“Unnecessary,” Adams declared. “And unwise.”
“Unwise?” Alarms jangled faintly in the back corners of her mind.
“I do not think Mrs. Roland needs to be reminded of the way you conducted her birth. I haven’t been fully informed, but what I’ve heard was damaging enough.”
Nora stiffened. “Damaging?” She needed to do more than parrot his insults. “I thought you’d be more concerned with the error in your calculation of Mrs. Roland’s dates. You’ve seen little Lily?”
His eyes narrowed over his pointed beard.
“Then you know she wasn’t a seven-month child when I delivered her.”
He smoothed his face, waving away the evidence of his negligence like a mosquito. “Yes, that does sometimes happen. Clearly there was no need for Lady Woodbine to go into a panic.”
“There was every reason, based on what you’d told them. IfLily were that early, she wouldn’t have survived.”
His brow lowered. “I have something very particular to tell you.”
Her blood, heating with each of his words, scalded her chest and face. “Whatever it is, there’s no need to proclaim from the stairs like some second-rate stage actor.”
He practically flew down the stairs, stopping a mere foot in front of her. Her momentary burst of courage wavered under his scowl. “It would be best for everyone if you left.”
“I’m here to follow up with my patient,” she said. “Just as I have been for these past three weeks in your absence. She’s been nothing but pleased with my care.”
“That hardly matters now.Mr.Roland has dismissed you from his wife’s case.”
Nora held her breath. “Why?”
“He was verydispleased by an unnamed account published in theProvincial, which I showed him this morning.” Adams rocked on his heels. His voice held a note of suppressed satisfaction. “Have you seen the piece?”
Nora blanched, her eyes darting to his. She’d written a detailed account of the labor. Such articles were for doctors only—not patients, and certainly not their family members. The words she’d used—entirely necessary in medical journals—would sound sordid and ugly to anyone other than an investigating doctor. Because Mrs. Roland was a gentlewoman, Nora had withheld her name. She wouldn’t have, though, for a working-class patient.
Adams gave a small smile, no doubt reading guilt in Nora’s consternation. “Yes. You see, it matched many of the particularsdescribed to me by Mrs. Roland’s maid, Gladys. When I put it to Mr. Roland that the published case could only be referring to his wife”—Adams stepped back, glancing into the hall mirror to adjust his collar—“he said you were not to be readmitted to his house. He was most disappointed at the description of his wife, laboring in a way that you compared favorably to indigenous methods from Africa and the Amazon.”
Nora’s teeth locked together. Because she had omitted names, Mr. Roland might be upset, but no matter what Adams suspected, neither of them had proof.
“I was particularly concerned,” Adams continued, “that you appear to be championing—what was the phrase?—‘the reservoir of experience among midwives.’”
“Articles in theProvincialare not for laypeople. Any husband would be shocked by an account of his wife—”
“In a public paper? Yes, indeed.”
Nora swallowed back a rush of bile. “It’s not a newspaper. It’s a medical journal for professionals only. As you well know. How dare you make him think I paraded Mrs. Roland in the public—” The words cut off in a rush of nausea.
“You brought in a midwife to treat a distinguished and wealthy woman.” How did Adams manage to sound like he was yelling the more he lowered his voice? “You let a midwife put my patient on her hands and knees, like a dog littering puppies.”
“That midwife caught your mistake within minutes,” Nora retorted, her voice higher than she wished. “If you had bothered to properly examine Mrs. Roland, you wouldn’t have erred in your calculations. You might have been here to attend her whenshe needed it—”
“Be very careful, Mrs. Gibson,” Adam said.
“I am.” She drew herself up, determined to feign strength, even if she couldn’t feel it. “That’s why Mrs. Roland is in such excellent health.”
“You are not your guardian. I doubt our colleagues will let you voice things they only tolerate from Horace. I certainly will not. Not when you actively propound the virtues of folk remedies and midwives. Are you a doctor, Mrs. Gibson, or a neighborhood woman peddling cures?”
“I’m a doctor. And at least in Mrs. Roland’s case, a better one than you.”
“You—” He twitched, forcing control on his face. The effort rippled over his features, carrying down his arms and shoulders until at last his hands uncurled. “Things will go badly for you, Mrs. Gibson, if you don’t step in line.” He reached into his chest pocket and drew out a folded document. “After reading your letter, I started a petition.”
He spread out the paper and held it up, inches from her nose.
