He rolled his eyes, knowing she couldn’t see him as he continued to rub the ointment into her neck and shoulders. Like a trained monkey that will entertain her guests . . . “I’ll make no promises, your ladyship, for I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Chapter 10
She was drawn back to his private study on the first floor, as if being there would give her something that she needed. She’d spent the morning studying surgical techniques for amputation, trying to memorize every anatomical detail she could, while also finishing a few tonics he’d asked her to have ready for delivery on the morrow. But the words on the pages had blurred, and she’d finally accepted that her mind was already wandering and she could use a change in scenery.
I won’t touch you again.
But standing in the delightful clutter of his family’s collections was like being with Rowan—without the tension and awkward fire between them. Here she could let her fingers trace the spine of his books and play over the silhouettes of his knickknacks and omit worrying about inconsequential matters like permission or propriety. She knew Rowan was out on a call, and was sure that if the bell rang for his return, she would hear it in time to make a quick and timely withdrawal before he caught her.
“Quite a collection, isn’t it?”
Startled, she yanked her fingers back as if she’d blistered them and then took in the sight of the tallest bear of a man she had ever seen completely filling the open doorway. Although her first instinct was to run, Gayle did her best to look nonchalant. “Yes, it’s marvelous.”
“I wish I could see Rowan’s marvelous collection!” a muffled voice came from behind the first man, and another gentleman dressed in the height of fashion pushed his way past to come into the room and occupy one of the leather chairs without ceremony. “My God, Michael! While you may be notoriously quiet on your feet, you still make a hell of a wall!”
“Language, Ashe! There is a lady present!” Michael corrected him, and Gayle smiled as the giant suddenly seemed far less frightening as he awkwardly colored at his friend’s gaffe. “She doesn’t know either of us from burglars, so mind yourself.”
The gentleman he’d called Ashe stood instantly, a graceful blond lion of a man with ice blue eyes, and gave her a courtly bow. “I beg your pardon. I am Ashe Blackwell, a harmless friend of Dr. West’s, and I apologize for my wretched language. I am a man still in the process of reformation, but bound to improve, so my wife says.” He waved a hand toward his companion. “And this moving mountain is Michael Rutherford, also a relatively harmless friend of Dr. West who is likely to lose his powers of speech in the presence of a beautiful woman. Well, any woman, for that matter. Mr. Rutherford is shy.”
“I am not . . . shy.” His reddening face told another tale, and Gayle found herself completely charmed by the unlikely pair.
“I’m afraid Dr. West is out on a patient call,” she began, wondering how Carter could have forgotten it and let in visitors. “I’m not sure when he’s expected to return.”
“Please don’t worry on our account,” Mr. Rutherford said. “We’ve a terrible habit of making ourselves at home and didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“I’d come to apologize to Rowan, but I think I’ve changed my mind.” Ashe’s smile was enigmatic as he held out his hand to take hers. “You must be Miss Renshaw.”
“H-he spoke of me?”
“At great length,” he answered, politely releasing her hand. “You are the promising new assistant.”
“He said promising?” she asked, openly skeptical.
“My memory is impeccable. I’m certain he said something very similar.” Ashe’s wicked sense of humor twinkled in his eyes, and Gayle enjoyed the jest.
He said nothing of the kind! But who can fault Rowan for complaining when I’ve been such a terror? “Yes, that sounds like exactly what he would have said. And you’ve come to apologize, have you? Should I ring Carter to bring you some refreshments?”
Michael finally ventured a step into the room. “We should go.”
“No!” Gayle interrupted him, horrified to think she’d driven off Rowan’s guests. She did her best to go on more calmly. “I’m the one who’s—I’m the one who should be going. I have a great deal of work to do upstairs in the laboratory and several pages of notes to finish before Dr. West returns.”
“You should stay! How else will we find out more about you?” Ashe said, openly disappointed.
Michael cleared his throat and tried again to take control. “Ashe, she has work to do and an endless debate about who should stay and who should go seems a bit silly, don’t you think?”
