by Jillian Kent
“Drink the tea, young lady,” Mother ordered. “The willow bark will help you relax and ease your pain. And you will permit the doctor to examine you. Do not argue with me on this matter.”
“But Mother, you don’t understand. He—”
She touched her daughter’s hand and their eyes met. “I understand enough.” She turned to Ravensmoore. “What can we do, sir?”
“Allow her to rest a few moments. Then remove her riding jacket so I may examine her arm. Is there a place where I might wash up?
I must have left my gloves on the field, and I don’t want to cause further distress by smudging a lady’s clothing.”
“Of course. Phineas will show you the way.”
As soon as he’d left the room, Madeline looked at her mother. “Let me explain. You must know that he”—she pointed in the direction he’d just gone with cup in hand—“was the physician-intraining who allowed Papa to bleed to death in York.”
“I didn’t recognize him.” A veil of sadness shrouded her mother’s eyes. “I didn’t think to see any of them again.” Even the worry lines that creased her mother’s brow could not diminish the sculpted features of a woman who resembled a Greek goddess, though she seemed utterly unaware of her beauty. The name Grace suited her.
“He’s not a doctor… yet.”
Grace plucked a pair of shears from a nearby sewing basket. “You have made that perfectly clear. Now, allow Lady Gilling and me to cut away your jacket. You might have broken your arm, and there’s no point in causing you any more pain.”
“You still want him to examine me?”
“Of course. I must think of your welfare. The past is the past.”
“But—”
“He may be able to help you. It will take a servant a long time to ride into town, locate a physician, and return with him. Let this doctor help you.”
Madeline looked from one to the other, then handed Hally the teacup. “Do be careful.”
“Of course we’ll be careful, dear.” Grace cut away the jacket in moments.
“Oh, Maddie. I’m so sorry this happened.” Hally handed her the teacup again. “It’s entirely my fault.”
“That is not true.” Madeline finished the tea. “Don’t be silly.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I am quite dizzy.”
Ravensmoore returned, and she willed herself to open her eyes. He looked taller. His black hair, thick and unruly, increased his appeal. A dark curl fell over his forehead when he leaned toward her. Madeline’s heartbeat ricocheted in her chest, and confusion merged with pain.
“How are you feeling?” His brilliant green eyes searched hers.
“I think I should go to bed.” A sudden wave of nausea attacked her. She groaned and prayed not to get sick. “Please leave.”
“Lady Madeline.” He sank to his knees next to her. “Does your head hurt?”
“Yes.” She could no longer fight back the pain. “Dreadfully.”
“A possible concussion. Is your vision blurry?” He placed his hands on both sides of her face and stared into her eyes as if he were trying to read her thoughts. An unpleasant prospect.
“Yes.”
“You may indeed have a concussion. You’re unstable on your feet, and your vision is blurred. In addition to that your head aches. If the pain continues beyond two days, I will want to see you again. Now… for the arm.” He gently examined her arm, his fingers sliding skillfully over the silk fabric.
“I don’t believe your arm is broken, although it may feel as if it is. I’m afraid the sprain is most severe.”
Madeline wondered why the room tipped. She had not moved. A moan escaped her lips. Then she felt all strength drain from her body like the emptying of the soul. The cup slipped from her limp fingers and tumbled to the carpet.
CHAPTER 2
For courage mounteth with occasion.
—SHAKESPEARE,
KING JOHN, ACT II, SCENE I
NIGHT DESCENDED, AND only the moon lit the way. Devlin knew he must get back to the inn and prepare for the week’s classes. Exhaustion, more numbing than the cold, threatened to overtake him as he rode away from Richfield. The countess requested that he return soon to check on Madeline’s progress. But he knew the week would be so crowded with rounds at the hospital that he’d barely have time to breathe, let alone return to his charming and puzzling patient. Perhaps he could find a way.
