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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781619700802 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hendrickson Publishers, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 04/18/2021 |
| Series: | Cheney Duvall, M.D. , #6 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 366 |
| Sales rank: | 361,249 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Lynn Morris, daughter of popular historical novelist Gilbert Morris, is a recognized and talented writer in her own right. The first novel in this eight-book series was originally published in 1994, and it was an immediate bestseller (nearly half-a million combined sales of the eight novels in the series). The author’s careful background explorations of the historical setting, the medical customs of the late 1800s, and the training institutions finally being opened to women, make for intriguing plots and dramatic tensions for the memorable character of Cheney Duvall.
Lynn has a grown daughter and lives near her parents in Alabama.
Read an Excerpt
In the Twilight, in the Evening
By Lynn Morris
Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC
Copyright © 1997 Lynn Morris and Gilbert MorrisAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61970-080-2
CHAPTER 1
Tiger in the Garden
"Just look at this diagram of the brain!" Cheney exclaimed.
"Cheney, be still," her friend Victoria ordered crossly.
"It's by Andreas Vesalius! Sixteenth century! Can you believe it?" Cheney waved the enormous book in the air. At such times it was obvious how much Cheney Duvall, M.D., loved her chosen profession. Her maid, Nia, hurried to stand behind her chair so she could look over Cheney's shoulder. "Look, Nia, how intricate the detailing, how finely delineated the separate lobular structures—"
"The what?" Nia asked, bewildered.
"Cheney, I said for you to be still," Victoria repeated. She was sitting across from Cheney with a sketch pad on her lap and a charcoal pencil in her hand. "Stop waving that horrid book around and put it back in your lap."
"Hmm?" Cheney stared at Victoria in surprise. "What did you say?"
As Cheney spoke, she laid the book back on her lap and rested her right hand on top of the open pages. Without bothering to answer, Victoria ducked her head and resumed sketching. Every so often she looked up with the narrow, intense look of the artist at work.
"She's drawin' you," Nia offered helpfully from over Cheney's shoulder.
"So I see," Cheney said with amusement.
"Your hands," Nia added.
"Really?" Cheney couldn't see Victoria's sketch pad, as she was holding it at a slight angle. "Interesting. Anyway, look at this, Nia. It's a perfect illustration of the human brain, drawn in 1543 by a man named Andreas Vesalius. This De humani corporis fabrica is still one of the best anatomical treatises available."
"It's in Latin," Nia said mournfully.
"Yes ... well ..." Cheney hesitated, trying to think of how to encourage her servant, who wanted to become a doctor. Little Nia, eighteen years old, with her little-girl voice and big doe eyes and tiny hands. Nia, the daughter of slaves, who hadn't a hope of being able to attend a university. Nia, the young black woman whose odds of ever being accepted to one of the three medical colleges that occasionally accepted women were nonexistent. Nia, her maidservant and—Cheney had finally decided—her apprentice.
"You can look at the pictures," she finally told Nia. "Later—when I can use my hands again—we'll go through and I'll dictate the captions. You can write them in the book, in English. It'll help you remember. You can do it, Nia."
"I can do it," Nia repeated softly, then leaned farther over Cheney's shoulder to search the drawing more closely.
"I'm going to see if there is any possibility of getting you some formal medical training here," Cheney said softly, being careful to keep her hands still while Victoria was so avidly drawing them. "Perhaps the hospital will offer some lectures, or at least allow you to observe some dissections.... That is, I'll do all this for you if I am accepted there," she finished wryly.
"You will be," Nia said confidently. "You're a great doctor, Miss Cheney."
"Let's hope Dr. J. E. Baird thinks so, Nia. It sounds like St. Francis de Yerba Buena Hospital is exactly what I want. I really wanted to go to apply for a position today, but Victoria wouldn't let me."
"After a month on that ship from New Orleans? And you can't even take off your bonnet before you're sashayin' off down to that hospital?" Nia sniffed in outrage. "Good for Mrs. de Lancie. You need to rest."
