“Mr. Roland, though not a physician, is a man of considerable standing. He has signed his name. He agreed that you could visit with his wife—one more time, under my direct supervision—if you add your name to this list and never discuss Mrs. Roland’s case again, in conversation or in print.” He unfolded the paper, already half-filled with signatures—some tight, some looping, in black, Prussian blue, and sepia inks.
Nora scanned it, heart sinking. She knew so many of these names: Silas Vickery, her old nemesis, who’d probably diebefore allowing her or Harry into St. Bart’s, where he presided. Dr. Thompson, who’d once been her ally. Seagrave and Traffett, who’d both attended her last lecture.
Her eyes narrowed. Clark…Milford. Adams had allowed dressers to sign their names here, beneath his lines of absolute drivel.
Dangerous precedent steeped in folklore and tradition… Need for consistent standards… Aim to stop the abuse of vulnerable women afflicted by unskilled midwives.
Abuse? Her hands shook.
“I was there. You weren’t, Dr. Adams.” Nora snatched the paper, folded it closed, then handed it back, afraid she’d tear it in pieces if she kept it even a second longer.
This thing belonged in the fire. Maybe she should have shredded it.
She could handle criticism. She was used to it.
“I know my work, Dr. Adams, and I know that Mrs. Franklin did very well with hers. She is neither dangerous nor unskilled, having been trained extensively by experience and a medical doctor—”
“You?” Adams mocked.
“Yes. And Mr. Roland should be grateful for her careful attention to his wife. Neither of us have any mistakes to apologize for.” The hot queasiness had passed, and Nora found her feet firm beneath her. “You should be ashamed of manipulating her husband into thinking that article would ever be read by hisassociates or that the nameless patient would be recognized as his wife.”
It had been too hasty, writing the case so soon. Adams might not have realized if she’d waited a year or even six months. Nora cursed herself silently and fervently. She’d let regret overtake her later, but not in this man’s presence. As for signing his petition—she’d not be blackmailed into anything.
“So you’ll not be adding your name with the other physicians?” He paused, about to return the paper to his pocket.
“No. I disagree with every point.”
“Once again, setting yourself apart from the profession…” His voice dwindled like someone dangling a string for a cat. She’d not bat at it.
“If signing your absurd document is necessary, I’m afraid that prevents me from seeing my patient today,” she said with a coolness she didn’t feel.
“It is necessary,” Adams said stiffly. “It is essential.”
“Well.” Nora smoothed her gloves. “Please give Mrs. Roland my regards. She is welcome to consult me again at any time.”
Unfortunately, Nora knew she probably wouldn’t. That decision had been taken from her.
Chapter 12
Daniel rolled a shoulder against the tight knot forming in his trapezius muscle. The operating tables at Bart’s were not designed for tall men, and though surgeries were kept as short as possible—often under twenty minutes—his neck and back squeaked out their complaints.
“You’ll notice Mr. Jeffers is constantly checking the vaporizer and mask to ensure the patient is getting the exact dose calculated for his weight. Dr. Croft has not lost a single patient to ether.” He angled his voice toward the four students huddled on the other side of the table. “I’d rather you not take notes during the procedure,” Daniel said evenly. “They go so quickly. It is more important to observe and feel the techniques.”
The student lowered his charcoal pencil right away.
“When retrieving a ball from a gunshot, you want to follow the path of entry as cleanly as possible to avoid extending the injury,” Daniel said, indicating the wound on his sedated patient, an older man who’d set off his pistol accidentally and shot himself in the calf. Instead of making a clean exit, it had traveled down his leg and lodged inside.
“Doesn’t Croft recommend leaving balls in place?” one of the students asked as Daniel selected a rounded metal probe.
“Internal balls, sometimes. But this one is close to the surface and would likely cause considerable pain before it encapsulated itself in a cicatrix.”
The newest student shifted and frowned.
“Scar tissue,” Jeffers supplied kindly. He’d been a mere student himself two years ago.
Fortunately, the retrieval went smoothly, and the patient woke without sputtering or confusion as the medical students applauded quietly, their smiles relieved and admiring.
“Now Mr. Jeffers will show you the correct way to dress the wound, which will be especially important to those of you who pursue the work of a military surgeon.” Daniel hung his smeared smock on the wall hook and slipped out of the room to rinse the blood from his hands.
