The Death of a Dowager by Joanna Campbell Slan

Author:Joanna Campbell Slan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2013-02-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 30

The address of the surgery confounded Williams. “It should be here, sir, but all I can see is a passage. It isn’t wide at all. We’re four streets south of Marylebone, just as we are supposed to be. But this should be the place.”

“Perhaps if I can move in closer to the façade, I’ll discover an entrance. Or where we’ve gone wrong,” I said.

Williams helped me climb out of the carriage, and then while Edward was stepping out, I walked nearer to the brick-fronted buildings. As the driver had explained, between the two structures was a narrow passage that needed sweeping with a good broom. Beyond the clutter of dead leaves and old newspapers was a door once painted white and now streaked gray with an overlay of coal dust. Nailed to that singularly unwelcoming entrance was a small sign with the words “PARMENTER/3RD FLOOR.”

It did not seem at all promising, particularly for a man meant to be a renowned oculist, but what other options did we have?

None.

I led Edward up the narrow stairs. At the top, a painted sign with one word, “OCULIST,” swung from a set of rusty chains. An arrow pointed us down a hallway to the right. I knocked on the only door. In response there came the sound of footsteps across a wooden floor.

“Mr. Parmenter?” I asked when the door opened.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, I presume? Mr. Carter wrote me about your case. Do come in. I believe you’ve already met Mr. Lerner? Good, good, good.”

The man who greeted us had a face as round as a full moon, embraced by overgrown sideburns peppered in white and gray hair. I judged Mr. Parmenter to be in his forties or early fifties. The clothes he wore fit him badly, and his shirt cuffs were threadbare. But his eyes arrested my attention: They were gray as a wet cobblestone but soft as the feathers of a dove, and they seemed to take in every bit of me with great interest. Behind them, I could tell, was a quick-moving mind, with an agility that shone like a candle inside a glass jar.

The office’s greeting area was Spartan, with three hard-backed chairs in a row like Grecian columns. Two very small and poorly done watercolor landscapes failed to brighten the dingy wall.

“My examination room is this way. Mind the threshold. Step up a bit, please.” The specialist guided my husband with one hand on Edward’s elbow. I followed along behind, blinking rapidly in the bright light. Here the walls had been recently painted with a coat of whitewash. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets with glass fronts displayed an astonishing array of implements, many resembling buttonhooks and crochet tools. On other shelves rested models of the human eye, animal skulls, textbooks with cracked covers, and clear glass jars in which unmoored eyes floated. I found the display both provocative and disgusting.

Mr. Parmenter led Edward to a simple cot, such as the ones used in our sickroom at Lowood. He encouraged his companion to step forward, saying, “Mrs.

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