“They can save lives if you’re trained, but they’re dangerous in the wrong hands. I learned the use of these ones in Italy andtaught Dr. Croft and my husband.”
Mrs. Franklin turned her cup around in her saucer. “Could you teach me?”
Nora stopped mid-sip.
She lowered the teacup, her mind racing through scenarios, laws. She’d have to study the restrictions. Doctors and surgeons were protective of their privileges, and certain methods were only allowed to be taught in hospitals and universities by instructors approved by the Royal College of Surgeons. She could lose her license if she misstepped.
Three years ago, she’d nearly cost Horace his, so she knew better than most the consequences of medical experimentation. She’d conducted an emergency surgery under anesthesia to save a man’s life. But she hadn’t been licensed. And she was female, so how could she possibly be considered a pupil or an apprentice?
It didn’t matter that she’d begun making anatomical drawings while still a child. (Horace found her talent a convenience, but Mrs. Phipps, who’d largely taken charge of orphaned Nora’s upbringing, was the one who’d brought in a drawing master.) By the time she was twelve, Horace was using her as an assistant in preparing cadavers and, soon after, as an extra hand on living patients. By the time she was twenty-two, she’d received as deep and full a medical education as any of his students. If any other aspiring doctor had repaired that man’s hernia, he’d have been celebrated, but because she’d done it, the surgery was, in the words of one newspaper, “a travesty and a scandal.” The doctors of London had called for everything from censure to fines to stripping Horace’s licenses. Some had even arguedfor prison. Luckily, Horace’s prestige and her hasty escape had deflected these scenarios.
She’d dodged their ire by absconding to Bologna, Italy, where they allowed females in their university, and earned her own medical license. She now worked quietly among the grudging London surgeons, winning a few over with her obstetrical expertise. But she needed to tread carefully.
“I’d very much like to teach you,” Nora said slowly, returning to Mrs. Franklin. “But…” She forced a smile. “I could get in trouble training you outside of a hospital.”
But then, she possessed a hospital owned by the most respected surgeon and lecturer in London. While she studied in Italy, Horace had enlarged and renovated his home, building a small but modern hospital that he’d turned over to Nora the moment she returned to London. He knew it would be the only place she was allowed to practice in peace—if one called the continual criticism and censure she receivedpeaceful.
Horace’s name and reputation had always provided considerable protection. Even with her license, she relied on it every day. There might be a way to train Mrs. Franklin without getting either of them dragged into court, but only within the walls of her hospital at 43 Great Queen Street.
Her thoughts flashed to the letter tucked away in her instrument bag.
Magdalena knew. If they didn’t train more women, the door Nora had forced open for herself might be closed forever. Magdalena had complained about fewer women training in medicine, but here in London, Nora was the sole female representative of the profession, and there were fewer midwivesworking every year, largely because of male doctors advocating that they were better skilled for the job. Midwives were scorned by the scientific community as uneducated nuisances, useful only for poor patients who couldn’t afford real physicians.
As patients turned increasingly to doctors, midwives’ unique and undervalued skills—like Mrs. Franklin blowing into Betsy’s boy’s lungs—might be lost.
Nora looked away from Mrs. Franklin’s sharp brown eyes, frustrated by the latent intelligence crouching there. Mrs. Franklin had safely brought more children into London than scores of doctors combined. She’d performed flawlessly today. If she wanted to learn to use short forceps, she deserved to.
Magdalena would teach her, so why couldn’t she? While Nora intended to be careful, this looked like an instance where she needed to stick her foot in a door, forcing an opening again. “You know, I happen to be giving a demonstration lecture tomorrow at my hospital. I’d be happy to have you join.”
“Hospital instruction?” Mrs. Franklin straightened her shoulders, a grin creeping over her mouth. “If it were a lecture by some doctors I’ve seen at work, I’d save my time. But after seeing your forceps, I think you may have some tricks to teach me.”
Nora smiled, recalling the quick release of the baby’s tiny feet freed by Mrs. Franklin’s capable hands. Her fearless exhalation into the child’s mouth. “Perhaps we have things to teach each other.”
Chapter 3
Nora stirred, fluttered an eyelid, then winced, reconsidering. The morning light seared her vision—much too bright to bear. But if it was this light already, she ought to get out of bed. She pried both eyes open and, after the initial shock, shifted her head to peer past the bulk of her pillow.
Daniel’s cheek and handsome nose—only inches away—glowed softly in the strange yellow-gray sunbeams of a London sunrise. She liked waking first and watching him sleep.
Gloating, really, that after years of waiting, he belonged to her.
He sighed, maybe sensing she was awake. They’d not yet grown accustomed to sleeping through each other’s stirrings. His lips hitched into her favorite smile, and she could almost see the dreams behind his eyelids. She leaned forward to wake him, lips parted with words half-flirtatious, half-mocking—when she froze and cocked her head.
Scratch. Scratch.The distinct animal sound came from somewhere inside the room, similar to, but not exactly like, the fast scuttle of a mouse. It sounded…bigger.
Nora’s hands tightened on the sheets, and she turned her head to check the door. Still firmly closed. “Daniel.” When he didn’t stir, she prodded his shoulder. “Daniel.”
“What—” He pushed up on an elbow, sensing her tension.
“Shh,” she commanded. “Did you hear that?”
“No,” Daniel said through a yawn. “What did you hear?”
“Scratching.” They both listened, Nora dimly aware he was awaiting a more affectionate greeting. He leaned closer, but she pushed firmly against his shoulder. No distractions yet. She sat up, scanning the perimeter of the room. “There’s something in here, but our door and window are closed.”
“Maybe we’re haunted like the neighborhood children say,” he mumbled, flopping back onto his pillow. “Some dissected soul coming back for us.”
When she ignored him, continuing her survey of the room, he moaned and pulled himself off the pillow again, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “All right.” He pushed back the blanket and started to swing himself off the bed when she gripped his striped sleeve.
