The sick woman looked at Edith and Julia with glazed eyes. “My sister says she has brought two doctors?” It came out as a question, as though she’d misheard.
“We are here to help you,” Edith told her. She set her bag on a battered table near the bed and opened it.
The boy immediately went to the table and tried to look inside the bag. “What’s in there?”
“Things that will help your mother,” Edith replied, pulling out a stethoscope. “But you mustn’t touch anything, because we don’t want to damage something that could help her, do we?”
The boy withdrew his hand, which had been reaching out to touch the bag. “No, ma’am.”
“Come here, Sam, there’s a good boy,” Hettie said, taking a seat on one of two stools that were the only furniture in the room for sitting. Sam went and stood by her side, and she wrapped an arm around him.
“What’s your name?” Edith asked the woman in the bed.
“Sybil.” The word barely came out through dry and cracked lips.
“Well, Sybil, we are going to have a look at you. You don’t mind, do you?”
Sybil did not speak, but the fear in her eyes as she looked at Edith’s face was unmistakable.
“I had smallpox several years ago,” Edith said. “I can no longer catch it or spread it.”
This seemed to allay Sybil’s fears. She did not protest when Edith gently pulled aside the thin, worn blanket covering her in order to place a stethoscope over her heart.
Edith did a thorough examination, including the woman’s abdomen, which was swollen with her seventh month of pregnancy. Julia offered a few suggestions where she could, drawing on her previous work as a nurse. She also ensured that the little girl, whose name was Jemmie, was kept out of the way so Edith could work without interference.
When they had finished examining Sybil, Edith and Julia conferred together.
“She has a fever,” Edith said, “but I do not think it is influenza. Or cholera, thank God. The skin pallor, among other things, points to a more low-grade fever.”
“I agree,” Julia said.
It was good news. A serious illness could do irreparable harm to the baby.
Edith mixed up a draught of some of the items she’d brought with her, and they were able to coax Sybil to sit up enough to take it.
Now more alert than when they’d come in, Sybil studied the two women with interest. “Are you really doctors?” she asked.
“We will be,” Edith answered. “We are in training.”
“I’ve never heard of women doctors.”
“You do believe we have helped you today, don’t you?” Edith asked as she set the glass aside.
“Oh yes!” Sybil reached out to take Edith’s hand. “Will you come back when it is time for me to have my baby?”
“There is a maternity clinic close by,” Edith pointed out. “It is attached to the workhouse, but they accept other patients. They will be able to help you when the time comes—”
“No!” Sybil shrieked, clutching tighter to Edith’s hand. “The women who go there to give birth, they all die. It is the killing fever there.”
Julia grimaced. Sybil was referencing puerperal fever, the bane of maternity wards.
“I do not fear for myself, for God in heaven will receive me, and I will see my beloved Johann again. But I will not leave these beautiful children orphans. I cannot!”
Her terror was palpable. Picking up on her mother’s anguish, Jemmie began to wail. Sam was silent, but tears slid down his face.
Sybil stretched out her hands, and Hettie scooped up Jemmie and placed her in her mother’s arms. Immediately Sybil began crooning to the child, soothing her. Sam came over to the bed, leaning in to get some of his mother’s loving caresses.
“It’s shocking how cavalier they can be with people’s lives,” Edith murmured. “I must implore Dr. Anderson to speak to them, for I know they will not accept it from me.”
Julia knew she was talking of the workhouse hospital. Despite growing evidence that puerperal fever could be stopped from spreading if doctors and all other medical personnel simply washed their hands thoroughly between patients, many places still had not instituted the procedure.
The act of soothing her children had calmed Sybil, but still she turned to look at Edith and Julia with pleading eyes. “You will come, won’t you?”
The birth was two months off, and with all the demands on their time, it would be hard to say with certainty that they would be able to get here when the time came. Julia could see Edith was probably thinking the same thing. But it was impossible to refuse Sybil’s imploring gaze.
They said, nearly in unison, “Of course we’ll come.”
CHAPTER
11
AS MICHAEL WAITED in the Barkers’ parlor for Julia to arrive, he noticed Corinna had already cleared the table of its usual assortment of items. Perhaps she didn’t want anyone but her moving them about. He couldn’t understand why she needed so many decorative things. Perhaps it was just something women liked to do.
Walking over to the curio cabinet, he studied the African chess set that had caught Julia’s eye. He tried to conjure up a picture of her plying her medical practice there. What would that look like? Would she remain in one of the towns, or venture out into the wilderness? From what he’d seen of her, he had no doubt she was intrepid enough to attempt the latter. But did she truly understand the dangers?
Hearing the doorbell, he turned in anticipation, expecting the butler to escort Julia to the parlor. Instead, he was surprised to see Corinna leading her in. Julia looked surprised, too, but Michael saw her lips twitch. Catching her eye, he smiled back. An unexpected and peculiar feeling of happiness filtered through him at the sight of her.
“I’m just on my way out,” Corinna announced. “However, the servants are nearby if you should need anything.”
