CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

1

There was a hollow, unused sound to the bell at Lillian's door. Snow felt furtive, as if he should turn up his coat collar or make some other typical gesture of concealment.

It wasn't until a maid opened the door that he realized the knocker was tied with a small stiff black ribbon. The ribbon wasn't anywhere near big enough for a family member. Some servant, he thought. This time she let him in, and went off to get Lillian.

He had to wait in a stiff green parlor for twenty minutes, where he began leafing through an album of photographs of India, all large and mounted on gold-leaf paper. Most were colonial types, sitting stiffly beside men in turbans or atop an elephant. Then he was faced with a picture of a much younger Lillian, different from the way he'd imagined her an hour ago, standing with her stepmother and two women in saris, in front of a white veranda. She must have moved her hand as the photographer snapped his shutter, for instead of her right hand there was nothing but a white blur, looking like a dove's wing in flight.

"Ghastly, aren't they? I hate photograph portraits."

Snow jumped, startled and sheepish. Lillian had come in too quietly for him to hear. He hastily shut the book. He felt as if he had been meddling.

He looked up and felt a moment of physical shock on seeing her in full mourning. A quick electric pulse shot down his fingertips and left an alert tingling, while he took in the matte black dress, jet earrings, and the absurd widow's cap, which was too large for her. She must have borrowed her stepmother's.

Even though Snow had seen countless women in widow's weeds, the effect was as ghastly as if she were the first.

She looked older. There was a barely discernible graininess in the delicate skin under her eyes, which he hadn't noticed three days before. She was not less beautiful; just graver and sterner.

Behind her a dark thin boy emerged from the doorway, his eyes overly large for his face. At first Snow thought the child might be consumptive, but on a longer look he seemed to be one of those types of perversely healthy children who are never ill with so much as a cold, but whose ribs can always be counted and every line of cartilage marked on their faces.

The boy stepped closer to Lillian, looking questioningly at Snow, and reached out his hand to her as a much younger child might have.

She held him in front of her like a shield, her hands not on his narrow shoulders but farther down, meeting protectively across his chest. He was placid under her touch.

Snow was so thrown off by this unexpected third person that he didn't know where to begin. Then it came to him, in a blink of thought. Of course. Her child.

His first impulse was to look around, glance furtively out the window, and through the door to the hall. "Don't hold him like that," he whispered to Lillian. "People will suspect."

She gave a low, harsh laugh. "You make too much of my claims to virtue. You, of all people, should know better."

Snow found himself breathing quickly as his anger rose. The fat packet of letters in his inner pocket pressed against his chest like an examiner's hand feeling for palpitations.

"He doesn't look like you, except in the mouth," Snow said. Her mouth to him had always been so obviously sensuous, that he intended this as a barb, but it seemed to have no effect on her.

She glanced down at the top of the boy's head, and while still looking down, she said, "And his hands. His fingernails are shaped just like mine." She looked up and held one of her own hands out for demonstration. Paul kicked at the carpet, not in rebellion, but abstractly, passing the time until the grownups finished their talk.

Snow found himself drawn in, wanting to examine the hands for comparison, itching to step closer, near enough to touch her, to smell the soap she used.

Instead he pulled out the packet of letters and held them up. "These are yours." He tossed them on a side table with legs carved like dog feet. Cherubs entwined its rim.

Lillian stepped over, one arm still around the boy, and delicately fingered the packet. There was only a moment of confusion before she blushed deeply in a dark pink glow that started at her neck and moved upwards at the speed of blood. She left them there. "These don't matter now. I am done with secrets."

"I wish I had known that two hours ago." His anger showed only as a slight tightening of his voice, but she heard it and seemed to become alert for the first time.

"What do you mean? Where did you get these?"

"You had better send that boy upstairs, if you can bear to part with him for a moment."

"Yes, you're right. Paul, go upstairs to your room. I'll be along in a little while." The child turned obediently and left without looking at Snow.

It was a relief to see him go. Snow felt hostile toward him, with his uncanny silence and watching eyes.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Snow lost his control. "Do you realize what you have done?" His voice was shaking. "Greeley brought those letters to me this morning and said he'd expose you. And here I find you dressed like a crow, fondling the boy as if he were a pet spaniel. I suppose you intend to keep none of it a secret?"

