Crescent City Courtship (11 page)

She wasn’t sure it was a good thing. His hands shook.

“John, what’s wrong?” she said quietly.

“What?” He glanced at her. A crash from inside the house accompanied the shouts of firemen and doctors, the dying crackle of the fire.

She raised her voice. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. Don’t let the clamp slide.”

He was back to his normal curt self. Biting back a breath-
wasting retort, she adjusted her grip and watched him sew. When he finished, he reached into the bag for a pair of scissors and cut the suture thread. He looked around. “We’ve got to move him to a wagon. He needs to go to the hospital.”

The man began to stir. His eyelids fluttered. “Help me,” he murmured. “Libby…the baby…”

“Be still.” Abigail laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find—”

“Never mind, Abigail, get his feet.” John stood up. “I’ll take his shoulders.” He seemed to realize she was all the help he was going to get. The other doctors and students were occupied with victims of the fire. With the rising of the sun, the stench of burned flesh had become so powerful that it was hard for Abigail to breathe, even through her handkerchief. She didn’t know how John could stand it.

“Hold on,” she told their patient. “We’re going to carry you to the ambulance.”

“No!” He tried to sit up as John grasped him under the armpits. “Where’s my wife? Libby—”

“We’ll find her,” John grunted. “Abby—get his feet!”

It was a good thing she was a tall, sturdy woman, she thought as she and John hauled the heavy patient with as little jostling as possible toward the nearest ambulance wagon. He had fainted again before they got him there; they made him as comfortable as they could, leaving instructions for Crutch to keep him still if he should wake up and go looking for his wife.

For the next two hours Abigail accompanied John from patient to patient, soothing burns with aloe extract, bandaging or sewing up flesh wounds, once setting a broken leg with a splint made from a piece of doorpost. In an attempt to find their first patient’s wife, Abigail addressed every
woman they encountered as Libby. She was unsuccessful in that, but she learned more about medicine than by reading a stack of textbooks. John was swift, efficient, thorough—and she was increasingly impressed with his gentle touch.

It was nearly noon, with the sun straight overhead, when Professor Laniere called his students together. They clustered under a bare-limbed sugar maple across the street from the burned tenement, panting and sweating despite the clammy chill. The men had all removed coats and cravats and rolled up their shirtsleeves; Abigail would have given anything to be shed of her high-necked, full-skirted gown. As it was, she defied convention by unbuttoning her wristbands and rolling the sleeves as high as they would go on her forearms. She had also unfastened her detachable collar, tossing it into her supply sack. Let them call her a strumpet: at least she wouldn’t faint from heat exhaustion.

“Gentlemen—and lady,” the professor added with a slight smile for Abigail, “the worst cases have been cared for and sent on to the hospital for the nuns to settle into quarantine. You’ve all acquitted yourselves well. Lectures for this afternoon will be suspended.”

A general huzzah erupted from the students as they dispersed.

Abigail detained the doctor by touching his sleeve. “Professor, there was a man we treated—Mr. Braddock and I, that is. The man was looking for his wife and baby.”

The professor’s calm gaze went from Abigail to John, who had hesitated when she stopped. “Where is he now?”

“We put him on the ambulance,” said John. “Told him we’d look for the woman—her name is Libby.”

“But neither of us saw her. Or any babies either, for that
matter.” Abigail knitted her fingers together. She’d given a promise. “Do you suppose the firemen found her too late?”

“Several unrecognizable bodies were recovered and taken to the dead house before we got here,” the professor conceded. “I’ll inquire. The baby ought to be a giveaway.”

John nodded. “Thank you, Prof. Will you let us know if you find them?”

Dr. Laniere agreed and took his leave to stride across the street, where the last of the ambulance wagons waited.

“Happy now?” John smiled at Abigail, the brilliance of his hazel eyes augmented by sweaty smudges of charcoal across his forehead and cheeks where he’d repeatedly wiped his face.

She nodded, thinking he looked like a particularly handsome and well-bred savage. Even though she’d never denied his physical beauty, for the first time she found herself attracted to the man, the doctor. She had watched him perform today like a hero in a penny novel.

Then his gaze shifted over her shoulder and he nearly crushed her hand. “Father. What are you doing in this part of town?”

Abigail turned to find a tall, heavily built gentleman bearing toward them. A stovepipe hat covered his dark, longish hair; muttonchop side-whiskers, a thick mustache and heavy eyebrows accented a pair of ice blue eyes.

Mr. Braddock reached John and laid a large hand on his son’s shoulder. A broad smile revealed strong white teeth, although there was little real humor in his expression. “Seems a man has to attend a fire in the worst street of the District to have a conversation with his offspring these days. Your mother told me you were by the other day. Why did you not stay for supper, you ungrateful whelp?”