It was phrased as helpful, but as she’d noticed the way Michael and Julia had just traded smiles, Michael was sure it was her way of advertising that the two of them would not really be alone. Her parting glance at Michael—a warning to behave himself—confirmed it.
It was another reminder that Corinna was anything but pleased by the situation. Michael was glad this year’s winter social season was a busy one. There were plenty of events to keep his sister occupied outside of the house, and she was taking advantage of them. Her baby was due in July, and she would likely stop going out a month or two beforehand. Therefore, she would miss a good portion of the high summer season.
“How is the wound?” Julia asked, approaching him.
“Healing well,” he assured her. “The ointment you recommended is doing a wonderful job. Very soothing.”
“Excellent.” But her focus was still on his neck, as though she were about to ask to see it for herself.
This was not something Michael was ready to face again. He remembered too vividly her previous examinations. The sensation of her cool, practiced touch. When she had scrutinized the cut on his forehead, bringing her face close to his, he hadn’t feared that her prodding would cause pain. Rather, he’d been uncomfortable at her nearness.
Was it because she was a woman? Even though women were now able to become licensed physicians, they were primarily limiting their practice to other women and children, and this seemed to Michael a proper state of affairs. Fear about overstepping the bounds of propriety had never been as all-consuming to him as it was to his sister and many others in society, but he had to admit that having a woman so close, in a professional context, might not be advisable. Especially when he recalled his reaction when she had delicately run a hand along his hairline, ruffling his hair—and his composure.
He quickly strode over to the table, picking up the book he’d left there. “I brought something for you. It’s the volume of Cicero we spoke of at our last meeting.”
She gave a murmur of delight as Michael held the book out to her, accepting it with reverential awe.
“Don’t wor
ry, it’s not a priceless artifact. It is well used, and you may find various notes written in the margins.”
“Nevertheless, I promise to take good care of it.” She began leafing gently through the volume. “I see what you mean about the notes. I believe I might find them helpful.”
“Scrawls of a schoolboy who knew little more Latin than you do now. But you’re welcome to any wisdom they might impart.” He was oddly gratified to see the corners of her mouth turn up at his joke.
As they sat down at the table, he said, “Have you been working on the conjugations list we drew up during the previous lesson?”
“Yes, here it is.” She pulled a sheet of paper from the book she’d brought with her. “Twenty verbs written out in the imperative mood and the perfect subjunctive.”
Michael took the paper and glanced down at it. He frowned and shook his head. “One thing I can see right away that you will want to work on is your penmanship.”
“I admit that is not my strong point.” She looked appealingly unabashed. “However, I did try to make it legible. Can you not read it?”
She leaned closer to him, so that they might peruse her work together. Once more Michael noticed there was no cloud of floral scent wafting around her. She was scrubbed clean and fresh. Unpretentious in any way.
He forced his attention back to the paper. “It’s an interesting style. Forthright and, well, energetic.”
She laughed. “No one’s ever read that much into my handwriting before. Are you sure you’ve never been a schoolmaster? I think you would have been a very good one.”
He found himself distracted by her laughing eyes and the freckles on her nose. It was aggravating how she managed, without trying, to disturb his concentration. “I’ll keep that in mind if my work in the legal profession ever dries up.”
“Ah, right. I suppose your work keeps you busy?”
“It does.” Michael answered with some apprehension, for she was leaning forward, looking at him intently.
“Have you ever had to represent a client whose position you strongly disagreed with?”
Oh no. He could see where this line of questioning was going, clear as day. “Many times.”
His direct, affirmative response appeared to catch her off guard. “And does that not bother you—even in the slightest?”
He regretted that his quip had reminded her that his professional activities were indirectly pitting them as adversaries. He was also irked at her insinuation that there was something unethical about him or his profession. “It’s not my job as a barrister to make moral judgments. I will leave that to the Church.”
This blunt answer ought to have silenced her, but she continued on, undaunted. “Have you felt that way about any recent cases?”
She peered at him with frank openness, as though she actually expected him to answer that question. He felt some of his annoyance dissipate, because really, how could he blame her for wanting to use any opportunity to influence him? But he had to put a stop to it.
“Miss Bernay.” He spoke her name in an admonishing tone. “If we were in a court of law, I’d say you were leading the witness. You know we can’t discuss this.”
She looked a little deflated. “I understand.” She made as if to return to her work but then paused. “May I just say one thing? Not about the lawsuit.”
He regarded her warily. “Yes?”
“There is more to the Church than passing judgment on people.” She spoke quietly. Earnestly. “It’s about finding the peace that comes with Christ. About the soul’s rest in knowing a loving God.”
For several long heartbeats, Michael could think of nothing to say. Her rock-solid belief in this loving God was undeniable, but he couldn’t share it. He cleared his throat. “Shall we return our attention to Cicero?”
It was a truce, and she accepted it with a nod. “What shall we learn today?”
Her bright eagerness was hard to resist. Michael pointed toward the book. “I’ve placed a marker at page fifty-four. The second paragraph is a good one for practicing translation. Why don’t you work on that while I review this list you wrote up?”
