Mary waved a teaspoon airily. “Art is never done.”
“Literature is,” Louisa said. “Once it’s in print, that’s that.”
“What about new prefaces?” Laura said. “They’re filled with second thoughts. And even Mister Dickens, genius that he is, doubted, changed his mind, and altered the ending ofGreat Expectations.”
“I like his happier version better,” Mary said. “It leaves open the possibility that Pip and Estella marry in the end.”
“My dear, you are a romantic,” Louisa said.
“Not at all. I’m a realist. What rational person wants to plow through eight hundred pages of a three-volume novel only to be left heart-sore and depressed by a sad ending?”
“As much as painting and literature feed the spirit, the healing arts most ennoble,” Louisa said. “Did you see the recent edition ofThe Lancet, Doctor Lewis? On hospital outpatient treatment?”
“It had much to commend it. Sensible proposals to improve care,” Julia said. “I remember seeing a February copy of the journal on your reading table the last time I visited Blenheim Lodge.”
“I’ve always had an interest in medicine,” Louisa said. “If it wouldn’t be an intrusion, may I visit your clinic one day?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to take you on a tour. I’ll give you the address before I leave.”
Louisa said a little sadly, “How I admire your career . . . that you let no obstacle stand in your way. Had I your courage, I might have been a nurse.”
“Obstacles, indeed,” Mary said. “An artist friend I met inParis once said that the highest hurdle to a woman’s professional success is that she can never have a wife. Someone to darn the stockings and keep the house clean. Someone to do all the other disagreeable things, so she has time to paint.”
Helen said, “I imagine female physicians could use a wife to do the darning, too.”
“I see a look in my sister-in-law’s eye,” Mary said. “Louisa longs to say that I’ve never darned a stocking in my life, so I hardly need a wife.”
“I’ve said nothing, my dear, but now that you mention it . . .”
“After ten years together, my sister-in-law knows me too well.”
“Indeed, I do.” Louisa stood and smiled around the room. “This has been a delightful afternoon, but I’m a little tired now. Will you ladies excuse me?”
The company murmured farewells, and Louisa closed the sitting room door behind her.
Mary sighed. “I’m glad she came down and happy she stayed as long as she did.”
“I spoke to her at the exhibition yesterday,” Julia said.
“It was her first real outing.” Mary frowned. “If only . . . well, I’m betraying no secrets. If only Louisa had the children she always wanted. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so adrift in the world. So many disappointments. It broke my heart to witness her grief.”
“She’s still young,” Laura said, “and so beautiful. Has she ever been painted?”
“Charles tried, but he was never satisfied with the results.”
Laura nodded. “Perhaps life has happiness in store for her yet.”
“Perhaps.”
“And for you, my dear?” Laura said. “I saw Mister Quain squiring you around the East Room. He’s attractive, in a rakish sort of way.”
Mary shook her head. “Are you and Louisa conspiring to find me a husband?”
“Perhaps Mister Quain might be willing to darn your stockings.”
Mary laughed. “You met him, Laura. Does he look like a man who mends his own?”
“I am in earnest,” she said. “Marriage between professional partners is one solution to the challenge of matrimony for working women. Sharing life and labor, as it were.”