Meeting Lady Madeline had been an unexpected mixture of shock and pleasure, but her harsh words had staggered him. She blamed him for her father’s death, and she was partially correct. The medical crisis that had brought her father to the hospital was not one he’d soon forget.
Lord, what shall I say to her? The enchanting woman had accused him of murder!
He couldn’t push the image of her from his thoughts. Tall and lithe, she had a mind of her own and didn’t attempt to hide her thoughts, a flaw to some, but in his opinion an asset. She’d been devastated by her father’s death and her words were harsh, but hesensed an underlying vulnerability that she guarded from further hurt. Sometimes people in pain said things they didn’t mean.
When their horses collided, something sparked in those astonished hazel eyes, whether attraction or annoyance, he didn’t know, but he’d thought her fascinating: the way her rich brown locks smelled of jasmine on a warm summer breeze, the way her hair loosened from its confines and tumbled across her proud shoulders, the way she leaned against him during their ride to Richfield.
The closeness of the ride with a high-spirited female ensconced between his arms had caused him to rein in thoughts of a nature he hadn’t seriously considered for a very long time. Even now he yearned to bury his face in those silken tresses and feel their softness against his cheek.
“Madeline,” Devlin whispered as though someone might hear the soft caress of her name on his lips. “Maddie,” he breathed into the night, enjoying the intimate sound. He tried to shake off the unexpected and tender emotions. He must tame these feelings. He tried to push thoughts of her from his mind. Dr. Langford would show no mercy if he came unprepared for class because an enticing female had cast a spell over him.
Finally, he stood in the shadow of the Blue Swan Inn, where he rented a room. This had caused much gossip, but he didn’t care; it suited his needs. The inn was close to the hospital, yet, if necessary, near enough to his estate to travel home in a day’s ride. He’d established an arrangement with the stable boy. Whenever he returned late, there would be an additional coin for him if he’d take very good care of Hippocrates. Devlin smiled as he climbed the stairs to his room. The boy had waited up for him.
He lit a lamp and illuminated the sparsely furnished space: a couple of chairs, a table, a bed, and a wardrobe. He chose to live simply here in York. Devlin then lit the fire in the hearth and rubbed his hands together above the slow growing flames to ward off the chill that had settled in his bones.
Gathering his books and papers, Devlin tried to focus on the urgent task of study. He stared absentmindedly into the fire watching the flames dance. His elbow slipped off the edge of the table, rudely jolting him out of his reverie. He fought off fatigue and intrusive thoughts of a lady who clearly disliked him.
Ignoring his bed and a deep need for sleep, he pored over the medical books spread out on the rickety wooden table. But the image of a woman with brown silky hair continued to distract him. The scent of jasmine lingering on his clothes forced his mind further from his studies. He could understand why she blamed him. When someone died in a hospital, family members usually blamed the physician in attendance or God or both. He wondered if he could convince her otherwise.
Devlin woke with a start and squinted at the clock. “Confound it!” He shot out of his seat, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, his shoulder blades cracking aloud from too long a period hunched over his desk. “Sleeping in a chair all night… not very intelligent,” he grumbled, closing his books and piling them one on top of the other.
�
��Langford is going to dissect me. This is just the kind of opportunity he’s been waiting for.”
He quickly changed his clothes, transforming himself from earl to student physician. The required cravat was coarse, not silk, the black coat simply cut and not nearly as elegant or fashionable as his usual tailor-made attire. The dark breeches were nearly worn out, and the boots remained spattered with dry blood from previous surgeries.
Devlin raced down the stairs and out the door, yearning for his landlady’s cooking: fresh bread, bacon, and coffee. The aroma made his stomach growl, his mouth water, and conjured tempting images that made him want to ignore his responsibilities this one morning. Oh, for a swallow of hot brewed coffee. He forced the temptation from his mind and focused on what lay ahead.
Hurrying through the cobblestone streets to the Guardian Gate Hospital, he tore through the front door and then purposely slowed his steps to a respectable pace as he came to the reception area. He glanced at William, the clerk, who shook his bald head.
