“So is body snatching, and yet you aren’t suggesting I become a grave robber.”
The tip of his nose is going red from the cold. “Perhaps employment as a nurse at the hospital, then. They’re always looking for young women here, and at Bethlem. I’d be happy to put in a word.”
I fold my arms. “You mean spooning soup into mouths of invalids and sweeping up the wards after the surgeons walk through it?” I had not woken today thinking I would get in an argument with a famous physician, but if I wanted to cook for men, I’d have stayed in Edinburgh and married Callum. “I don’t want to be a midwife. Or a nurse.”
“You’re so determined to become a lady doctor then,” he says.
“No, sir,” I reply, “I’m determined to become a doctor. The matter of my sex I would prefer to be incidental rather than an amendment.”
He sighs, though it comes out round with a chuckle. “It’s a shame you weren’t here a few weeks ago, Miss Montague. I would have handed you off to Alexander Platt. You two would get on famously.”
Even knowing that it is anatomically impossible in relation to my continued state of living, I swear my heart actually stops. “Alexander Platt . . . as in the author of Treaties on the Anatomy of Human Bones?” As in Alexander Platt, my idol, the working-class surgeon among all these wigged fops who man the hospitals. Alexander Platt, who was discharged from his post as a navy surgeon for his tireless campaign for anatomical dissections to better understand what killed men on the sea. Alexander Platt, who cut his teeth and dirtied his hands walking hospital wards in the French Antilles before he ever was allowed to set foot in an Edinburgh hospital. Alexander Platt, whose work on arsenate poisoning earned him a spot as a visiting lecturer in Padua when he was just twenty-two. Alexander Platt, who had proved one did not need money or a title to be a physician—just a good brain and a determination to use it.
Cheselden beams. “The same. He was here last month.”
“Giving lectures?” I ask.
“No, it’s a rather unfortunate situation. He had his license suspended several years ago and . . . well, it’s all a very sticky business.” He laughs, too high, his eyes darting away from mine before he finishes, “But he was here seeking hands for an expedition he’s undertaking.”
“He left on an expedition?” I ask, and it comes out pinched by disappointment.
“Not yet—he’s gone to the Continent, to be married. He sets off for the Barbary States on the first of the month to complete some research. You should write to him and say I recommended you—he’s less likely be put off by your sex than the men here in London. He’s taken on work with women before.”
Of course he has! I want to shout. He’s Dr. Alexander Platt, and I have excellent taste in idols! “Do you know where I might write him?”
“He’s staying with his intended and her family in Stuttgart—the uncle’s surname is Hoffman, and the bride is . . . give me a moment, it will come to me . . . Josephine? No, that’s not it. Joan?” He runs a hand over his chin. “Something beginning with a J and an O.”
My joy turns bloated and sick. When the name of one’s only childhood friend is brought up unexpectedly, years’ worth of memories you vowed to rid yourself of entirely bob to the surface. Particularly when that friendship ended as poorly as ours did.
“Johanna?” I squeak, hoping he’ll say otherwise.
But he snaps his fingers. “Yes, exactly that. Johanna Hoffman. Very clever of you.”
Of course. Of course another felled tree blocks my path. Of course the woman marrying Dr. Platt is the last person who’d want to welcome me into her home.
Oblivious to my strife, Cheselden goes on, “You might write to Dr. Platt via Miss Hoffman. I know he’s intending to set out as soon as the wedding is finished, so you may be too late, but you’ve no loss dropping a line.”
“When’s the wedding?” I ask.
“Three weeks from Sunday. Perhaps a bit optimistic for a letter to arrive by then.”
It is almost impossible that, in such a short time, my letter could find its way to Dr. Platt and he would find time amid marriage and planning an expedition to read it and he would be so taken with my written plea alone that he would offer me a position and I would then have enough time to travel to wherever he was leaving from and make his acquaintance. An even slimmer chance that any letter bearing my name would not immediately be ripped to shreds by Johanna Hoffman, a girl with whom I have a checkered history as expansive as the list of names upon the walls of the Great Hall.
But . . . if it wasn’t a letter that showed up on his doorstep, but rather me in the passionate, intelligent flesh, then I might have more of a chance.
Dr. Cheselden fishes in his coat pocket for a calling card and hands it to me. “Do tell Alex I advised you to write him.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“And Miss Montague—the very best of luck to you.” He touches two fingers to his forehead, then turns down the street, his coat collar turned up against the wind.
I wait until he’s out of sight before I spin to face Monty and grab his arm, though he’s so bundled I mostly get a handful of sweater. “Look at that! I told you it all went according to my plan.”
Monty is looking far less enthusiastic than I’d anticipated—I had even been willing to let him hug me had he offered, but instead he’s rubbing the back of his neck with a frown. “That was . . . something.”
“Try not to sound too excited.”
“He was bloody patronizing to you.”
“Much less than anyone else was. And he gave me a card!” I wave the creamy stock engraved with Cheselden’s name and office address at him. “And told me to write to Dr. Platt—the Dr. Alexander Platt. You know, I was telling you about him yesterday at breakfast.”
“The one who lost his license to practice surgery?” he says.
“Because he’s a radical,” I reply. “He doesn’t think like the other doctors. I’m certain that’s why.” Monty scuffs his toe against the pavement, eyes downcast. I press the card between my hands like I’m praying over it. “I’m going to go to Stuttgart. I have to meet him.”
“What was that?” Monty’s head snaps up. “What happened to writing?”
“A letter will not get his attention in the way I need to,” I reply. “I’m going to show up and introduce myself, and he’ll be taken with me and offer me the position.”
“You think you’re just going to show up on his doorstep and he’s going to hire you?”
“No, I’m going to go to the wedding and dazzle him with my exceptional promise and work ethic, and then he will hire me. And,” I add, though I know this trail is more treacherous, “I know Johanna Hoffman—you remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he replies, “but I didn’t think you two parted on good terms.”
“So we had a small falling-out,” I say with a flippant wave to undercut the grandness of this understatement. “Doesn’t mean it won’t seem perfectly innocent for me to show up at her wedding. We’re friends! I’m celebrating with her!”