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John thrust both hands through his hair and stared at his own reddened eyes. Not enough sleep lately. That was all it was.
Then he looked at his hands. They shook. The nails were immaculate, the signet ring on his left little finger dull gold with a garnet set into the family crest. Rich man’s hands? Healer’s hands?
He hurried to the window, leaned out and sucked in a draft of thick, clammy, November air. He’d lived in New Orleans all his life and the humidity had never bothered him before, but he found himself struggling for a breath. No wonder little Paddy McLachlin was so sick.
John looked down, watching passersby fading in and out of the pools of gaslight spotting the sidewalks. When had it gotten dark out? Maybe he should try to catch up to Girard and Weichmann after all.
He pulled his head back inside the room, banged down the window sash and yanked the curtain closed. He sat down to tug on his boots, decided against a coat and tore out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He pounded down the stairs, shoving the useless key into his pocket.
God couldn’t influence his thoughts if he wasn’t there.
Chapter Five
The next morning John slumped at a table in a nearly empty classroom, listening to the heavy marching of the clock on the wall behind him. Traffic clamored from the street outside the open window to his left.
He stared at the test in front of him and wondered which of the medicines he’d just listed would be the quickest remedy for acute hangover. Maybe he should go straight for the arsenic. Quelling a strong desire to hang his head out the window and heave, he contemplated the top of Dr. Girard’s bald head, visible behind the Monday morning Daily Picayune.
Marcus’s father was a cold-hearted old goat, a brilliant lecturer whose written tests had been known to reduce grown men to tears. He sat at the front of the lecture hall, behind a bare table which exposed his short legs, stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His scarlet-and-lemon-striped waistcoat, half-inch-thick watch chain and green paisley ascot revealed the source of Marcus’s love for sartorial splendor.
John wished the professor had his son’s amiable temperament.
He was one of only two students left in the room. Everyone else, including Marcus himself, had either completed the test or given up in despair. He glanced across the room at Tanner Weichmann. Weichmann had not indulged in spirits last night, but had come along more or less to keep Marcus out of trouble. In fact, it had been he who put both Marcus and John to bed, after paying for a hack home and supporting the two of them up the narrow stairs. Good thing Clem slept like the dead or they might all have been out on the street tonight.
John supposed he should be grateful not to have awoken in a gutter somewhere, robbed of his clothes and money. Weichmann was a serious pain, but he was dependable. Perhaps not as gifted a scientist as John, not nearly as much fun as Marcus, but methodical to the point of insanity. John was certain he’d finished the test long ago, but Weichmann would check his answers to make sure every word was spelled correctly and all sentences complete.
Weichmann suddenly looked up, his dark eyes probing John’s. He wiggled heavy black brows and elaborately pulled out his watch.
John couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder at the clock. Nearly noon. Time was almost up. He suppressed a groan, bent over his paper again and dredged up the therapeutic and alterative uses of mercury. By the time he finished his answer, Dr. Girard had folded his paper in a neat square and waited, stubby fingers linked and his brow creased in impatient lines. John looked around. Weichmann had disappeared.
“Braddock, you seem determined to make me miss my noon meal,” growled Dr. Girard. “Are you quite finished?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” John rose and clattered down the steps of the amphitheater, sticking his pencil stub behind his ear. He reluctantly handed over his paper. “When will you have them graded?” If he failed this test he would have to repeat the course. Pharmaceuticals tended to be his downfall because of the spellings.
Without looking at him, the professor stuffed John’s test into a leather portfolio. “You’ll know soon enough.” He rolled out of the room without a backward glance.
John ran a hand around the back of his neck, popping the joints to relieve tension. At least it was over. Pass or fail, there was nothing he could do about it now. He needed to go lie down.
He headed for the door and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone grabbed his arm as he passed into the hallway.
“How did you do, Braddock?”
John wheeled. “Careful, Weichmann, or you’ll be cleaning your shoes. I’m still a bit unsteady this morning.”
Weichmann gave an evil chuckle. “Speaking of morning, you missed rounds. Prof wasn’t happy.”
Dr. Laniere wasn’t the only professor, of course, but every med student distinguished him with the title. No one wanted to disappoint Professor Laniere.
John lifted a shoulder and continued down the hall toward the stairs. “Couldn’t be helped. What did you tell him?”
“Told him you had a previous engagement.”
“You did not.”
“No. But I should have. Braddock, you never drink. What’s gotten into you, old man?”
