by Merry Farmer
The hospital was in business already by the time she was let in the front door by a glowering Mrs. Garforth, even though it wouldn’t formally open for another half hour.
“There’s rounds to do to check on the patients already here,” Mrs. Garforth informed her. “The night nurses have to make their reports.”
“Is Dr. Pycroft not here yet?” she asked, removing her overcoat in the dispensary and switching it out for a simple white apron.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Garforth said. “You’ll have to do it.”
“Then I will.” Alex nodded, eager to get started. She stopped off in Dr. Pycroft’s office to pick up the checklist of cases that he had shown her in a less-than chaotic moment the day before, then turned the corner and headed upstairs to meet with the night nurses.
“I’m fine with you changing the dressing on me leg,” a crotchety older man in a bed in the men’s ward growled at her as she read over his chart, “but I don’t want you doin’ no doctorin’ on me.”
“Fortunately, it looks like you don’t need much doctoring at this point, Mr. Jenkins,” Alex informed the man with a smile, hanging his chart back on its hook on the wall at the head of his bed. “Dr. Pycroft has taken fine care of you.”
“He’s a good one, that Dr. Pycroft,” a middle-aged man with a barrel chest and a horrible rash on every bit of skin that Alex could see said. “Busy as a beggar, but a good one.”
“Yes, I’ve begun to realize that,” Alex agreed. And a unique man too, as he was so quick to hire her and make her feel accepted. She’d thought him a bit gruff at first the day before, but working together had changed her opinion.
“Miss—I mean, Dr. Dyson,” the gangling young porter, Simon, nearly ran smack into her as Alex crossed from the men’s ward to the women’s and children’s.
“Good morning, Simon. Can I help you?” she asked, dodging him.
“Only, we’re supposed to treat you like a real doctor, right?” he said.
Alex was in too pleasant a mood to set him straight other than saying, “Yes, I am a real doctor.”
“Good.” Simon nodded, oblivious to his mistake. “So here’s this.”
He thrust a clipboard at her. Alex grinned, musing that the entire hospital ran on clipboards. Her grin turned into a frown.
“Are you certain this is right?” she asked.
“I am,” Simon said.
Alex frowned and took another look at the pages he’d handed her. It was an inventory of the hospital’s supplies. A list of medicines and other tangible supplies ran down the left-hand side of each page with the number on hand to the right. Not a single number was over five, and several supplies that Alex would have considered vital—morphine, chloroform, carbolic acid—were at what she considered dire levels.
“How frequently does Dr. Pycroft place an order?” she asked Simon, continuing on to the women’s and children’s wards.
“As often as he can, ma’am…I mean, Dr. Dyson,” Simon answered.
“How often does that turn out to be?”
Simon shrugged. “Every couple of weeks when the money comes in from the crown, or when someone gives us some.”
“And how often do people donate to the hospital?”
“I dunno, ma—Dr. Dyson.”
No, it didn’t make sense that he would. Simon was just a porter. The only person on staff that Alex could think of who would know about the money coming into the hospital would be Dr. Pycroft himself. She dismissed Simon with a smile and continued on with the morning rounds, but determined that as soon as Dr. Pycroft arrived, she would catch him and ask him about the hospital’s funding before they both got too busy.
She didn’t have to wait long. Not much more than ten minutes later, she heard Dr. Pycroft’s voice echoing in the hall downstairs. She excused herself from the patient she was examining and turned her over to the care of Nurse Nyman, then hurried downstairs, like a child eager to see what Father Christmas had left under the tree.
“But Marshall, you promised,” an angry female voice stopped Alex short as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Marshall stormed past, his coat and hat still on. A slender woman in her mid-30s with her hair done up in a style far too fashionable for the simple cotton skirt and blouse she wore marched behind him. Three girls followed her, the oldest of which was Mary Pycroft. Mary stopped at Alex’s side and gave her a wary look.
“I know that I said you could have a new frock for the hotel opening, Clara,” Marshall turned and faced his rampaging wife, “but circumstances do not permit a custom-ordered gown from Redmonton’s.” His voice was low and tight. He was trying not to be heard by half the town.
“You’re going back on your word?” Clara barked, evidently not caring who heard her.
“No, my dear, I am not going back on my word,” Marshall lowered his voice further, stepping toward her. “I said you could have a new frock, and you shall. We can spare enough for you to buy the necessary yardage of fine fabric, and—”
“Fabric?” Clara shouted as though he’d suggested she go to the hotel opening naked. “You mean for me to make my own dress?”
A cluster of patients had stuck their heads through the waiting room door to see what was going on, and a few more had ventured down the stairs to watch. The man with the rash bumped against Alex as she stood at the bottom of the stairs. Alex jostled, nudging into the youngest of the Pycroft girls, a tiny thing who looked to be about five years old. She glanced up at the man with the rash and yelped, then scampered across the hall. Alex followed to comfort her, and as soon as she grew close, the girl buried her face in Alex’s skirt.