Ashe nodded. “He’s right. Running away just because we’ve bumped into Rowan’s new assistant would be the height of rudeness. Please, Miss Renshaw, ignore our presence. All his friends find their way to his study from time to time. We’ve made it our unofficial gentleman’s club—and Rowan is far too kindhearted to protest when the Jaded hide from the world amidst his things.”
“The Jaded?” Gayle was sure she’d missed something.
“Damn it, Ashe! He’s not likely to want to mention that to her!” Michael snapped impatiently.
“Language, Michael! There is a lady present!” Ashe’s admonishment was accompanied by a mischievous smile. “Now she’s going to think it’s a bawdy club, the way you’re over there puffing away!” He turned to her directly. “A silly nickname for our small circle after a misinterpreted comment or two when we’d returned from India.”
“You were both in India with Rowan?” she asked, rapt in attention.
Mr. Rutherford intervened once again. “And on that note, we’ll bid you good day. Come, Ashe. You can return and apologize to Rowan another time, especially since it now seems you’ll be apologizing for today as well. It was our pleasure to meet you, Miss Renshaw.” Michael bowed awkwardly, his expression pained at the attempt at social niceties. “Come, Blackwell, before I drag you off to prevent Rowan from killing you.”
Ashe was nonplussed. “Rowan is a doctor. I’ve never seen the man kill so much as a mouse.” But he also began to retreat. “I am sincerely sorry if I’ve offended you. I meant to be playful, but my wife has told me more than once that I am an impossible man. Michael is right. We should be going. I’ll let Carter know that we—”
“Mr. Blackwell! Mr. Rutherford!” Mrs. Evans greeted them from the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were here! It’s been ages and I’d have sent up a tray for—” She spotted Gayle and her delight withered to stern disapproval. “I’d come in search of you, but didn’t expect to find you here, Miss Renshaw.”
Gayle did her best not to look the part of an errant schoolgirl caught by her headmistress out of bounds. “You were looking for me?”
“Florence has just come from upstairs and informs me that something is bubbling away, quite unattended, in Dr. West’s laboratory!”
“Oh!” She ran past Mrs. Evans without a backward glance at either man. “Oh, God!” She took the stairs two at a time, numb with disbelief. The tonic! I couldn’t have left it on the burner—could I? A morning’s work, and worse, I could have burnt the house down in my carelessness!
Just as Mrs. Evans had described, there was the container bubbling away, its contents overflowing in an unhappy brown waterfall that smelled more like burnt shoe leather than soothing lemon balm. Her next impression was that the small disaster would take the rest of her afternoon to clean up, but the smell would linger for days. Gayle felt close to tears. She grabbed a leather cloth to pull the beaker off the gas brazier only to spill more brown sludge onto the table and floor.
Ruined.
The bell alerting her to Rowan’s return rang merrily and she could only sigh. Since his friends were downstairs, she didn’t think to hurry. It was the first social call she was aware of him receiving, and Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Rutherford would certainly warrant a bit of his time before he made his way up to the laboratory to check on her progress.
Rowan, however, must have had
other ideas.
She was on her hands and knees under the table scrubbing the hot tarlike substance from the floorboards when he came in, and Gayle had to bite off a groan. The embarrassment of being caught on the floor was overwhelming, and for a split second she almost hoped he wouldn’t spot her there.
“Miss Renshaw?” His feet stopped in front of her.
She closed her eyes as if to wish him away. “I . . . I didn’t expect you so soon.”
Oh, God. Please don’t let me cry. He’s going to say something about ignorant distraction or how women who can’t concentrate shouldn’t be trusted with his marvelous laboratory . . . and how will I argue against it?
He bent over to peek under the table. “Are you all right?”
She managed to nod, not trusting her voice.
“Can you tell me the main arteries of the forearm and hand?”
She blinked twice before replying. “The brachial artery, the ulnar artery, the radial artery, and . . . the digital, metacarpal, and the deep and superficial palmar arches.”
“Very good.” He slapped the tabletop lightly with his palm in approval. “Well, I’ll be downstairs in the study if you need anything.”