Since the words were almost a direct quote of Marcus’s the day before, John hurried down the marble stairs without replying. He wasn’t going to admit that a prostitute’s dead baby had resulted in his hearing from God.
Weichmann’s long, skinny legs had no trouble keeping up. “There’s a few minutes for lunch before anatomy lab. Want to go for a beignet and coffee?”
John’s stomach revolted. “No!”
“Oh, sorry…Didn’t think.”
John sat down and planted his elbows on his knees, laying his pounding head in his palms. He could feel Weichmann hovering behind him on the stairs, his breath wheezing and whistling. It took little to get the young Jew’s asthma kicked up.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” John stared at the gray squiggles in the white marble between his feet. “Weichmann, has God ever communicated with you? You know, like Moses and the burning bush?”
Weichmann didn’t answer for a long moment. John could hear the clatter of students changing classes down in the east wing and, through the open windows, the rattle of carriages passing in the street. The heavy odors of mildew and chalk and the stench of the dissection lab drifted from two floors up. He looked over his shoulder and found Weichmann staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Maybe you’d better go home and go to bed,” suggested Weichmann.
John’s head fell back against the wrought-iron spindles of the stair rail. “I was planning to.” He got to his feet and descended the remainder of the stairs. At the bottom, he turned to Weichmann, who followed tsking like an agitated squirrel. “Don’t tell anyone I asked that, would you?”
Weichmann shook his curly head. “Nobody would believe me if I did.”
The haunting strains of a hymn sung in a rich, throbbing contralto drifted through the kitchen and clinic/dispensary to the ward, where Abigail was feeding Tess her evening meal of barley soup. In the daylight, Abigail had discovered the ward to be a large, airy room with doors opening into the kitchen on one side and the clinic on the other. The three long, curtainless windows of the third wall looked out on the garden, where even in late fall birds sang in tall flowering shrubs and fruit trees gave off an intoxicating scent. Lined up on the interior wall of the room were four narrow cots, each with its own bedside table holding a small basin-and-pitcher set, with a chamber pot underneath the bed.
“I know not what the future hath of marvel or surprise,” sang the unseen singer, “assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.”
Sighing, Abigail spooned soup into Tess’s mouth. The song brought to mind a vivid image of her mother, singing over her fine embroidery, dressed in the traditional Chinese wide-sleeved, knee-length cotton overshirt and loose trousers. Darling, vulnerable Mama, trying to fit in despite her “devilish” blue eyes, red hair, and normal-sized feet. Papa had thought to have Abigail’s feet bound, but Mama managed to convince him that, at the age of five, too much growth had already taken place.
The Chinese women had been repelled by such foreign females. Abigail, always tall for her age, got into the habit of slumping. Only since returning to America had she trained herself to stand upright.
The words of the hymn seemed a symbol of all Abigail had run away from, a mockery of the dire circumstances of her life.
Tess had awakened off and on all day, slowly gaining strength. Still, Abigail couldn’t help worrying. She had been much safer in the relative anonymity of the District. Besides, if she and Tess didn’t report for work tomorrow, they might return to find that they had been replaced. Their miserable jobs in the sail loft were all that stood between them and starvation—or prostitution. The Lanieres seemed to be kindhearted folk, but there was a limit to most people’s charity, as she knew only too well.
“Who is that singing?” whispered Tess, pushing away the spoon. “Thank you, but I don’t want any more.”
Abigail set the bowl on the floor, leaning over to lay her head on the sheet beside Tess. She was so tired. She’d been up until dawn this morning, giving cornstarch baths to Diron and his ten-year-old sister Lythie, also discovered to be stricken with chicken pox. Camilla had been occupied with the fussy and equally poxy baby Meg. After Abigail snatched a few hours of sleep, Tess had wakened and called for her. She’d sat trying to stay awake in this uncomfortable wooden chair all day.
Winona came back yesterday afternoon to take over the household duties, but Abigail had seen little of her, other than at mealtimes.
Abigail yawned. “Sounds like an opera singer. Do you suppose the Lanieres hired someone to entertain us?”
Tess giggled, gladdening Abigail’s heart. It had been a long time since Tess had anything to laugh about. “Go and see, Abby. I want to meet her.”
“All right.” With mental reservations that any guest of the Lanieres would care to meet two women from the District, be they ever so inwardly genteel, Abigail picked up the half-empty bowl and pushed to her feet.