Abigail’s instinct to run was forestalled by John’s grip on her hand. He didn’t look at her, but she knew somehow that her presence helped him. But oh, how she wanted to get away. She tried to shrink behind John’s broad shoulder.
He doesn’t know you. He’s never seen you,
she reminded herself.

John tugged her hand through his arm. “I have afternoon rounds and examinations to study for, Father.”

“Yes, we all know how busy you are these days. No time for the fellow who pays the bills.” Braddock Sr.’s laughter boomed as he squeezed John’s shoulder hard before releasing it. He looked around. “Just hell-bent on rescuing every pox-infected dock worker on the south side of town. Now when are you going to introduce me to your fair companion?”

Abigail wished she’d thought to roll down her sleeves and replace her collar. Desperate to evade the sneering inspection of those cunning blue eyes, she tried to pull her hand from John’s elbow.

John visibly regained some of his customary aplomb. “Father, may I make you known to Miss Abigail Neal, who is a houseguest of Dr. and Mrs. Laniere? Miss Neal, I present my father, Phillip Braddock.”

John’s defiant gaze was on his father’s face, but she detected a faint tuck in the corner of his mouth. Facing the senior Braddock, her chin went up a notch. Perhaps in her creased and stained gown, hair disheveled and falling down about her shoulders, she did look like one of the inhabitants of the red light district. But she literally was staying with the Lanieres. “How do you do, sir?” she said with all the demureness her mother had taught her when she was still a tiny child.

John’s father studied her for another moment in patent disbelief, his eyes moving from her sunburnt nose to the
open vee of her dress to her bare wrists. “You’re a guest of Gabriel and Camilla?” He pursed his lips. “How very interesting.” Dismissing her, he gave his son another jocular look. “In that case, you should invite Miss Neal to your mother’s party next week. I’m sure Dorothée would delight in a new acquaintance.”

If he expected John to back down, he was sorely mistaken. John inclined his head with a marked absence of respect. “As you wish, Father. It will be my pleasure to introduce Miss Neal to the finest of New Orleans society. She’ll make a glittering addition to my mother’s company.”

Phillip Braddock stared at his son’s mocking face for one pulsing moment before he smiled without warmth. “I’ll see that her name is added to the invitation list. Good day, my son.” He turned on his heel and swung down the street toward the docks.

Abigail wheeled, jerking her hand out from under John’s arm. “That was not funny, John.”

“Oh, yes it was.” Chuckling, he slung an arm across her shoulders. “Worth the price of admission. I see Weichmann hailing us. Let’s go see what other mischief we can get into.”

A
s he tangled with a declension of the word
suppurare,
John sneaked a glance across the library table at Abigail Neal. Tongue between her white teeth, she was studying one of his pharmaceuticals texts. He couldn’t wait to find out what his sister would think about her. Abigail had returned to the Lanieres’ for a bath before meeting him in the school library to help him with his languages. While he pored over a Latin translation, she’d wandered around, poking at the shelves until she found something to interest her.

Now that he looked at her, he noticed that her sage green gown—white collar firmly attached and sleeves buttoned from elbow to wrist—turned her eyes to a velvet moss color. The sunburn lent her skin a glowing, Raphaelesque beauty that would have made his sister, famous for her magnolia-white complexion, scream with envy.

He’d introduced Abigail to his father mostly as an irritant—and as a buffer against some of the nonsense with which the old man liked to bully him. The more he thought about it, however, the more he liked the idea of pitting the
acerbic tongue of the eccentric Miss Neal against his sister’s sugary steel wool charm. As he watched Abigail’s fine eyes flit down the page, appreciation for his own idea grew until he felt the urge to stand on his chair and crow his brilliance.

Abigail looked up and frowned. “That was very badly done of you, you know. You embarrassed me and your father, and now your mother will have uneven numbers at her dinner table.”

“And the world will fall in upon itself if one’s dinner numbers do not match.” Very perceptive she was. How had she ascertained the direction of his thoughts? “Tell me, Miss Neal—how many formal occasions have you attended in your short life?”

“Five,” she retorted. “One of them with an emperor. So do not, if you please, make fun of me.”

He stared at her. “Put that book down and tell me how you know an emperor.”

“You wouldn’t believe me, so I shan’t bother.” She lifted the forty-pound translation of
Treatise of Elemental Chemistry.
“Lavoisier lists light as an element. How is that possible?”

“It’s not. Light is electromagnetic radiation. Lavoisier was a genius, but he had some blind spots—which could explain why he ultimately lost his head.”

Abigail laid her book down and regarded him with amused exasperation. “Braddock, you’re horrible!”