“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Clara continued to rail at Marshall, even though he had inched down the hall toward the door to his office. “I left London for you, Marshall. I left a comfortable life with well-to-do parents, capable of providing for my every need, and all you have to offer me is fabric to make my own dress?”
“There’s plenty of women who would be glad of so much,” Marshall did his best to reason with her.
“Plenty of women? Is that the way of things?” Clara hounded him. “And where are those plenty of women, Marshall? Where are they? Do you keep your paramours up on the wards?”
“Hold your tongue, woman,” Marshall finally shouted, face red with anger. “What kind of a man do you take me for?”
“I take you for a man who treats his wife like a common servant,” Clara bellowed.
“She’s been like this all morning,” Mary sighed, leaning against the wall, looking like misery itself, and certainly older than her twelve years.
“All morning?” Alex asked.
Mary nodded.
“I want to go back to school,” the middle girl sniffled, lowering her chin to her chest.
“But you’re on your summer holidays,” Alex told her. “Don’t you like holidays?”
“No,” the middle girl said.
“Come now, Molly, they’re not all bad,” Mary did her best to cheer her sister up.
“They are,” Molly insisted. “We have to be home all day.”
“And another thing,” Clara continued to shout. At least she and Marshall had turned the corner into the office. That didn’t stop the patients from listening in. “You never take me out and show me off to your friends. We should be dining at one of the establishments in town at least once a week. Why, my sister, Eileen, and her husband go to the theater once a week.”
“Clara, sweetheart, we simply don’t have the money to indulge in dining out when you are perfectly capable of cooking our supper. The hospital can barely afford—”
“Is that all you think I am? Your drudge?”
“I’m the one who does most of the cooking anyhow,” Mary said with an indignant huff. “Mother only thinks she can cook.”
“You’re much better,” the littlest girl finally showed her face.
Alex had no idea how to soothe the upset or smooth the feathers of the girls around her. She may h
ave been a woman, but she’d spent the last ten years of her life more devoted to science and medicine than to learning maternal arts.
“What’s your name?” she asked the little one, feeling hopelessly dull.
“Martha,” she said.
Alex smiled. “Mary, Molly, and Martha. I think I sense a pattern.”
“And Marshall,” Molly added. “We all fit together.”
“Clara,” Mary said.
The other two hummed softly, as though their mother’s name was some sort of code.
An awkward twist caught in Alex’s chest. She was bad enough at handling her own family drama. Adding someone else’s to the mix was a recipe for disaster.
She didn’t have long to ponder that discomfort. The hall had grown silent. Whatever fight Dr. Pycroft and his wife continued to have, they were doing it in private. The patients who had come out from around corners, like curious squirrels hoping to get a nut, turned and shifted off to where they’d come from.
“Are you the lady doctor that Papa told us about?” Molly asked, taking another look at Alex.
“I am.” Alex smiled. “My name is Dr. Dyson, but you can call me Dr. Alex, if you’d like.” It was a ridiculous breech of etiquette, but at the moment she felt as though the girls needed it.
“Alex?” Mary blinked. “That’s a boy’s name.”
“It’s short for Alexandra,” Alex explained, “but all of my closest friends have always called me Alex.”
“Are we your friends?” little Martha asked.
Alex bent toward her, touching her nose. “I suppose you are, although we’ve just met.”
The smile on Martha’s face was all the reward Alex needed for breaking rank. How extraordinary that something as simple as a child could make her already sunny day sunnier.
“Girls!”
The shrill snap from Clara as she marched out of Marshall’s office—red-faced and quivering with rage—was more than enough to break the temporary reprieve. “Come! Now!”
Clara marched past them, tugging on her gloves, which were also out of place with the simplicity of the clothes she wore. As she passed, Clara met Alex’s eyes, then turned up her nose with a sniff and stormed on. The three Pycroft girls fell into place behind her, drooping and heavy with unhappiness. If only there were a cure for the problems that afflicted them.
“I am so sorry about that.”
Marshall’s hushed voice behind her startled Alex into realizing she’d stood where she was and watched the Pycrofts march out of the hospital. She spun to face Marshall, hoping her expression didn’t betray the pity she felt for him, for all of his family.
“It’s no trouble,” she said with a tight smile. “We all have our family difficulties.”
“Yes, but most of us don’t parade them in public.”
There was absolutely nothing she could say to that. All she could do was stare at Marshall, at the flush in his cheeks and the rise and fall of his chest as he calmed himself. She owed it to him to help where she could, which meant focusing on business. She still had the clipboard of hospital supplies in her left hand.
“Dr. Pycroft,” she began with a serious expression. She cleared her throat. “Simon handed me these lists earlier. Is it true that the hospital can barely afford the necessaries?”
A deep weariness settled over Marshall’s features. He started back down the hall toward his office, gesturing for Alex to follow. When they were safe behind the office’s closed door, Marshall went to sit against the edge of his desk.
“I was remiss yesterday when I interviewed you, Dr. Dyson,” he said, not quite able to meet Alex’s eyes.
“Oh? In what way?” she asked.
