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not take a deep breath or lift her arms higher than her shoulders. Neither could she get dressed without help nor bend from the waist because the whalebone would break and poke into her body like a knitting needle. That was the one bath of the week, a ceremony comparable only to Saturday’s hair washing, which could be canceled on the least pretext since it was considered dangerous for the health. During the week, Miss Rose used soap with caution; she preferred to scrub herself with a sponge dampened in milk and to freshen up with a vanilla-scented eau de toilette that she was informed had been in fashion in France since the time of Madame Pompadour. With eyes closed, Eliza could pick Miss Rose out in a crowd by her peculiar fragrance of vanilla pudding. Although over thirty, she had not lost that transparent, delicate skin some English-women have before the glare of the world and their own arrogance turns it to parchment. She cared for her looks, using rose and lemon water to blanch her skin, witch hazel blossom honey to keep it soft, chamomile to bring out the shine in her hair, and a collection of exotic balms and lotions her brother John brought her from the Far East, where, he said, the women were more beautiful than anywhere else in the universe. She designed dresses inspired by her magazines from London and stitched them herself in the sewing room; calling on intuition and cleverness she modified her wardrobe with the same ribbons, flowers, and feathers she had worn for years and yet never looked bedraggled. She did not, like Chilean women, wear a black mantle over her head when she went out, a custom she considered an aberration; she preferred short capes and assorted bonnets, even though people stared at her in the street as if she were a courtesan.
    Enchanted to see a new face at the weekly gathering, Miss Rose forgave Jacob Todd his impertinent kiss and, taking his arm, led him to a round table in a far corner of the room. She invited him to choose among various liqueurs, insisting that he try her mistela , a strange beverage of cinnamon, alcohol, and sugar that he could not get past his lips and later surreptitiously poured into a flowerpot. Then she introduced him to the other guests: Mr. Appelgreen, a furniture manufacturer who was accompanied by his daughter, a pallid, timid girl; Madame Colbert, headmistress of an English school for girls; Mr. Ebeling, proprietor of the best gentlemen’s haberdashery in town, and his wife, who latched on to Todd, pressing him for news of the English royal family as if they were her relatives. He also met two surgeons: Page and Poett.
    â€œThese gentlemen use chloroform in their operations,” Miss Rose announced with admiration.
    â€œIt is still a novelty here, but in Europe it has revolutionized the practice of medicine,” one of the surgeons clarified.
    â€œI understand that in England it is sometimes employed in obstetric practice. Did not Queen Victoria use it?” Todd added, merely to have something to say, since he knew nothing about the subject.
    â€œHere we encounter major opposition on the part of the Catholics. The biblical curse on women is that they bring forth children with pain, Mr. Todd.”
    â€œDoes that not seem unjust, gentlemen? Man’s curse is to toil with the sweat of his brow, but the men in this room—without having to go any farther—earn their living from the sweat of others’ brows,” Miss Rose rejoined, turning red as a beet.
    The surgeons smiled with discomfort, but Todd was captivated. He would have stayed by her side the entire evening, even though, as he remembered, correct behavior at a London soirée dictated a stay of no more than half an hour. He noted, however, that in this gathering people seemed disposed to stay, and he imagined that social life must be quite limited and that perhaps the only occasion of the week was this one hosted by the Sommers. He was mulling this over when Miss Rose