Nora continued washing the cadaver, her thoughts numb. Despite his claim, Horace was wrong every day. He’d mistaken Lady Gallatin for a shopkeeper just last week. He’d told the family of a girl with an abscess on her foot she’d likely die—because he’d confused them with the relatives of a man suffering from heart failure (they looked nothing alike). And Mrs. Phipps had caught him eating off a Wedgwood serving tray he’d confused with a plate.
But.
None of those were medical diagnoses.
“When do the students and doctors arrive?” she finally asked when she found her voice again. Anything to change the topic.
“Just after one. Will you sit in?”
Nora sighed. “I better. You can’t be the only person in this house who knows how to build noses.”
He gave an approving grin. “I’ll let you try it yourselftonight after they leave.”
Good.She needed more time with the scalpel. Already her fingers felt overlarge and fumbling at the thought of parting skin and muscle. She’d done too much gross motor practice lately and too little of the fine movements required by a surgeon.
“I need to see to the clinic.” She excused herself, but didn’t exit the corner door to the back staircase. Instead, she slipped into the parlor and paused in front of a mirror. The one above the Japanese table, where the light was best. She tipped her head carefully, scrutinizing her profile.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Phipps asked, appearing in the reflection over Nora’s shoulder.
Nora continued her inspection of the ball of her nose. “Checking to see if my nose is swollen.”
“Did you hit it?” Mrs. Phipps’s brow creased with worry.
“No. But Horace says it’s bigger. Do you think it is?” Unconsciously, her hand wandered to her waist. Her skirt fit as well as ever, but it would, even if he was right.
Mrs. Phipps pursed her lips until they nearly disappeared. “What did he say to you?”
“Absurdities, as usual. He diagnosed me with—” Nora blushed. Mrs. Phipps had never been married, and speaking of such things seemed insensitive. But Mrs. Phipps waited, frowning, for Nora to finish. “He thinks I’m with child.”
Choking, Mrs. Phipps forced out a strangled cry. “I’ll thrash him. Hetoldyou?”
Nora’s mouth dropped open. “He toldyou?”
“That man!” She flung up her hands. “I ordered him to letyou figure it out on your own.”
Nora stumbled backward. “What do you mean?” There was no reason to think—
Mrs. Phipps’s frustration melted into an appeasing smile, and she stepped closer to Nora, dropping her voice into a confidential tone. “I know you’ve been distracted, but I oversee the laundry, dear. You’re a week late.”
Chapter 11
Much as she wanted to, Nora couldn’t automatically reject Mrs. Phipps’s evidence. Some women kept rigid accounts of their monthlies. And apparently, some—like Mrs. Phipps—kept rigid accounts ofotherwomen’s monthlies. Nora, however, had never been one to count days. There was too much work to get done without worrying about something that inevitably came on its own, whether she expected it or not.
You don’t know anything for certain yet, she told herself.
And—this was hard to do—there was no point in thinking about it until she did.
She stumbled over simple tasks and took two wrong turns on her walk to the Roland house. Once arrived, she wasn’t ushered immediately to the sitting room of her recovering patients, as she had been on every other visit. The haughty butler instructed her to wait in the hall. Instead of Gladys or Lady Woodbine appearing, she was startled by a harsh voice coming down the stairs, matched by an equally heavy tread.
“Mrs. Gibson, is it?”
She looked up—and willed her face still. Dr. Adams, affronted in every look and line, paused on the stairs, taking advantage of the height to glower down at her, as intractable as the heavy-chinned woman glaring from a massive portraitbehind him.
“I prefer ‘Doctor,’” she said with a warning edge.
His face spasmed into a frown. “My patient is not in need of your assistance,” Dr. Adams said. “I returned to London yesterday and was informed of Mrs. Roland’s delivery—and your treatment.”
“Yes, it was fortunate Lady Woodbine thought to consult me. Otherwise, Mrs. Roland would have been quite unattended.” Remembering what he’d said to Daniel, and what Daniel had then said to her, it was impossible to keep the acid from her voice. But she checked her tone, adding, “I’m here to assess her recovery.”
