Ivy reviewed the chart. All looked well, and Mrs. Le Huquet seemed in good spirits.
“Dr. Picot?” Dr. Tipton stood at the foot of the bed with a stern expression. “May I have a word with you in private?”
How much lower could her heart sink? What if the medical society expelled her? Revoked her hospital privileges? How would she be able to practice medicine?
“Yes, Doctor.” She squeezed her patient’s hand.“Excuse me,Mrs. Le Huquet.I’m glad to see you recovering so well, and I’ll visit in a few days.”
Out in the hallway, Dr. Tipton leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his white coat. He pressed a finger to his lips and watched a nursing sister enter another ward with a tray.
Then he ... smiled? He leaned closer until his freckles became apparent. “I do hope you can forgive me.” His voice barely reached her ears. “Keeping up appearances and all that. You do understand. But I wanted to thank you for your actions and for the paper. Cheerio.”
With a swirl of white coat, he marched down the hall.
Ivy stared after the man. First he’d berated her, then thanked her. What on earth had happened?
And men claimed women were difficult to understand.
Ivy shook her head and made her way out of the hospital. She did appreciate the gratitude for the paper. At least once a week now, Charlie brought home a ream, saying, “Don’t ask where it came from if you don’t want to know.”
She did not want to know, didn’t want to think of her little brother negotiating France’s black market, so she merely warned him to be careful and accepted the gift.
A twofold gift. Not only did she have writing paper for her own practice and to share with the other physicians, but she’d been able to spare three sketch pads—now five, after one of the doctors returned the sketch pads she’d given him.
With care, they could last for months.
She stepped outside to Gloucester Street under a brilliant blue sky, the hospital entrance now imprinted with the memory ofGerrit van der Zee bowing his goodbye with his arm cradled to his belly, preserving the shreds of her reputation.
Ivy placed her medical bag in her bicycle basket and pedaled down Gloucester Street.
In church, Gerrit and Bernardus no longer conversed with the Picots. Very ... gallant. Gerrit knew the harm Fern had done to the family, and friendliness with Todt men would only further that harm.
Gerrit did, however, continue to talk to Thelma Galais. Since Thelma had often been ill the past winter, she appreciated his attention when she could attend church. She thought the world of Gerrit van der Zee.
If it weren’t for that uniform, Ivy might share her opinion.
Ivy checked her watch, a practice she was trying to make a habit. Still enough time to visit Joan de Ferrers before lunch.
The only benefit Fern’s new job provided was more freedom in Ivy’s day, and not only from the loss of patients. The daily routes Fern had designed worked well, and Ivy had retained them. But now when patients requested home visits, Aunt Ruby insisted on a visit to the surgery if they were able. With less travel, Ivy could see patients more quickly, and she had more time to treat escapees and to sketch along the way, aided by Charlie’s timer.
At Carter’s Chemist’s, Ivy locked up her bicycle and entered the shop.
“Miss de Ferrers?” Ivy pulled a book from her medical bag and waved it to Joan, far behind the counter. “I brought you a book I found in my father’s office.”
“Oh?” Joan came to the counter. “What sort of book?”
Ivy handed it to her. “It must go back generations to the first Dr. Picot.”
Joan eased the cover open with reverence. “Traditional remedies? Oh my. Look at this. Our modern commercial medications work well, but these—they work too. And look—this grows in the hedgerows.”
Ivy knew she’d like it. But she’d soon lose Joan to the pages, so she cleared her throat. “Anything for me?”
Joan’s gaze dragged up to Ivy, and she kept one possessive finger in the book. “Oh yes. Yes, I do. Mr. Hooper said you were coming out to his farm tomorrow, and he asked if you could bring his thyroid medicine.”
“I’d be glad to.” In their code, “tomorrow” meant the case wasn’t urgent, and “thyroid” meant a general examination of a new escapee.
Mr. Hooper had sheltered several foreign workers in the past, but they never stayed long, shuttled to other homes by members of the “ring,” the name Ivy had given the organization, since no one would tell her about it. Nor should they.
Whoever they were, they trusted her despite everything. Her throat swelled, and she swallowed hard. “You know about my sister’s job, don’t you?”
