, his gaze was nonetheless penetrating. “And this must be your young protégé. It is good to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” Benedict’s voice was deep and seemed to roll out from within him. He spoke with the casual ease of a man comfortable in his supremacy. “May I present my daughter, Abigail.”
I had not seen Abigail Benedict as we entered but, from the moment she appeared at her father’s side, I knew she was remarkable. She was not pretty in the way that women were typically thought to be pretty—her nose was a trifle long and her lips a bit full—but I was transfixed all the same. She wore a high-necked gown of black velvet and no jewelry whatever. She was tall, like her parents, auburn-haired and lean, with her father’s extraordinary blue eyes.
I knew those eyes. I had seen them at Barker’s restaurant two days before. A fleeting smile played across Miss Benedict’s face and I knew that she remembered as well.
“Dr. Carroll,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand assertively, as would a man. She was not wearing gloves, revealing long and graceful fingers. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. I expect you to regale me over dinner with exotic tales of modern medicine.”
I took her hand and bowed, unsure if I was being mocked. How could anyone be sure of anything, standing amid the wealth of the pharaohs in a room the size of an operating theater, opposite a rich and beautiful woman who expected me to be witty and entertaining?
“I believe I warned you to wear armor, Ephraim,” said the Professor.
“Oh, I hope I am not as frightening as all that,” Miss Benedict said.
“Perhaps you would like to escort Dr. Carroll into the drawing room to join the other guests?” suggested Mrs. Benedict.
“I would be happy to, Mother,” Miss Benedict replied. She took my arm properly, not like Monique, but I found the very propriety somehow more discomfiting. The drawing room was cavernous and created the illusion of seeing those inside as at a distance, in the manner one would observe an acquaintance walking on the other side of a boulevard. The ceiling was at
I had on occasion strolled across Rittenhouse Square and seen the mansions, a line of monuments to rewards of class, but had never before been inside one of them. However exalted my expectations for what I would find, they nonetheless proved inadequate. The second I stepped across the threshold, I was overpowered by opulence. The foyer was a huge oval, two stories high, with a promenade ringing the second floor, and topped by a stained-glass skylight, a celestial incarnation of the layout in the Dead House. The entire building appeared to be illuminated by electric lighting. Directly opposite the front door, a staircase of gleaming white marble snaked up to the second floor, lined with oil portraits of gloomy colonials or musty dowagers. Thick, ornately patterned Oriental rugs lay on either side of the mouth of the staircase. As I perused art and furnishings worthy of a museum, the four thousand dollars I was to receive at Johns Hopkins did not seem at all like a great deal of money.
Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Benedict waited to greet us. Benedict was in his late fifties and immense, well over six feet, with a large gray mustache and an even larger stomach. He worewhat seemed to be an embedded glower, and there were tufts of white hair growing from each ear, giving him the mien of an angry Etruscan god. Mrs. Benedict was portly as well, white-haired, and handsome, wearing a gown of green lace, buff lace gloves, and a diamond tiara. Four long strands of fat pearls draped over her more than ample bosom.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Osler,” said Benedict, stepping forward. “We are honored that you have joined us this evening.” He turned to me. His eyes were sapphire and, although a bit rheumy, his gaze was nonetheless penetrating. “And this must be your young protégé. It is good to meet you, Dr. Carroll.” Benedict’s voice was deep and seemed to roll out from within him. He spoke with the casual ease of a man comfortable in his supremacy. “May I present my daughter, Abigail.”
I had not seen Abigail Benedict as we entered but, from the moment she appeared at her father’s side, I knew she was remarkable. She was not pretty in the way that women were typically thought to be pretty—her nose was a trifle long and her lips a bit full—but I was transfixed all the same. She wore a high-necked gown of black velvet and no jewelry whatever. She was tall, like her parents, auburn-haired and lean, with her father’s extraordinary blue eyes.
I knew those eyes. I had seen them at Barker’s restaurant two days before. A fleeting smile played across Miss Benedict’s face and I knew that she remembered as well.
“Dr. Carroll,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand assertively, as would a man. She was not wearing gloves, revealing long and graceful fingers. “I have been looking forward to meeting you. I expect you to regale me over dinner with exotic tales of modern medicine.”
I took her hand and bowed, unsure if I was being mocked. How could anyone be sure of anything, standing amid the wealth of the pharaohs in a room the size of an operating theater, opposite a rich and beautiful woman who expected me to be witty and entertaining?
“I believe I warned you to wear armor, Ephraim,” said the Professor.
“Oh, I hope I am not as frightening as all that,” Miss Benedict said.
“Perhaps you would like to escort Dr. Carroll into the drawing room to join the other guests?” suggested Mrs. Benedict.
“I would be happy to, Mother,” Miss Benedict replied. She took my arm properly, not like Monique, but I found the very propriety somehow more discomfiting. The drawing room was cavernous and created the illusion of seeing those inside as at a distance, in the manner one would observe an acquaintance walking on the other side of a boulevard. The ceiling was at
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