She raised her chin. "There's no point. It's not a question of shame. I no longer feel things like that."

"You! What does it matter what you feel? What about the boy? Will he want it known that his father was a swindler?"

She didn't seem at all surprised that he knew who the letters were about. "Would you prefer that I raise the boy under the shadow of a constant lie, as his father did? He was a weak and vulgar man. I was one of his mistakes."

She went on. "Why do you concern yourself at all about it?

I hold you to no obligation as far as the two of us are concerned. That goes without saying."

Snow felt his anger soften. She looked so self-punishing. But it would have been too easy to let it drop. Too many things were unfinished. "Why didn't you tell me about any of this?" He tried not to sound self-righteous, without much success.

"Tell you what? About the boy? I only knew he was alive a few days ago."

"And what about Sir Philip? You could have said something, kept me from feeling like such a fool."

"I wouldn't have known that your pride was so sensitive."

"Don't sound so smug. It's not pride, nor is it jealousy, as you might like to think. Those letters cost me two years' work. I didn't get them for nothing." Snow was stung into telling her this, and he hadn't planned to.

"You said Greeley gave them to you."

"Don't you understand yet? He took my cholera manuscript. They were sold to me, not given. Your great family friend was fully prepared to publish them. He said he got them from some mad stepbrother before the fellow died of cholera." He saw her hard expression falter. "Someone you were supposed to have an ...unnatural affection for." He knew it was spiteful but he said it anyway.

She stared at Snow, finally seeming to understand. "Henry — dead —" She sat down suddenly and put a hand to her forehead. Then she slowly began to stroke the inside of her forearm with one finger, a gesture that made no sense to Snow. She took a few deep breaths and went on. It was foolish of you, as you can see, to give him anything." She blushed again, deeply. "I will repay you, of course."

She stood and walked to a small desk and opened a drawer. "Surely a manuscript like that has a specific value? For how much shall I write out the cheque?"

Snow was unable to answer the question, or even to speak. He felt as if his mind were frozen in confusion and dismay. Every word they had spoken to each other was hostile and distant, and for himself at least, the exact opposite of what he was trying to tell her. He wanted her more than ever. The boy meant nothing to him. For all he cared she could have a dozen illegitimate children.

‘‘Lillian, please, I —"

She turned her face to him, the pen in her hand, her expression harsh and unforgiving. "The amount?" It sounded like an accusation, or a bitter insult.

There was a knock on the door and a maid stuck her head through. "If you please, miss, luncheon is served in the dining room. She raised her eyebrows on seeing Lillian's black dress, then looked at Snow. "Shall I set another place, miss?"

Snow picked up his hat and practically ran past the maid, down the stairs, and out the front door.

2

"They didn't want the bloody thing," shouted Greeley. He threw the pages on the floor of Snow's study where they fanned out like a big pack of cards, their edges now bent and smudged from so much handling.

At first Snow didn't believe him. Everything coming from Greeley was suspect now, even the most logical statements. He must have made some mistake, bungled it somehow.

"You aren't talking about The Lancet, are you?"

"What else could I mean? Did you think I'd take it to Punch?"

Snow wondered at his own disappointment. He should be pleased that Greeley's scheme had failed, but he felt only rejection. "What did they say, exactly?"

"They said the subject was stale. Too much on cholera already." Greeley absently checked his skull for the placement of a few strands of silver hair. "They said the proof wasn't strong enough, anyway.

"No," said Snow to himself. "They never have gone with the infection theories anyway. I should have known."

Greeley seemed to have recovered from his anger and bent to pick up the sheets of writing. "No matter," he said. "I'll just try The British Journal of Medicine."

Snow leaned forward and gripped the man's arm, more tightly than he had planned, and pulled him into an upright position. He saw him wince. For a moment Snow felt a rush of intense physical hatred, and had to strongly resist striking him in the face. He felt himself shaking with the effort.

"Get out of here," he said, and released his grip.

Greeley smiled horribly and rubbed the place on his arm. "You don't want to make a mistake like that, my boy. That girl's —"

"I don't give a bloody damn about the girl."

Greeley's grin became vague, his eyes grew less focused. "We could try a coauthorship. I'm willing to be fair. It wouldn't look half-bad, my —"

Snow lunged at him, just stopping himself from putting his hands around the pink throat, and instead grabbed both his shoulders and shoved him toward the door. The man became suddenly unresisting, and let himself be pushed out. He stumbled down the stairs with his shoulders stooping, not looking back.