Apparently she knew the great French scientist had been beheaded at the height of the French Revolution. John grinned. “Tomorrow I’ll let you borrow Maxwell’s
Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism,
which explains his theory of light as waves. Fascinating stuff.” That a woman should be not only interested in scientific subjects like the proper
ties of light, but also capable of comprehending them, was astonishing.

“I should love to read it. How are you coming with the translation?”

“Suppurare comes from
sub-,
meaning ‘under,’ and
pur
means pus.” He squinted at her. “So any word that has those derivatives will have related meanings?”

She smiled. “Now you have it.”

“It’s beginning to make sense. I’d begun to think things were randomly named just to give us poor English-speaking fellows a hard time.”

“You did not.”

“Well, I suspected there must be some kind of code, but I couldn’t break it. Mathematics I can understand. The rules don’t change.”

She sat quietly for a moment, her eyes on the book. “I didn’t get the impression you like rules so much, John.”

“I do when I see the reason for them.”

Her gaze lifted. “What would you do if the rules said you couldn’t study what you want to study because you were born male?”

“You
are
studying.” He thumped the back of her book. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

“That’s wrong on so many levels. First of all, perhaps I borrowed a couple of textbooks, but even if I learned everything Professor Laniere knows, I couldn’t hold a license to practice medicine.”

John frowned. “Are you going to be one of those man-eaters like that crazy Stanton woman?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Stanton. The one who’s trying to get women the vote.”

“Why shouldn’t women vote?”

Because Abigail’s tone was inquiring rather than aggressive, John tried to explain. “I’m not saying they shouldn’t. But my father says most know nothing about the political process. And they’re going to vote with their husbands anyway.”

“If we were allowed to gain higher education we wouldn’t be ill-informed. And the only reason I’d never heard of this Stanton women is because I’ve been…out of the country. That doesn’t make me ignorant.” Abigail frowned. “I don’t dislike men in general. But I resent being treated like a child—by anyone. Don’t you?”

John thought about the way his father spoke to him. “I suppose,” he said slowly, studying Abigail. There was nothing remotely childlike in her broad brow and wide, intelligent eyes. “But voting is a huge responsibility.”

“Raising children is an even greater responsibility. Women do that all the time.”

“But you’re suited to that.”

“
You?
Do you mean women in general or me in particular?” Abigail was smiling now. “I assure you I would make a terrible mother.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He suddenly knew that as well as he knew his own name. “I’ve seen you with the Laniere children and the children in the hospital. In fact,” he added recklessly, “you would make a stellar doctor.”

“You think I would make a good mother, a good doctor, but not a responsible citizen?” She laughed. “John, that’s ludicrous.”

“You’re twisting my words. I was trying to give you a compliment.”

Her eyes still twinkled. “I’m honored, I assure you. And
I’ll enjoy the Maxwell book, if you’re serious about lending me it.”

“I’ll be happy to.” John looked around the library. It was late afternoon and he and Abigail were the only ones left. “We should go. You must be exhausted after the morning we had.”

Abigail slammed the Lavoisier textbook shut and rubbed her eyes. “Not really.” She yawned, then laughed. “All right, I’m tired, but it’s a good kind of tired. We helped people this morning.”

“Yes, we did.” He stood up and offered her a hand. “Come on, Doctor Abigail. I’ll walk you home.”

She looked away and sighed. “Home? I’m not sure where that is…” She laid her hand in his and rose.

But he stood looking into her face, her physical presence warming him like the gaslights that sent shadows flickering across her cheekbones. His gaze traced her sweetly curved lips and he laid his free hand at the back of her neck, just under the thick knot of brown hair. She flinched.

“What’s wrong, Abigail?”

She took a sharp breath. “A lady doesn’t allow familiarities.”

“Make up your mind.” He stared at her in frustration. “Are you a lady or a woman who wants to be a doctor?”

“Why can’t I be both?” She stepped back, eyes clear. “I’m going to change the definition of a lady.”

“Fine. Be a lady. And I’ll be a gentleman…a gentleman who wants to kiss you.” His lips curved as he moved to whisper in her ear. “Call it a gesture of friendship.”

“Friendship,” she scoffed, but this time she didn’t step back. “You don’t offer to kiss the other fellows you study with.”

“Touché.” Cupping his hand under her jaw to tilt her face, he bent his head. “You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

Her lips parted and softened under his for a startled moment before she put her hands against his chest and pushed. “Don’t, John.”

He stared at her for a moment, then picked up the stack of textbooks he’d brought with him. “Friendship, Abigail, comes in several varieties.” He tried not to show his triumph. She’d almost kissed him back.

On Saturday afternoon Abigail worked alone in the dispensary. Winona had gone home to visit her parents and Camilla had taken the children to the park.