“Right.” Julia turned to the book and began reading, and Michael could almost physically feel the atmosphere of the room return to normal.
While she pored over the paragraph, Michael checked her list of verb conjugations. It was actually a refreshing mental exercise to review the intricate mechanics of the language. The Latin phrases he used daily as a barrister were dry and rote. Reading philosophical and poetic texts, with their varied nuances, enlivened his imagination again. As he watched, Julia began to sketch out a translation. She opened the Latin dictionary to look up a word she didn’t recognize, and Michael realized just how much he was looking forward to spending time in the classics again.
She looked up from her work. “I’m a bit confused here.” She pointed to the text. “If I’m reading this correctly, the verb shifts to present tense, which seems odd.”
“I’m glad you noticed. That’s one of the reasons I chose this paragraph. This is called the ‘historic present.’ In a narrative that is set in the past, Latin authors often used the present tense to create a vivid effect. As you see here, they might even switch from past tense to the historic present within the same sentence.”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” Julia said, as she reread the sentence.
“So tell me how you would translate it.”
She looked several times between her notes and the text. “‘When it had been . . . reported to the general that they were trying to march through our province, he hastened’—although that is literally ‘hastens’—‘to set out from the city.’” He nodded, and she smiled in triumph. “It does make it feel more immediate, doesn’t it? You can sort of feel his rush to set off.”
“Exactly.” He picked up the volume and skimmed through it, looking for another example. “Try this paragraph. You will spot the historic present here as well.”
They spent the rest of the hour reading through various places in the text, although they had to stop frequently for her to refer to the dictionary. Michael could easily have given her the definitions, but he felt she would absorb it better if she looked up the words herself. Along the way, they discussed points of grammar that arose.
Michael was disappointed when the clock struck the hour. Their time had been enjoyable, despite the rough beginning. But now there were pressing matters at work to attend to. “Time to end our lesson for today.”
Julia closed the books, although it seemed she felt the same reluctance as Michael.
After helping her up, Michael began to walk toward the door, but Julia stayed where she was. He turned and looked at her expectantly.
She said, “I assume Miss Maynard suffered no harm after the accident on the Underground?”
Startled, he answered, “Yes, she is well. Did you have a specific reason for asking?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes the shock of an incident doesn’t really manifest in any noticeable way until later. At the time, Miss Maynard seemed fine from a physical standpoint, but she was quite distraught. Exceedingly so.”
Michael grimaced, remembering her lurid descriptions at the dinner party. “Yes, I know.”
“I got the impression she is very fond of you. I suppose you might be considering marriage someday? Perhaps soon?”
He blinked. He had the sense that she’d been doing some homework—beyond the Latin—since their last lesson. “Do you make it a habit to ask impertinent questions?”
“I suppose my medical training makes me more forthright than I ought to be.”
Despite the semiapologetic tone, Michael sensed she was still expecting an answer. “Have you any plans to get married?” he countered.
“I’ve told you already, I plan to become a medical missionary. I’ve no time for marriage.” She said it in such an offhand way, dismissing an important life event. “But I suppose you plan to marry Miss Maynard?”
Michael marveled at he
r temerity to even ask. He had no idea what she was fishing for. It was possible she was merely curious. But really, he didn’t owe her an answer at all. He was about to tell her as much when she looked past him.
He turned and saw Corinna standing at the parlor door. How much of this conversation had she heard? From her frown, she might have heard all of it. Or she might have heard none of it and would have been scowling at them anyway.
Her demeanor remained frosty even after Julia had gone.
“A word with you, please,” Corinna said, as Michael went to the hallway and reached for his overcoat from the coat rack.
“Corinna, I can’t stay. I’ve got a court summons this afternoon, and I’m meeting a new client.”
“I would like to know why you can’t answer a direct question about Laura—even if it was asked with such impertinence.”
“Precisely because it was asked with such impertinence,” Michael replied, taking his sister’s words for ammunition. “Given that Miss Bernay is invested in the fate of the medical school, there is always the possibility she might try to use personal information against me in some way.”
“It’s not that personal. At least, it won’t be once the notice of your engagement gets into the Times.”
“Well, we’re not there yet,” he reminded her. “Lord Delaford asked me to wait, and that’s what I intend to do.”
He put on his gloves and hat and made for the door.
“Are you sure that’s why you’re waiting?” Corinna’s voice was accusing as she called after him. “Or is there some other reason?”
This stopped him cold. He turned around. “Will you stop badgering me! Everything is on track. However, if you think going against the viscount’s wishes is the way for me to secure Laura’s hand, I’ll gladly do it.”
Corinna recoiled at his abrasive tone, but her response was as forceful as his. “Just be careful that you’re not allowing anything—or anyone—to waylay our plans.”
Our plans.
She would never let him forget how important this match was to her. Michael’s heart grieved to see her insecurity, despite how far they’d come. But they were no longer on shifting sands, even if Corinna seemed to think so.
The Heart's Appeal Page 11