As Snow stood at the top and watched him go, he felt a short rush of guilt and pity for Greeley. It faded almost before he noticed it.

He slowly gathered up his pages. During the scuffle he and Greeley had both tread on them, and they were scattered around, under the desk, a few over by the armchair. When he stood up with them clutched in a bunch in his hand, he found that he was sweating and his hands were shaking. He sat down for a few minutes, doing nothing, just staring into space.

It all seemed such a waste. He tried hard to think of the people he had saved by removing the pump handle. But it wasn't enough. Another pump could become contaminated tomorrow. Or right at this moment.

He had to try one more thing. Even if Caleb wouldn't help him print a part of the article, maybe they would take just a letter. He straightened out the pages, still in his lap, and went to lock them in a drawer of his desk. Then he left for The Times.

3

He could see Caleb through the glass door into his office, before Caleb could see him, and he watched Caleb's face while the clerk told him who was waiting. Caleb rubbed at his forehead, hard, and breathed out through his nose in a long, tired sigh before rising to meet Snow.

"Did The Lancet accept your paper?" Snow wanted to tell someone the story about Greeley, but not Caleb. All he said was, "No. And I have another favor to ask you."

Caleb was immediately guarded.

"I understand what you said about printing a portion of the whole report. But what about a letter? Any one could have sent in a letter.

Caleb shook his head. "I'm sorry. The chief editor said no. Nothing on cholera being infectious."

"But that's absurd! You know—"

"It's the final stance of the paper. No infection theories. He says it'll cause a panic. No one will want to drink any water in the whole city. The water proof and the pump, especially, were frightening to him. He said it was out of the question."

Snow felt that a defense was beyond him. It all seemed an enormous joke. "But, Caleb, you worked on this with me, at least at the beginning. You understand exactly what all the findings mean. Can't you see how urgent it is that we publicize it?"

Caleb looked out the window, away from Snow. "Perhaps you should forget about it and go back to your anesthesiology work." He turned back to Snow. "There's no question there. Your ether and chloroform research has been brilliant."

For some reason Snow remembered the letters against him that had appeared. It was all too easy. Now that he thought of it, no other newspaper had nonsensical correspondence like that, at least not against him. "The paper paid you to do it, didn't they. You wrote those letters against me. And they're paying you to keep my writing unpublished."

Caleb didn't answer him. He just kept looking at Snow, not quite as distant as before, his brows knitted.

"Constable's dead, Caleb. He can't hold you to any bargain."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Was it Greeley, then? He can't have paid you much. The old man's on the edge of madness, did you know that? I wouldn't side with him if I were you."

"You need a rest, Snow. I can't understand why you imagine all these things. It's simply a matter of editorial priorities. I know your theory is true. But that doesn't mean I can use the paper as a broadcasting tool."

Snow started to protest again but Caleb interrupted him.

"Think about it for a moment. Cholera is dying down fast.

There were only thirty cases in the whole city yesterday. People are calming down, getting back to business, coming back from the long vacation. And then we publish your letter, or even the whole paper, saying that water carries the thing, that the city's pipes are polluted, that nothing is safe. It will start all over again!"

"Cholera won't start."

"No, but all the rest. Did you know that five shops on Oxford Street were looted last week, during the worst of it?"

Snow said nothing. He wasn't listening any longer. Caleb's face began to swim before him, strangely out of shape, as if they were both underwater. A loud humming, which must have started some time before, blotted out all the clattering office sounds, and through it came Caleb's voice, dim now, maybe from another room.

"Snow, what the devil —"

A sudden sickening pain had racked the small of his back, and to his wretched embarrassment he found that he was urinating in his pants. He couldn't stand and knew he'd fall any moment. He stumbled toward Caleb's chair, where he sat with his head in his hands, rocking like a blind man.

"Not cholera. Kidneys," he panted, and tried to ask for a glass of water. "Or the chloroform experiments," he muttered, but his tongue felt as thick as if he'd been sucking on ice. He could focus on Caleb better now, and guessed that he assumed it was cholera. His face showed no fear, though, and Snow felt grateful to him for that. It was the last thought he had before passing out.