“You’re doomed this morning, your lordship. Your absence was noted forthwith,” he said, standing behind an oak desk that hid his considerable girth.
“What kind of mood is he in, Willie?”
“I don’t think it’s a mood you’ll appreciate. God be with you, sir.” Willie pointed a beefy finger toward heaven. “You’ll need Him to help you this day.”
Devlin winced. Dr. Langford had been difficult since the first day of Devlin’s medical training in London. He’d not thought it could get worse. Apparently he’d misdiagnosed the situation.
“Thank you, Willie. You always know how to cheer me up.” He dropped his books on the desk. “Hold on to these for me, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir. Glad to be of service.”
He rushed down the hall to catch up with the others. Rounding a corner, Devlin crashed into his adversary. Papers flew about the hallway like startled white doves. The other students scrambled to capture them.
“Ravensmoore, you’re late!” Langford bellowed.
Unlike his behemoth reputation, the revered doctor and professor was a short, stout man with thick white hair and a mustache. His intimidating steel-gray glare, through wire-rimmed spectacles, pounced on any student who dared to break his sacred rules. This morning that imposing stare, directed at Devlin, could have driven daggers through his skull.
Devlin met Langford’s piercing gaze without a blink. “I apologize, sir,” he said.
“What a pleasure that you could join us, your lordship,” Langford declared. “I’m amazed, as I’m sure your colleagues are, that you have deigned to grace us with your noble presence.”
The others chuckled.
“I apologize for being late.” Devlin knew that Langford would never accept the fact that he held a title. No matter that his elder brother had died, leaving Devlin responsible for the family estate. The fact that he’d hired someone to manage his assets to pursue a medical education had caused a stir amongst the ton. A nobleman serving as a physician? Unheard of and unnecessary. His friends had disapproved.
However, he couldn’t relinquish his goal of becoming a doctor, no matter the cost to his reputation. He’d prayed for God’s guidance, and this is where he’d been led. He’d trust God the rest of the way.
“This will not happen again, Dr. Langford.” Devlin choked back the retort that longed to escape his lips and prayed God would grant him continued humility. There was no room for pride. Pride would eat him alive. Pride would kill his dream.
“See that it does not.” Langford grabbed the wrinkled stack of papers from a student and proceeded down the hall.
As the group followed their instructor to the amphitheater, Devlin slowly let out his breath and recovered his sense of humor. Langford’s gait reminded him of a mother goose leading her little ones across a busy road.
“Wipe that preposterous grin off your face, Ravensmoore,” Langford demanded, “and tell us about our next patient.”
Devlin peered into the amphitheater where they gathered daily to examine, diagnose, and sometimes operate on impoverished patients. Mr. Hastings lay stretched out on the examining table covered by a white sheet. Beneath the table lay a box of sawdust used to collect blood if surgery was indicated. The elderly man with the bulbous red nose glanced up at him and groaned.
“Mr. Hastings,” Devlin called cheerfully and pushed ahead of the group. Langford and his retinue followed close behind.
“How are you feeling today?” He wasn’t certain he wanted to know, but it was his duty to ask. Hastings had proven to be a thorn in his side for several days, and Devlin was in no mood for this patient’s antics. Langford would use any sign of incompetence to get rid of him.
“I’m miserable, and ye ain’t done a thing for me. I swear I’m worse today than I were yesterday. What do ye plan to do about it? I’m sick to death of yer poking me body.”
“Plan, indeed,” Devlin said. He searched his mind for a remedy not yet tried.
Devlin pulled back the sheet and gently examined the old man’s belly through the coarse material of a hospital gown. He reached for a stethoscope, attached the wooden earpiece, and laid the horn-shaped end against the patient’s abdomen. “No sound.”
“Well, of course there ain’t no sound,” Hastings growled. “It don’t talk to ye.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Hastings. If we but listen to what our bodies tell us, we might learn a great deal.”
“And what’s me bloody gut got to say to ye?”
