The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(7)
“What a splendid encapsulation of it all,” Moreau said, nodding. “The essence of the bird! This is precisely what I attempt to find here with my work.”
“If you permit me to say so, I don’t know what your work entails. I’ve been given little indication of what I might find at Yaxaktun.”
Montgomery did ask around a bit, but the details had been damnably scant. Dr. Moreau was a Frenchman who’d come to the country sometime around the time of the War of Reform. Or perhaps it had been shortly after the Mexican-American War. Mexico was constantly buffeted by conquering forces and internal strife. Moreau was but another European man who’d arrived with a bit of capital and great ambition. But Moreau, despite being a physician, opened no practice and did not remain in a large city for long, as might have been expected of any fellow wishing to establish himself in Mexican society. Instead, he was in the jungle running a sanatorium or clinic of some sort. Where, exactly, was a question mark.
“Yaxaktun is a special place,” the doctor said. “We have no great staff, no mayorales, caporales, vaqueros, or luneros, as you might have at a proper hacienda. You’ll have to do a little of everything.
“Should you take up the post of mayordomo, you’ll be occupied with a number of chores. The old noria is useless. We have a couple of wells, of course, but it would be good to have real gardens and irrigation. The house and ancillary buildings and the grounds, and handling the upkeep of those, should keep you busy enough. But there’s also the matter of my research.”
“Mr. Lizalde said you are helping him improve his crops.”
In passing Hernando Lizalde had mentioned “hybrids,” but only once. Montgomery wondered if Moreau was one of those botanists who liked to graft plants together, who would compel a lemon tree to birth oranges.
“Yes, there’s some of that,” Moreau said, nodding. “The land can be stubborn here. Thin, poor soils. We sit atop a block of limestone, Mr. Laughton. Sugarcane and henequen may grow, and yet it’s no easy feat to farm here. But there’s more to my pursuits, and before I may come to the specifics of my work I must remind you, as no doubt Mr. Lizalde has made clear to you, that your labor here would mean a vow of silence.”
“I signed papers to that effect,” Montgomery said. He’d, in fact, practically signed his whole life away. He’d gone into debt for Fanny, bought her as many dresses and bonnets as he could manage. This debt had been sold and sold again, landing on Lizalde’s lap.
“The boy has been thoroughly vetted,” Lizalde said. “He’s capable and discreet.”
“That may be, but it takes a certain temperament to remain at Yaxaktun. We are isolated, the work is hard. A young man such as yourself, Mr. Laughton, might be better suited to a large city. Certainly your wife might prefer that. She wouldn’t be joining you, would she?”
“We are separated.”
“I know that. But you wouldn’t think of getting in touch with her again, would you? You’ve done so in the past.”
Montgomery tried to maintain an impassive face, but still he dug his fingers into the sofa’s arm. It wasn’t a surprise that Lizalde had included such information in whatever dossier he’d sent to Dr. Moreau, but still it stung to reply.
“Fanny and I have ceased any correspondence.”
“And you have no other family?”
“My last living relative was my uncle, and he passed away years ago. I have cousins back in England, whom I’ve never met.”
He’d also had a sister, once. Elizabeth, two years older than him. They’d gamboled together until he went away to make his fortune. He promised he’d send back for her but Elizabeth had been married off a year after his departure. She wrote often, mostly to tell him about the misery of her marriage and her hopes that they might be reunited.
They’d lost their mother when they were young, and he recalled the long nights in her room, while the fire burned. Henceforth, they had each other. Their father could not be trusted. He drank, and he beat his children. Elizabeth and Montgomery, it was the two of them. Even after she’d married, she thought he was her salvation, and Montgomery agreed to send money for her passage.
But by the time Montgomery had established himself in a solid position he was twenty-one and his sense of brotherly duty had been greatly diminished. There were other matters on his mind, most notably Fanny Owen, the daughter of a small British merchant who made a home for himself in Kingston.
Rather than spend his precious savings on sending for his sister, he’d used that money to buy a house and wed Fanny.
A year later his sister committed suicide.
He’d traded Elizabeth for Fanny and killed his sister in the bargain.
Montgomery cleared his throat. “I have no relative to write to about your scientific work, Dr. Moreau, if that is what you fear,” he said after a moment. “Though I still have no idea what the work may be.”
“Natura non facit saltus,” the doctor replied. “That is my work.”
“My Latin is lacking, doctor. I can jot down species names, not recite pretty phrases.”
The clock struck a note, marking the hour, and the doctor turned his head toward the doorway. A woman and a girl walked into the room. The girl’s eyes were amber-colored and large and her hair was black. She wore one of those bright dresses that were in vogue. It was a ferocious shade of pink, unnatural, bristling with ornamentation and almost glittering with a certain brutal beauty. The dress of a little empress who’d come to hold court. Like the clock, the outfit was misplaced in this room, but Montgomery was beginning to think that was precisely the effect Dr. Moreau wanted.