Page 56 of Ghost of the Ton

“I do when he talks nonsense,” she replied. “What you said isn’t a diagnosis, but a description of the symptoms, using an unintelligible language, no doubt to secure a higher fee.”

“And ye know this because…?”

“Because,” she said quietly, “and may the Almighty forgive me for speaking out of turn…because it’s what my father used to do—and many like him. They gave unintelligible names to descriptions of symptoms, then prescribed a generic cure, usually a leech applied to the affected part of the body. Your Dr. Chisholm’s diagnosis is something any fool could make, given that, in essence, all he’s saying is that your mother is ageing and experiencing pain in her hands.”

“So, what is my mother suffering from if it’s not merely her age?”

“It’s a swelling of the joints,” she said. “I cannot recall the precise name for it—but Dr. McIver taught me a little about it, which he learned when he studied in France for a while, at the Salpêtrière Hospital.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, then let out a sigh as he shook his head.

“She’s also experiencing the effects of a lack of sunlight,” she said. “I understand your Dr. Chisholm advised her not to take milk in her tea and avoid cheese, when, in fact, an absence of each will exacerbate the symptoms.”

He stared at her. Was she a clever charlatan, trying to fill his mind with nonsense, or, as her confident manner suggested, did she actually have some understanding of medicine?

“Don’t you believe me, Lord MacLennan?” she said, her voice hardening.

So much for Hamish.

She let out a sigh and replaced the jar on the shelf. “A woman always has less credibility in the eyes of the world when her opinion contradicts that of a man.”

“So ye assume Dr. Chisholm is a man, not a woman?” Hamish teased, then he regretted his words as the determination in her expression faded, as if she surrendered the debate, knowing that her opponent did not deserve to hear her arguments.

“There are few women doctors,” she said, “and, even if Edinburgh were awash with them, you would never employ one.”

“Why not?”

She rolled her eyes. “In the short time since I arrived here, Lord MacLennan, I’ve learned enough about you to know that you’d never listen to anything a woman said, let alone employ one as a doctor. In your eyes, my sex is fit to fulfill only three functions—providing a man with a dowry, bearing him sons, and pouring the tea. Of course, in my case, I’m only good for one.”

She picked up the teapot and poured a measure into each cup.

“I trust I’ve dispatched my one viable function to your satisfaction, sir.”

Fuck.

Why did he always have to make such an arse of himself?

“I’m sorry…Euphramia,” he said. “If ye’re helping ease Ma’s pain, then I ought to be thanking ye, not teasing ye. Tell me more about what ye have here.” He gestured to a large iron pot at the end of the lower shelf. “What’s that?”

“Calendula salve,” she said. “Or, at least, it will be when it cools. It’s for preventing putrefaction of wounds.”

“Do ye have a salve for preventing a man from making an arse of himself?” he said. “Better still, a potion to make a woman forget a man’s foolish words that he did not mean?”

She met his gaze and the corner of her mouth lifted. Then she reached for a small glass bottle on the top shelf with a yellowing label.

“Laudanum,” she said. “Enough of this will render a man unconscious, so at least I’m not required to listen to his foolish words for an hour or so.”

“And ye found that here?”

“I brought this with me. There’s only a little left, but Dr. McIver told me I could always write and ask him to send me anything I needed.”

“Dr. McIver—that’s the man ye studied with?”

She nodded.

“Will ye write to him?”

“That depends on your generosity. I’ve no paper to write on, and no money for postage.”