Blythe quickly glanced at the entry of the drawing room and then the gambling room but they were alone.
“That would indicate a once shared intimacy that I would rather others not speculate upon. Besides, that time was long ago and our lives have changed.”
“Perhaps when we are in private,” he whispered.
A gentle rose tinged her cheeks. “Perhaps,” she returned then walked into the drawing room and gestured to a group of individuals gathered in one of the larger seating areas. "When I left moments ago, a discussion had begun of Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus, published only a few months ago.”
“I have not had an opportunity to read it.” He had little time to read anything that wasn’t a medical text or journal.
“Is there any way to find out the name of the author? Someone here must know someone who works at the publisher,” someone insisted as they drew near.
“Is an author not named?” Orlando asked Blythe.
“It was anonymously published,” she answered.
“Then it must be a woman,” Orlando said, not realizing that it was loud enough to gain the attention of those in the discussion.
“Why do you say so?” a man he had never met asked.
“I have not read the book, but I have heard it discussed. Given the nature and horror contained within the pages, I do not believe it would have been purchased if a woman was named as the author, whereas if it were a man, it would be boldly displayed and the work fully accepted, as it is now.”
“Are you saying you would not read Frankenstein because it might have been penned by a woman?” Lavinia challenged him.
“That is not my claim at all,” Orlando defended. “Even if it was confirmed that a woman was the author, that would not keep me from reading it. But, given what I know of Society, those outside of this room anyway, it would be dismissed and not given the attention it likely deserves.” He glanced at those gathered. “Is that not one of the reasons Athena’s Salon came to be? Because women are not given the respect they deserve or seen as intelligent?”
“What of the morals of Dr. Frankenstein playing God in creating a human?” Someone asked of the others. “Is there not a moral issue there that should be discussed?”
Orlando drew Blythe aside. “I have heard little, but I’m not certain that I know fully what the book is about,” he whispered.
“Frankenstein took body parts from corpses and assembled them to create a man then with a spark, brought him to life.”
“A spark?” Orlando asked.
Blythe shrugged.
“Well, I suppose that since it is fiction, anything is possible if one has imagination enough.” He chuckled.
“As it is fiction and since the likelihood of someone creating a monster is unlikely, there is no moral dilemma because it is impossible,” another argued.
“What of the morality of how he came about the body parts he used.”
Visions of the limbs he had been forced to remove during the War on the Continent flashed in Orlando’s mind and he no longer found the conversation interesting.
“It says that he gathered the parts from charnel houses, graves and dissecting rooms. Is that not morally wrong to desecrate a body as such?” the man demanded.
“It is not when it is in the pursuit of medical science,” another announced and Orlando recognized the voice of his friend and colleague, Dr. Xavier Sinclair, sitting in a chair on the far side of the gathering, his wife, beside him.
“I thought you only studied the mind,” someone asked.
“I still attended medical school in Scotland, along with Dr. Valentine. Our education would have been lacking if it was not for the opportunity to study the human body.”
“It still is not right to take bodies, for their parts. Removing a limb…” The person did not finish, but Orlando could listen no longer. He’d removed far too many limbs and did not want to be reminded.
“Excuse me,” he said before he walked away to refill his brandy in hopes that the cries of agony and the burning of discarded arms and legs and the stench that it caused would leave his memory. He had not thought of those days in a long time and did not want to think about them now. He had come here to see Blythe, not relive the days when she had been his, but not truly his.
“I am sorry,” Blythe said as she drew near him.
“You have nothing the apologize for.”