As if he always talks to women under tables . . . as if I hadn’t ruined anything . . .
“Yes . . .” she answered, shock giving way to gratitude. “Thank you, Dr. West.”
After he’d gone, Gayle remained under the table and just sat back on her heels, almost afraid to move for fear of spoiling the moment.
I think I may have turned a corner with him.
I just wish I knew where I was going.
Chapter 11
On Wednesdays, he took calls in his ground floor office. Amidst his usual working-class patients, it had become quietly known that Dr. West did not turn anyone seeking aid away and did not demand payment for his services of those without the means. His small household staff was familiar with the day’s demands, and everyone was at the ready to help as needed. Carter collected cards and orchestrated the lists so that everyone was seen either at a previously appointed time or in the order that they’d arrived to wait. Barnaby, the footman, provided an element of security, along with Theo, and downstairs, Mrs. Wilson baked extra bread to give to anyone whose prime complaint might be hunger.
On this particular Wednesday, Rowan had determined that he would include Miss Renshaw in the day’s proceedings. It was a bold move, considering the potential for gossip, but he was hoping she’d be perceived as a nurse, and he couldn’t keep her locked in the third-floor laboratory forever.
At least, not with a clear conscience.
He’d instructed her to wear her plainest dress and white laboratory apron to try to mute her presence, but it was hardly successful. Her plainest print was a flattering jade green that set off her dark hair and remarkable eyes, and even with an oversized white apron, she was simply stunning to behold.
You look like an aristocratic beauty in a poor disguise, Miss Renshaw. Oh, well—into the front lines you go.
“He’s crying, doctor.”
The mother’s voice barely carried over the infant’s unhappy screams, and Rowan smiled. “He is, indeed, Mrs. Dorsett. Why don’t you just sit there and I’ll take a look at this loud, young fellow and see if he’ll tell us what the bother is. Come here, handsome man.” He lifted the small baby out of her arms and signaled Gayle to come with him to the exam table. He deliberately kept his voice low and even, instead of trying to compete with his charge. “My stethoscope is there, in the first drawer under this table. Pull it out and let’s have a listen to his lungs.”
Gayle found the instrument easily. “Here you are.”
“I can tell you already without using it that he seems to have ample strength and a clear cry, so that’s a good sign.” He laid the boy down carefully to unwrap him a bit for the examination. “See? His color is good, though admittedly a bit red in the face from his efforts. Then we listen, like so . . . in between the cries . . . for any wet drawing sounds . . . but he’s a beauty.” He took the earpieces out to allow Gayle to try to listen. “Can you hear it? The air moving freely? Like a high-pitched sound, and there should be a little muffled wind on the intake and just before he breathes out. Yes?”
“Yes!”
“So, we know it’s not pneumonia or an ailment of the lungs. His mother said nothing of coughing or fever, so that’s a clue. What next?”
“It could simply be colic. I would feel his stomach. Is it distended or hard?”
Rowan pulled up the boy’s little shirt and a gentle exam confirmed all. He put her hand under his to demonstrate the pressure and pattern of his search.
She gasped. “It’s hard as a little drum!”
“Poor fellow! See how he pulls his legs upward? He’s miserable, but this will quite literally pass.” He rolled the infant over, keeping his own warm hand pressed against the baby’s stomach to offer some temporary relief. “It’s colic, Mrs. Dor—”
Rowan stopped himself as they both realized that Mrs. Dorsett, who was all of seventeen, had fallen fast asleep in the chair behind them.
Gayle surveyed her with sympathy. “She’s a child herself. Has she no help?”
He shook his head. “Not that she’s spoken of.” He turned back to the table. “All right. Ring for Barnaby and Florence, and then while we’re waiting for them, let me show you a few simple techniques to help our patient. You see? I can use the slight heat and pressure of my hand. Sometimes it helps to rub his back or belly in a wide circular motion, and if we sit him up and do so, just make sure he’s reclined and comfortable. None of this is a cure. We’ll make sure she gives him fennel water before his feedings and look into her own diet for the cause. Often, he’ll just outgrow the trouble in just a month or two and her burden will ease.”