“I failed to discuss compensation.” Now he met her eyes with a look that said no good would come from his next words. “The fact is, the hospital is a charity, in spite of being a crown hospital. I’m sure it’s my own fault, but the funds that are allocated to the running of the hospital barely cover the salaries of the staff, and all but the minimum of supplies. The rest of our budget depends on fees paid by the patients and whatever donations we can wring out of the more generous souls in the county.”
“And the rest isn’t enough to keep the stocks where they should be,” Alex finished for him. “That is deplorable.”
The look of a hunted deer came into Marshall’s eyes. Alex gasped when she saw it.
“I am not saying that you are deplorable, Dr. Pycroft, oh no,” she rushed to correct herself. “From everything I’ve seen, you run the hospital as efficiently as possible, and at great personal sacrifice.” The trouble with Clara suddenly made more sense. The woman was cursed with a husband who cared about the people who put their health in his charge.
“The fact of the matter is, Dr. Dyson,” he went on, “I’m not sure there’s enough in the budget for me to adequately compensate you for your time. I was so bowled over by the prospect of help that it slipped my mind.”
“Understandable,” Alex said.
“But unforgivable. I should be honest with you. I may not be able to pay you at all.”
Alex held her breath. Of course, she didn’t need to pay her own way in the world. She had a roof over her head, clothes to wear, and food to eat whether she worked or not. Not to mention a small allowance. She had hoped to break away from all that, though, difficult as it would be.
“Perhaps,” she began slowly. “Perhaps we could tackle the work in front of us first, and discuss my compensation when the need arises.”
Marshall’s brow flew up and he straightened. For a moment, there was so much hope in the man’s eyes, so much gratitude, that emotion threatened to choke Alex.
“I won’t deny that those words are music to my ears,” he said. “Your helps is sorely needed here, whether I have the funds or not.”
“I can see that.” Alex nodded. “And in truth, you are doing me an immense favor by taking me on to begin with. Few men would be willing to take on a woman as a colleague.”
She paused, meeting his eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, she found understanding there.
“We take help where we find it, Dr. Dyson,” he said, as frank as a man had ever been with her. “I need help.”
Those three words held more truth in them than anything Alex had heard for years. He did. She would be the person to give him that help.
“Well then,” she said. “We’d best get on with things.”
Marshall smiled and pushed himself up from the desk. “Yes, we had. Have you made the morning rounds yet?”
“Just about,” Alex answered.
The next few minutes were spent discussing the cases already at the hospital. Marshall pointed out a few things Alex had missed, then continued through the women’s and children’s ward with her. Before an hour had passed, they were both absorbed in treating new cases and old, all memory of the upset of the morning pushed to the side to make way for work.
It was just after midday when Alex heard Marshall call out, “Dr. Dyson, could I see you for a moment?” as she examined a man with a fever in one of the examination rooms.
“Rest easy, Mr. Boyce. I’ll have Nurse Stephens bring you some aspirin,” she told her patient, then marched out of the room and around the corner to the one where Marshall was working.
She blinked at the sight that met her. Sitting on the examination able was a young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was bruised and had a split lip, as well as bandaged hands and feet. What was unusual about her was that she wore only a man’s shirt and long underwear.
The young woman was silent, but the man who stood beside the table, dressed in a simple shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, said, “So this is the brilliant female doctor you were telling me about.”
Alex wasn’t sure if she should be taken aback by the man’s comment or his well-put-together state when the woman with him clearly looked as though she had been beaten. Judging from the size of the man’s forearms, he could have done that kind of damage.
Her
instinct to be wary of the man was shattered by Marshall’s easy manor.
“Dr. Dyson, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Mr. Lawrence Smith,” Marshall introduced them.
“Mr. Smith.” Alex nodded to him, shifting her attention where it belonged, to the young woman. “What seems to be the trouble here?”
Marshall and Lawrence exchanged a look that hinted at Lawrence being impressed by her businesslike manner.
“This young woman wandered into Lawrence’s forge last night,” Marshall explained. “Lawrence is the town blacksmith, and his forge is just outside of town to the south.”
“Matty here showed up out of the pouring rain in the state she is,” Lawrence explained. The distress in his eyes as he glanced to the young woman continued to change Alex’s opinion of him. “She has obviously been battered, but she has no memory.”
Alex flinched, shocked. “No memory?” she asked the young woman, Matty.
“I remember walking,” Matty told her. “I know my name, at least part of it. Not my surname, just Matty.”
“Do you remember what happened to you?” Alex asked.
Matty shook her head.
“She’s clearly experienced some sort of severe trauma,” Marshall said, glancing between Matty and Alex, “although there don’t appear to be any head injuries. Plenty of other bruises, though. I’ve taken a look at her feet—blisters and cuts, from walking, I presume—and cleaned and rebandaged them. I was hoping that you might perform an examination of a more intimate nature, Dr. Dyson, to determine if there has been any other abuse.”
Alex took in a breath as she understood the request. “Yes, of course.” She smiled to reassure Matty.
“We’ll just wait outside until you’re done,” Marshall said, gesturing for Lawrence to precede him out of the room.