She walked along the shelves, taking down jars of medicines one by one, dusting them, opening them to smell the contents and compare them to the list of ingredients the professor had given her. With the inventory alphabetized, it was a simple matter to memorize their efficacies and side effects. Maybe John didn’t want to go to the bother—“I can always look ’em up,” he’d told her brusquely—but she had to believe that an understanding of chemistry was essential to treatment. Even though she’d grounded herself in herbology as thoroughly as possible before leaving China, advances in pharmaceuticals had blossomed in both Europe and America, far outstripping her Chinese instructors. Why not prepare herself in both disciplines?

Coming to several little brown bottles of morphine and its derivative, laudanum, she hesitated before taking one down. Lying in her palm, it looked innocent enough, with its cork stopper and label printed neatly in her own fine hand. She unstoppered it and allowed the sickly sweet odor to evaporate into the narrow aisle between shelves. She
squeezed it in her hand, resisting the urge to fling it down to smash against the tile floor.
Mama, oh Mama. The first taste is what destroyed you.

Bitter truth that what could ease pain, even save a life, could also create untold heartache. Hurriedly she replaced the cork and set the bottle back on the shelf. No need to study this one. She knew it intimately.

She had reached the third row of shelves when the distant sound of the clinic door opening and closing caught her attention.

“Abigail?” Winona’s voice came closer, rising in distress. “Abby, where are you?”

“In here.” Abigail moved to the door of the dispensary and leaned out. “What’s the matter?”

Winona, holding a small girl by the hand, stood in the kitchen doorway with her back to Abigail. She turned, an expression of relief breaking over her lovely dark face. “There you are! Thank goodness!” She tugged the sobbing child, who looked to be five or six years old, toward Abigail. “Would you mind taking a look at Essie’s ears? She’s in awful pain.”

Abigail frowned. “You should take her to one of the doctors or a student at the very least. I’m not—”

“They’re all in class or in surgery.” Winona dropped the child’s hand and drew her close. “Besides, you’ve got more kindness and common sense than all those arrogant young men put together.” She brushed her hand across the little girl’s tightly braided black hair. “Please, Abigail.”

Abigail could see nothing but the child’s coffee-colored little ear peeking from the folds of Winona’s apron. The heartrending sobs sounded both congested and painful. Abigail thought quickly. She’d been left in charge of the
clinic, with instructions to refer any emergency patients to Dr. Lewis, Professor of Obstetrics and Diseases of Women and Children, whose home office was two blocks over.

She opened her mouth to say so, but Winona held up a hand. “And don’t tell me to take her to that whiskery Dr. Lewis,” she said. “He’s so deaf he roars like a lion and scares the little ones.”

Unable to suppress a smile, Abigail shook her head. “I don’t have a license to prescribe medicines. But perhaps I could just look and see if there’s something simple I could do to temporarily relieve the pain.” She smiled at Essie, who had stopped wailing long enough to peep at Abigail. Cognizant that she was the center of attention, she promptly recommenced the concert.

Winona winced. “Thank you.” She led Essie into the clinic, picked her up and set her on the examination table situated next to the window. “Here, lambie, be a big girl and stop crying.”

As Abigail rooted through a storage cabinet in the corner, she did her best to ignore the child’s cries because they had shifted in tone from real pain to a sort of self-conscious bleating. She extracted an otoscope, a cone-shaped metal tube which she had observed Dr. Laniere using to view the inside of a patient’s ear. She’d studied drawings of the ear canal in the medical texts she’d read over the last weeks and had a fair notion of what she should expect to see. A real human ear, however, was quite different from the flat black-and-white page.

A little flurry of excitement rose in her stomach as she gently grasped Essie’s small ear with her left hand to stretch the canal a bit, then inserted the narrow end of the tube. Even with the strong afternoon sunlight flooding through
the window and illuminating the ear canal almost to the eardrum, Abigail wondered how she would know if there were anything behind the eardrum causing the child’s pain.

Essie began to hiccup, and Abigail rubbed her back as she removed the otoscope.
Lord, I don’t have a clue what’s wrong. Please help me.

The prayer had flitted through her mind without her conscious volition. She glanced at Winona, who was watching her anxiously. Winona believed in prayer as Abigail used to. A rusty gate creaked open in her heart. God had seemed to fade away during the months she’d been on that vile opium-bearing ship, then disappear altogether when she was living in abject poverty with Tess in the District. And she’d turned away from Him when Tess’s baby had died.

God?
She closed her eyes.
Are you there?

Suddenly she had a vivid mental picture of watching Dr. Laniere demonstrate the otoscope in the hospital a couple of days ago. He’d peered inside an old man’s ear, then taken another instrument from the case.