"Yes, so I thought, but now I'm beginning to think that Victoria just wanted me to stay around the house so she could draw my hands. I hope she finishes in a day or two so I can move." Cheney spoke with exasperated affection. Victoria gave no sign that she'd heard.
Victoria de Lancie had, in effect, made this opportunity possible for Cheney. Victoria's father, Henry Andrew Steen, was a wealthy New Yorker whose riches had originated in the diamond mines of Africa. But he had investments and financial interests all over America, and he was also a dedicated philanthropist. He was one of the founders of St. Francis de Yerba Buena, an experimental private hospital in San Francisco. Victoria was certain that Cheney would be granted a position as a staff physician; in sprawling, ebullient, gold-and-silver-fed San Francisco, even a woman doctor was a valuable addition to a tragically understaffed field. San Francisco's work force consisted mainly of gold miners, ex-gold miners, silver miners, and ex-silver miners.
Cheney looked out over the gardens sprawling below the back veranda of Steen House. Although they had only arrived in San Francisco the previous day, Cheney had already come to appreciate the city's distinct beauty. Gentle veils of mist floated in the rather untamed gardens and grew more tangible as the western sun lit them. The combination of gossamer fog and golden light made the gardens and the glimpses of the city laid out below Russian Hill look as if they glowed from within.
"I don't understand why you don't paint this landscape, Victoria," Cheney declared. "The quality of the light is like nothing I've ever seen."
Victoria grandly ignored her. Actually, she was not consciously disregarding her friend; she was just so engrossed in her sketching that she was oblivious to her surroundings.
"Victoria, dear," Cheney prodded, watching her curiously.
Still Victoria looked at Cheney's hands, then back at her paper, her charcoal moving quickly.
Cheney watched her affectionately for a long time.
Victoria Elizabeth Steen de Lancie was a study for an artist herself. Delicately framed but curvy, silvery-blond, with sparkling blue eyes and an elegant hauteur in every movement, Victoria was, by Cheney's estimation, the epitome of fashionable beauty.
Cheney also reflected ruefully that her friend sometimes made her feel mannishly tall and gangly and clumsy. Victoria's tiny feet made Cheney feel as if she herself had frog flippers.
It wasn't true, of course. Cheney was tall, five feet ten inches. Though she'd been coltish when she was younger, now, at nearly twenty-six, her own unique beauty was fully formed. She was animated, energetic, her features were rich. Her green eyes sparkled. Her face was squarish, with a wide mouth, a firm chin, and straight dark brows. From her mother she'd inherited a beauty mark high on her left cheekbone. Her luscious, thick, auburn hair crowned her rather dramatic looks.
Deep down Cheney harbored no serious insecurities about her looks or her demeanor. She knew she wasn't clumsy. She was quick and agile, decisive in her walk and her movements, confident and comfortable with her capable femininity. In 1867 some might have considered these traits contradictory, but Cheney had found mild satisfaction in being a striking woman and great joy in being a successful physician.
These thoughts flitted through her busy mind as Nia continued to squint over her shoulder, and Cheney's eyes narrowed as she considered Victoria's utter absorption in her sketching.
"You know, Nia," she murmured thoughtfully, "stroke victims are fascinating."
Nia sighed. Victoria, of course, had never had a stroke. But by now Nia had grown accustomed to Cheney's teaching her something by approaching it in a somewhat sideways manner. "Yes, Miss Cheney? How's that?"
"If the stroke affects the right side of the body," Cheney said almost inaudibly, as if reciting to herself, "that affects the left side of the brain. This results in a loss of speech capability ... the victim can't talk. He can't remember simple words."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"But that study ... what was it? I'll have to look it up. The musician," Cheney muttered to herself. "He had a stroke that paralyzed his left side, and therefore affected the right side of his brain ... and he could still articulate perfectly, but he couldn't write music, or even understand or ... or ... comprehend music anymore."
Nia mulled this over, her brow wrinkling.
Cheney sat up straighter. "Victoria," she said clearly. "Victoria, can you hear me?"
Victoria kept drawing busily, her face absorbed, and never gave a sign that she'd heard Cheney. After long moments she finally murmured vaguely, "Hmm ...?"