She rang for the servants, and Gayle and Rowan worked quietly side by side with the fussy baby until his cries slowed and he dropped off to slumber. Barnaby arrived and surveyed the scene. “Who am I to take?”
“Can you carry Mrs. Dorsett into the library without waking her? It’s dark and quiet in there, and the reading couch will be perfect for her to rest for a while. Let everyone know not to disturb her, all right, Barnaby? And then keep an eye out so that when she does awaken, there’s no panic. Florence will have her boy, and tell Carter to slip several shillings into her basket before she goes.”
“Easy enough!” he answered softly, then stepped aside into the room as Florence pushed past him.
“Oh! A dear baby!” she exclaimed quietly, happy to be called to take him from Gayle’s arms. “I’ll see to him, doctor, no worries there! The kitchen is warm and quiet this time of day, and he’ll be a little prince for me, won’t you, sweet?”
Both mother and baby were sorted away for rest and care, and Rowan wrote down the instructions for the fennel water for Gayle to give her later.
And so the day went. Any hope he’d held of his apprentice being put off by the press of his less noble patients and their complaints died quickly. Instead, he found himself enjoying a Wednesday as he hadn’t in a long while. Gayle set many of them at ease, and her interest and questions were never misdirected. She was quick with her hands and never in the way. The morning seemed to fly, even as his entryway filled with patients.
“Ah, Miss Featherstone!” Rowan looked up from the pile of cards with a smile. This would be one visitor that would try the patience of any apprentice, so he was curious to see what Gayle would think of Ada Featherstone—for the young woman was never well, no matter what anyone said or did, and could not be convinced that she would survive the month. A spinster in her midthirties whose brother had left her money enough for a little bit of pretense but not enough to secure a husband or fend off pity, Ada had made her health, or lack of it, her singular pursuit. He wasn’t oblivious to the quirky element of romantic fantasy that dear Ada attributed to their weekly appointments, but he hoped that it was better to harmlessly indulge her than offend her. “What brings you t
o my office today?”
“I am . . .” Ada hesitated as she spied Gayle, her expression a bit wary. “I am suffering. But who is this?”
“This is Miss Gayle Renshaw. She is assisting me today.”
Miss Featherstone eyed Gayle as if she were a rival on the battlefield. The drooping feathers in her bonnet quivered with the emotion of their owner, and she sniffed her dismissal—but withheld her disapproval, to Rowan’s relief—as she finished her study of his new “nurse.” Then she proceeded to devote her attention to Rowan as if Gayle were invisible. “I am dying, Dr. West. I am sure of it!”
“Come, Miss Featherstone.” He led her to one of the chairs across from his desk and took its companion to sit near her. “How can you be so sure? You look better today. Did you not find any relief using the remedy I prescribed last week?”
She sighed dramatically. “I did, at first! You are a genius, Dr. West, and you know I rely entirely on your care. But now . . . I’m dizzy. Nearly all the time! Before it was just headaches, but with this new terrible symptom, I’m in a terror! I could fall! I could break my neck! Or faint in the street!”
“Oh, dear.” He nodded, trying to give every appearance of a man deep in thought and temporarily stumped by the news. “We cannot have you at risk, Miss Featherstone!”
He looked back at Gayle, standing in the corner patiently. “I need my stethoscope, Miss Renshaw.”
He listened to Ada’s heartbeat, pressing the small drum just to the edge of her collar and averting his gaze to protect Miss Featherstone’s keen sense of modesty. Then, setting the instrument aside, he gently felt her throat and glands, looked into her ears and eyes, and shook his head. “You must take better care of yourself, Miss Featherstone, and see that you relax in the afternoons. You should take a nap each day before teatime.”
“I try! But it is so difficult when one is suffering to think of rest! I’m terrified that if I recline too much, I’ll expire right there.”
Ecstasy Wears Emeralds Page 10