Free The Heart Specialist by Claire Holden Rothman

Laure was studying her shoes.
    “You know each other?”
    Huntley nodded. “I only learned yesterday that you two were related. The resemblance is not obvious.”
    “Huntley asked to escort me home,” said Laure, changing the subject. “Grandmother gave him permission.”
    “Grandmother knows?” The holes in my vision were growing steadily larger. I removed my glasses and rubbed them vigorously. “Forgive me,” I said, leaning hard against the banister. “The sun’s in my eyes.” I mopped my forehead, gathered the newspapers and my books, and began to climb the stairs.
    At the door to the Redpath Building I turned. Laure and Huntley were now halfway down the hill beside a yew tree. My sister’s hand was tucked inside Huntley’s arm and he was whispering in her ear. Laure laughed, throwing back her head so that the sun caught in her hair. Felicity would have smiled to see the two of them, beautiful Laure and Huntley, in this familiar tableau.

6
    APRIL 1890
    The sun was spotting Felicity’s nose with freckles. Neither of us had thought to bring hats, and our winter white skin was drinking the light as we walked up the hill from Sherbrooke Street.
    “A robin,” Felicity said, pointing.
    A red-breasted bird was pecking at the soggy lawn. I should have been happy at this sign of spring. The snow had been gone for two weeks now and buds were vulnerable and glistening on the bushes and trees. Montreal was opening into life and all I wanted was to lie down in a corner, shut my eyes and sleep.
    “It is my first one this spring,” Felicity added, breathing harder as the climb up Mountain Street steepened.
    I shot her a dark glance. She was trying to distract me from the fact that my life had just been gutted. We had come from Dean Laidlaw’s office at the faculty of medicine. That morning we had left for the meeting so full of hope that the sky and sunshine and pungent spring smells had seemed like portents that we could not fail. Now they seemed like a bad joke.
    Over the past three weeks I had worked harder than I had worked to that point in my life. Felicity Hingston and I were chief organizers of what the newspapers were calling the latest “women’s campaign.” It was ironic because when you came right down to it I did not much care for women. Apart from Felicity Hingston, Georgina Skerry and perhaps two or three women I had met at McGill, they were flighty, silly creatures on whom I determined never to depend. The fact that I was a woman was an accident so far as I was concerned.
    In an initial meeting the dean of medicine could not have been more clear — under no circumstances would McGill allow me into classes with men. I had not been surprised. I had returned immediately with an amended request. Would McGill consider setting up separate classes for female students? Dean Laidlaw replied that while this was possible the cost would be prohibitive.
    I requested a figure.
    In three short weeks Felicity Hingston, a group of society ladies led by Mrs. W.H. Drummond, the wife of a well-known Montreal physician, and I had organized, raising one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was a substantial sum, surprising us even more than it would the dean. But it still fell short of the astronomical quarter of a million dollars demanded by McGill. Today we had gone to the dean to ask for an extension.
    Dr. Laidlaw had kept me waiting for close to an hour. Eventually he sent his secretary out to inform us that one hundred and fifty thousand was still insufficient. If we did not bring the full quarter million to McGill by noon the following day the application would be considered null and void.
    Several yards ahead, Felicity stopped in front of Mrs. Drummond’s brownstone. “What time is it?” she called, gazing at me down the hill. “We are dreadfully late, I fear.”
    I took out my grandfather’s pocket watch and snapped open the lid. I did not want to attend this party, which Mrs. Drummond and another society