"Victoria Elizabeth Steen de Lancie," Cheney said loudly, watching Victoria with ardent curiosity.
Victoria kept sketching. This time she didn't respond in any way.
Cheney flashed a smile up at Nia. "I think we might have a study of the brain here, Nia," she told her gleefully. "I theorize that our subject—Victoria—cannot talk and sketch at the same time. I further theorize that since speech capability appears to be centered in the left side of the brain, perhaps the more complex perceptual functions, such as writing music and doing a painting, are functions of the right side of the brain. She literally can't understand speech or figure out how to talk while she's drawing."
"But, Miss Cheney—'course Mrs. de Lancie can understand you and can talk. She's just busy, is all," Nia said tentatively.
Cheney turned back to face Victoria. "Listen, Victoria."
She waited, but the artist was still lost in her art.
"Victoria," Cheney said loudly, "there is a tiger in the garden."
After long moments Victoria hummed, "Hmm ...?"
"A tiger," Cheney repeated precisely. "With polka dots instead of stripes. And a big red cravat. He's given you permission to draw him instead of my astounding beauty."
"Hmm ...?"
"The tiger," Cheney insisted.
"Um ... hmm ..." Victoria responded, still drawing furiously.
"Now watch this," Cheney whispered mischievously. In a quick movement, she swept her hands behind her back.
Victoria visibly started, her otherworldly gaze focused on the denuded book on Cheney's lap, and she frowned darkly. "Cheney," she bit off impatiently, "I told you, do be still!"
"When did you tell me that?" Cheney asked innocently.
"You know I just told you, or tried to!" Victoria retorted. "Now, put your hands back on—good gracious, it's almost night!" She said this accusingly to the air, as if it had suddenly ambushed her with darkness.
Cheney and Nia looked at each other and smiled knowingly.
"And what is so amusing?" Victoria haughtily demanded. "You know, Cheney dear, it's rude to indulge in private jokes when others are present."
"I can't tell that anyone else has actually been present for the last half hour or so," Cheney replied. Nia giggled.
Victoria sniffed. "Just because I don't want to look at your horrible old brain pictures doesn't mean I wasn't paying attention. I heard everything you were saying."
"Did you, Victoria dear?" Cheney asked mildly. "What was I talking about?"
"Andreas Vesalius, sixteenth century," Victoria replied superciliously. "De humani corporis fabrica."
Cheney looked triumphantly up at Nia. "See? That's when she started drawing again. Fascinating—I wonder how we could do an organized study of it." Excitedly she turned back to Victoria, who looked both puzzled and outraged. "Victoria, start drawing again," Cheney ordered.
"Dr. Duvall, I am not your trained tiger," Victoria said with stiff politeness, then looked bewildered. "Did I say tiger? I meant to say monkey. How very odd...."
Cheney and Nia laughed, and Victoria began to look belligerent, which on her meant a tightening of her shapely mouth and a scornful lift of her left eyebrow. She started to say something, but at that moment a jarring, screeching crash rent the quietness of the gardens. Horses neighed and screamed in panic, accompanied by a skin-crawling screech of wood splintering.
The three women jumped and stared at one another wide-eyed. Cheney was the first to recover. "Down the street, over that way! It must be a carriage accident! Hurry, Nia, go get a lamp and wait for me in the vestibule!"
Cheney was already hurrying through the Steen house, darting up the stairs to her bedroom to get her medical bag. She grabbed two clean sheets out of the linen press and ran back down to meet Nia in the vestibule. Together they ran out the front door.
The Steen house was on the very summit of Russian Hill, with three roads leading up to the drive. To their right they could hear the unmistakable sounds of men shouting hoarsely, one man crying out in pain, and panicked horses. This road, to the southeast, was narrow, ill-lit, and crooked.
By the time Nia and Cheney rounded the third curve and saw the accident, they were running at top speed from the steepness of the decline. Cheney skidded to a stop and took two deep breaths while she made a fast assessment of the situation. Beside her, Nia held the lamp high and steady.