She found Winona straining cooked pears into an enormous pot on the kitchen stove. All Abigail could see of her was the mane of inky curls cascading down her slender back, a pair of café-au-lait-colored arms, bare beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a coarsely woven blue-and-white-checked blouse, and a plain brown gathered skirt.
But the voice. Abigail marveled as it poured from the woman’s tiny body like the throaty eulogy of a dove: “I know not where his islands lift their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift beyond his love and care.”
Abigail wanted to weep at the beauty and hope of the words and melody.
Winona turned around to dump the pear pulp into a bowl next to her elbow. When she saw Abigail, a smile lit her face, turning the dark eyes to black gemstones. Her features had an exotic sort of elegance, more interesting than any pale perfection. “Ooh, you startled me!” She laughed, giving the sieve a good shake with competent, blunt-fingered hands, then set it down to wipe her fingers on a towel tucked into the waistband of her apron.
“I heard you singing.” Odd to hear such a glorious sound from a servant. On the other hand, who was she to look down her nose at anyone?
“Pshhh, I’m sorry. Miss Camilla said not to disturb you, if you and the lady patient was asleep.” Winona gave a rueful shrug. “I get carried away.”
“Oh, no, it was lovely.” Abigail smiled. “We—Tess and I—thought it was an opera singer.”
Winona went off into gales of throaty laughter. “Me? Oh, help us, that’s a good one!”
Abigail found herself joining in. “Your voice is finer than a woman I know who once sang on the stage in Paris.” Amusement died as Abigail pictured poor Delphine’s perpetual drug-induced stupor. These days her voice was rarely lifted in anything other than black despair.
“I wish I could learn from a real teacher.” Winona turned as an insistent knock sounded at the kitchen door. “That would be Mr. John. He’s the only one of Dr. Gabriel’s students who comes direct to the kitchen. Can’t nobody talk him into coming to the front door.” She went to open the door.
Abigail found her heart clanging around in her chest like the Vespers bell in the tower of St. Stephen’s. She’d wondered when Braddock would deign to bestow his presence upon them again.
“Afternoon, Mr. John.” Winona moved to let him in.
He came in, hatless and stock askew, his coat shockingly draped over his arm. His tall form was backlit by the late afternoon sun that streamed across the kitchen courtyard and gilded the top of his head. He stopped and stared at Abigail for a long moment.
She touched her hair, then cursed herself for such a ridiculous, feminine instinct. She snatched her hand behind her back.
He shifted his attention to Winona, who had gone back to her preserves. “How is Tess?”
Winona looked around, amusement curving her lips. “I don’t know, Mr. John. You better ask Miss Abigail here. I been so busy helping Miss Camilla with the children and tending to the laundry, I ain’t had time to even look in on her. Miss Camilla say the lady’s been in good hands.” She smiled at Abigail.
“Tess is a little stronger.” Warmed at Winona’s praise, Abigail lifted her chin. “Even without the opium, she slept well last night and most of today.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave her a curt nod and stalked off toward the clinic.
Abigail gave Winona a wry glance. “Is he always this charming?”
An inscrutable smile played around Winona’s full mouth. “He can turn it on when he wants to.”
Abigail didn’t want to know what that meant. “When will Dr. Laniere be home?”
“Oh, right about—” The kitchen door rattled and opened—” now.” The doctor came in whistling, with his hat under his arm, and Winona reached to take it from him. “Miss Camilla said to tell you she’s up in the nursery when you get home. The two older boys’re down with the pox now. It’s a mess for sure.”
The doctor’s cheerful expression fell. “All five of them? Poor Camilla.” He sighed. “All right. I’ll just check on Miss Montgomery, then I’ll see about the children. I’m sure Camilla’s got things under control.”
Abigail followed him into the clinic, where she was just in time to witness the unhorsing of Sir John the Terrible, who had leaned over to grasp Tess’s wrist between thumb and two fingers.
Abigail slipped past Dr. Laniere when he halted just inside the ward, holding his hat behind his back with both hands. He rocked on his heels, watching his student with a sardonic expression that Abigail found impossible to interpret.
“Well, Mr. Braddock.” Dr. Laniere’s dry tone conveyed not a trace of the tenderness he’d shown in his ministrations to Tess. “I see that having skipped early rounds, you decided to compensate with a late-evening tour of duty. I trust you’ve recovered your customary blooming health.”
Braddock dropped Tess’s hand with a start and backed up a step. “Professor! I was just—”
“No, no, carry on, Braddock. You were doing quite well. Would you like to borrow my stethoscope?”