The other students guffawed. Dr. Langford smiled.
“Your gut says it’s blocked up and in need of a purge.”
“The blazes it does.”
The old man’s bare toes wiggled out from underneath the sheet, and Devlin frowned. “Do you mind if I take a look at your feet, Mr. Hastings?”
“Me feet! What’s wrong with me feet? I suppose feet talk to ye too! Humph.”
“I’m not sure yet. May I?”
“Humph.” He gave a curt nod of his head.
Devlin rolled the sheet back to the patient’s knees to reveal toes that were turning black and would soon be gangrenous. An ugly and inflamed pink tide crept up his ankles, accompanied by the stench of rotting flesh. The others crowded around. “Do your feet ache, sir?”
“Aye. ’Tis harder to walk each day.”
“I’ll discuss this problem with the others, and we’ll see what can be done. You must go back to your room now.”
Devlin watched two attendants transfer the old fellow to a wheelchair prior to leaving the room. “His legs are poisoning him, are they not? Will the infection eventually kill him?”
“I’m afraid so. You were wise not to discuss that prospect in front of him.” Their teacher straightened his back, tugged at his mustache, and cleared his throat uneasily. “Well, Ravensmoore. You certainly do have an unusual way of dealing with patients. The body talks, does it? And where did you get such an extraordinary idea?”
“From you, sir.”
“What did I say?” Langford asked, a curious look on his face.
“You suggested that if we but pay attention to our patients, they can tell us many things, even if words are never spoken.”
“How true. Glad to see you learned something after all, Ravensmoore. I might make a doctor of you yet.” Langford turned to address another student.
As the words sank in, Devlin grinned.
Charles Melton, one of the younger students in the group, leaned toward Devlin as they took their seats in the crowded amphitheater, preparing for Langford’s lecture on the next patient. “You saved yourself nicely, Ravensmoore. He never said such a thing.” His kind, brown eyes danced in a face framed by blond hair tied back with a black ribbon. “You just fed his pride.”
“Not at all. He’s taught me a great deal. I’m just trying to get him to see some matters in a different light, planting a seed, so to speak, Melton. He doesn’t like the fact that I’m titled, so I must present my ideas carefully. I’m real
ly just the same as everyone else.”
“Sorry, old man, but you’re only fooling yourself. You can never be the same as everyone else. You’re titled. That will always make you different from the rest of us. But I, for one, admire your tenacity. You have chosen a difficult path.”
“But not an impossible one,” Devlin said, defending his choice. “It wasn’t long ago that I was in the same situation as you, Melton. The second son.” Devlin’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white with frustration. “I’m titled now, yes. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a good and competent physician.”
“You don’t have to prove it to me,” Melton whispered and nodded toward Langford. “Just him… and your peers.”
“I have an obligation not to sever my ties with my peers. But most of them still refuse to take my interest in medicine seriously. They believe it’s a temporary amusement and only a matter of time before I come to my senses.”
“Don’t be discouraged. Prove them wrong. You’re in a most unique situation, Ravensmoore.” Melton clapped a hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “You have a foot in two very different worlds.”
“And it’s likely I’ll never be accepted in either.” Devlin sat back in his seat and considered his dilemma for the hundredth time. Surely he hadn’t miscalculated God’s plan. Had he?
Despite the ache in her arm, after breakfast Madeline walked to the family chapel and resting place. She’d not slept well because of the pain, and her dreams had left her unsettled and restless. This was the only place she felt the presence of the beloved family that she missed so much, and the peace and quiet there were a balm to her soul.
The path to the chapel took her to the east side of the house. She followed a red brick trail leading through a garden that would bloom with roses and tulips at the right time. Perfect yellow daffodils sprouted up through the rich soil, a sign of an early spring, she hoped. Still, her breath showed itself in a steamy vapor every time she exhaled. And for some reason that made her think of God. She wondered if God was like her breath in the light morning breeze— always there but only visible under certain conditions.