Chapter 1
August 14, 1849; London
Only four steps to climb to the glossy front door of 43 Great Queen Street, but Nora’s strength unraveled further with each one, dropping completely from her shoulders the moment she slipped inside the dim entrance hall.
The house was quiet. Nora let out a sigh and plucked at the linen rag covering her chest. It had been a pressed blouse just this morning, before she’d had to sally out into the late-summer heat. But the air inside was almost as stifling.
She had one goal—to sit in the ice room with closed eyes until the waves of heat stopped radiating off her skin. Then she could finally open the letter she’d received yesterday but hadn’t had time to read. Navigating past a pile of newly arrived crates in the hallway, she glanced at the labels—India. Horace must have gotten word of some exciting specimens. Detouring around them, she stepped into the parlor and stopped, letter and ice room forgotten. A tall, slender man was stretched across the sofa, slippered feet hanging off the edge. The newspaper draped over his face lifted ever so slightly with each of his languid breaths. Daniel was sleeping.
Though her sore arms begged her to drop her heavy bag with a thump, she lowered it carefully to the floor so as not to startle him. Besides, it held too many precious medicines and instruments to treat it with anything less than the utmost care.
She tugged at her bootlaces to free her tired feet. Leaving the dusty boots in a heap, she tiptoed closer, studying her new husband. The newssheet, rising and falling with each exhale like the gentle swells of a calm sea, bore an article about American gold prospecting in California.
A trained surgeon, she lifted the paper with remarkable care and transferred it to the sofa arm, revealing his face—his sideburns trimmed with her usual precision. Daniel could have done as well himself, but she enjoyed shaving him. She liked any excuse to touch him, particularly those opportunities requiring a battle between deliberate motion and reckless proximity. The first time, she’d gotten carried away and actually nicked him. Daniel had teased her for weeks.
Nora grinned, nudged her way onto the edge of the cushion, and bent, kissing his cheek. He looked younger than his thirty years when he slept.
“You’re home,” he said before he managed to open his eyes. His arms found her and tugged her close as he turned to his side and burrowed into the sofa to make room for her. “You missed supper. I hope it was an interesting case.”
“Nothing exciting. I was treating a girl with a fever in a rookery. When word spread a doctor was there, I had a line down the hall all the way to the front door. I opened a cyst, removed a dead fingernail, and tomorrow I have a child coming into the clinic. He’s tongue-tied and needs to have it clipped.”
The poor didn’t mind so much when their doctor wore skirts. Since returning from Italy six months before, the clinic here had grown more and more empty. Most middle-class men simply refused to submit to her care. Nora took a deep breath. “How was your day?”
“Three surgeries. An amputation, a bone excision, and a bunion removal.”
Nora tamped down her jealousy, diverting her attention to Daniel as he pressed his lips into her hair, sending a rush of electricity over her scalp.
“Let me squeeze you for a minute, and then you can go eat.”
“I can’t eat yet. I’m still too hot. I meant to go to the ice room.”
A throat cleared behind her. Nora sat up. “Hello, Mrs. Phipps. Did you want something?”
The housekeeper wasn’t normally inclined to interrupt, but as general manager of the chaos contained in their household, specimen room, hospital ward, surgery, and clinic, she often needed to. “Iwantyou to be able to eat, perhaps sleep, and freshen your clothes.” Her presence was always more forceful than her rail-thin, diminutive stature justified. “But I’m afraid a messenger’s come to the clinic. Mrs. Franklin is asking for help. She’s on Milk Street. It’s urgent.” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry, Nora. Cook is packing you a sandwich.”
Untangling himself, Daniel sat up, too. “I can come with you.” Mrs. Franklin was a skilled midwife, but if she needed help—
Nora glanced at him, his cheek red and indented where it’d been smashed against the button of the tufted pillow. He mustbe tired, even more so than she, if he’d done three surgeries this afternoon. And he was scheduled to work at St. Bart’s, one of London’s enormous teaching hospitals, again in the morning. “You need to sleep. I’ll manage fine.”
“Don’t walk,” he said. “Take the carriage and rest your feet for a few minutes.”
“The driver is already bringing it around,” Mrs. Phipps said as Nora wrestled her boots back on, her feet magically sorer than when she’d stripped them off only minutes ago. “I’ll have the sandwiches and your vaporizer put in.”
As she disappeared, she kindly closed the door.
Daniel came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders and working at her knotted trapezius muscles. “Are you certain, Nora? I’m happy to help.”
“Go up to bed.” She rummaged through her bag, opening the protective case of her newest acquisition—a beautifully crafted glass syringe. No cracks. Good. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
She hadn’t meant any innuendo, but he gave a complaining groan and kissed the back of her neck. “Not soon enough.”
She swallowed and waited for her stomach to return to its rightful place, then turned and placed a pert kiss on his head. “No fair making me regret going when I have no choice. And just so you know…” She paused at the doorway. “I’m going straight to sleep when I get home.”
“We’ll see.” The sound of Daniel’s laugh chased her down the hallway, the feel of his hands on her shoulders lingering until she was in the carriage, rolling toward Milk Street.
She wished she could have stayed home.
But she was needed, and this promised to be today’s most challenging case—probably the most demanding work she’d do all week. A humbling thought. Six months ago, in the midst of the furor she’d caused by registering with the medical association as a surgeon free to practice in the city of London—without letting them know N. Beady was a woman—she’d conducted a successful cesarean section, something no other English doctor could claim.