Braddock recovered his aplomb. “No, sir.” He discreetly pulled back the sheet to examine Tess, who turned her head away, enduring the humiliation with her eyes closed.
Abigail anxiously watched her friend’s face. She’d give anything to be a doctor herself, able to spare women the degradation of being handled familiarly by male strangers. It wasn’t the first time she’d entertained this utterly hopeless dream. She clenched her hands, silently, fiercely repeating it, almost a prayer. All she wanted was a chance to study, to learn the things John Braddock took for granted.
Resentment gave her boldness. “I’ll take Mr. Braddock’s rounds tomorrow morning if he doesn’t want to go.”
John Braddock snorted. “Very funny.” Straightening, he dropped the sheet back into place and folded his arms across his chest.
Abigail’s bravado disappeared when Dr. Laniere turned. “What did you say?”
“I s-said I would like to assist you as nurse. I’ve quite a bit of experience.” Abigail found her knees shaking. She put a hand against the wall behind her.
“I don’t believe that’s exactly what you said.” Dr. Laniere tapped his lower lip with a finger. “But if you’d like to assist, you may meet me in the carriage house at seven in the morning. We’ll see what you can do. So I suppose you should stay another night or two. Camilla could use an extra pair of hands, if you don’t mind pitching in.”
Abigail felt the blood rush from her head. “S-Sir! Do you mean it?”
“Professor!” Braddock’s hazel eyes all but popped out of his head. “This woman is no nurse! She’s a prostitute!”
Abigail came away from the wall, indignation overpowering her sense of unworthiness. “Tess and I are both respectable women who have fallen on difficult times. We are not prostitutes. Do not compound your idiocy by spouting such utter claptrap!”
“My idiocy—”
Dr. Laniere raised a hand. “The two of you may continue this discussion outside, if you please. I wish to examine my patient in peace and quiet.” When Braddock looked about to argue, the professor’s brow knit. “Now.”
Braddock clamped his lips together and stalked toward the doorway into the kitchen. He paused beside Abigail and bowed with elaborate exaggeration. “After you, ma’am.” He waited for her to precede him out of the ward.
She grasped her skirts as daintily as if they were finest silk and gave him the curtsy her mother had made her practice before a mirror when she was a little girl. Rising with gratifying grace, she turned to Dr. Laniere. “I shall meet you in the carriage house in the morning, sir.” She smiled at her unexpected champion. “Thank you, sir.”
Braddock followed her outside into the shadow-dappled courtyard, shutting the door sharply behind him. “What do you think you’re up to?”
She whirled to face him. “Accepting an invitation.”
“You invited yourself. What possible help do you think you’ll be—you’ll only get in the way of those of us who have paid tuition and earned a spot at the professor’s side.”
“What difference does it make to you whether I’m there or not? Do you think my brain will absorb all the information in the room, leaving you without any?” Closing her eyes, she placed her thumbs at her temples in imitation of a French Quarter spiritist. “Ooh, I think you’re right. I definitely sense your intellect dissipating by the second.” She looked at him in mock sympathy. “No wonder you seem so monumentally stupid.”
“Don’t be absurd.” His mouth quirked a little in spite of the heavy frown. “It’s a matter of what’s fair.”
“Fair?” She could feel her fingers curling into her skirt. “How does Dr. Laniere’s generosity remove your benefit? Besides, even if I had the wherewithal to pay tuition, I wouldn’t be allowed to take classes with you. So don’t prate to me of fairness, Mr. Braddock.”
His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to articulate whatever was boiling behind those hot multihued eyes. “It’s just not right,” he finally muttered. “We keep women out of medicine to protect them.”
“Well, I’ve been protected right out of my homeland and my family, thank you very much,” she said. “Now that I’ve landed on my feet here, you’re not going to convince me to go back.”
“Miss Neal—Abigail,” his voice softened, “I wouldn’t send you back to the District. I merely want you to consider carefully before you force your way into a place where you won’t be accepted, much less welcomed. The other fellows will be brutal if you show up tomorrow morning.”
Abigail stared at him, chin raised. “Your warning is well taken. And I shall prepare myself accordingly.” She dipped him another curtsy and turned for the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Braddock.”
She forced herself not to look over her shoulder as she reentered the kitchen, leaving her adversary fuming on the other side of the door. John Braddock had a thing or two to learn about women if he imagined he’d thwarted her desire to follow rounds in the morning.
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