A wooden cart had been coming down the hill, and a fine carriage coming up. They'd collided as they rounded one of the tight curves. The cart was almost completely demolished, a pile of shards and pikes in the middle of the road. The carriage was intact but was lying on its side half buried in a ditch. Evidently both vehicles had been moving at a fast clip, because the three horses were still entangled in one another's traces and harnesses, and were screaming and rearing and fighting, adding a nightmarish backdrop to the grisly scene.
"Multiple injured," Cheney breathed, half to herself and half to Nia.
Three injured men lay in the road. The one nearest to Cheney and Nia was an older man, perhaps sixty, dressed in rough clothing. Cheney thought he might be the cart driver. He lay on his left side, his chalk face turned expressionlessly toward them. Kneeling by him was a young man, finely dressed, obviously uninjured.
To their right a young man of about twenty groaned loudly, his face strained, his eyes wide and panicked. He struggled to sit up. Blood streamed from his forehead, and a wicked-looking spike of wood protruded from the fleshy outer part of his right thigh.
Farther along, dangerously close to the storm of horses, another man was lying motionless on his back. Cheney could see he was dressed in pegged pants and a three-tiered coat—a carriage driver's livery. A gentlemanly older man, evidently uninjured, knelt by him, his ear against his chest.
All this took only a few seconds to register on Cheney's mind and in her brain. She stepped forward and called loudly, "You two men! Don't touch them, don't move them! I'm a doctor, and I'll see to them!"
The two uninjured men looked up at her in amazement.
Cheney spoke first to the well-dressed young man. "You! Go back there and attend to those horses, or we'll all end up lying here in the street senseless!" The horses were fighting and stamping, and the traces were still attached to the wreckage of the cart and the overturned carriage. All of them were in danger of being run over by the horses, should they get loose, or of being hit by what was left of the cart and the carriage if the horses bolted.
Then she knelt down swiftly for a closer look at the cart driver. Nia hovered close behind her, trying to hold the lamp to Cheney's best advantage. But the young man stayed where he was and stared at her with surprise and disbelief.
"Sir, are you injured?" she asked him brusquely.
"What? No, no, of course not," he said with some confusion. "I was just—"
"I told you, I'm a doctor," Cheney repeated impatiently. "I'll take care of these men. Now, go get those horses calmed down, please, before they break loose and bolt."
He stood up and looked uncertainly down at her, then behind his shoulder at the other uninjured man. Both of the men were finely dressed, and Cheney thought they must have been the occupants of the carriage. Gruffly the older man jerked his thumb toward the horses, though he was watching Cheney with narrowed eyes. The young man hurried to the horses and tangle of harness.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from In the Twilight, in the Evening by Lynn Morris. Copyright © 1997 Lynn Morris and Gilbert Morris. Excerpted by permission of Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Copyright,Dedication,
A Note to Readers,
Opening Scripture,
Part One: Mingled Wine,
Chapter 1: Tiger in the Garden,
Chapter 2: The Mission,
Chapter 3: Odd Hours, Unusual Topics,
Chapter 4: House of the Good Herb,
Part Two: Better than Rubies,
Chapter 5: The Most Dangerous City,
Chapter 6: Houses and Stuff and Papers and Stuff,
Chapter 7: By First Intention,
Chapter 8: Commoners Firsthand,
Part Three: Knowledge of Witty Inventions,
Chapter 9: Of Pertinence and Impertinence,
Chapter 10: Full o' the Moon and Likewise Thirteen Friday,
Chapter 11: Fear and Fever,
Chapter 12: Dramatic Lighting and Poorly Staged Plays,
Part Four: Better than the Mighty,
Chapter 13: Renaissance and Baroque,
Chapter 14: That Shiny Foolery,
Chapter 15: Yesterday, Now, and Always,
Chapter 16: Dragons and Pearls,
Chapter 17: Temperament and Taste,
Part Five: Stolen Waters,
Chapter 18: Just Plain Miracles,
Chapter 19: Traps and Trappings,
Chapter 20: Inquiries, Investigations, Information,
Chapter 21: At Some Time, Love,
Chapter 22: Beckoning Sirens,
Epilogue,
Author's Note,
