Crescent City Courtship (14 page)

Abigail gave her a doubtful look, but judging by Camilla’s sly expression, pursuing her cryptic remark would not be wise. “Your husband said there was a gentleman he wanted me to meet.”

“Yes, I believe he—oh, there he comes with Dr. Girard—and Drs. Pitcock and Cannon and—Gabriel, what on earth is going on?” she demanded as her husband approached at the head of a line of well-dressed gentlemen. “You aren’t planning to talk shop at Eliza’s party?”

Dr. Laniere smiled and tucked his arm around his wife, a quite unfashionable public sign of affection. “Only for half an hour, my dear. If one invites a bunch of physicians to the same event, a certain amount of medical conversation is inevitable.”

Camilla raised her brows. “You might have given us some warning that you planned to descend on us all at once,” she teased. She caught Abigail’s alarmed gaze. “Miss Neal, I beg leave to present the faculty of the medical college en masse—well, as near all as makes no matter. Here is Dr. Girard, professor of chemistry and clinical medicine. You’ve met his son, I believe.” She
nodded at a bald, roosterlike man, who bore a striking resemblance to Marcus.

Abigail dipped a curtsy. “Sir.” His skeptical look made her wonder what wild tales Marcus had told his father about her.

“And this,” Camilla continued, “is Dr. Lewis, professor of obstetrics.”

The jowly gray-haired gentleman gave her a grumpy scowl and shouted, “How’d’ye do!”

Remembering Winona’s characterization of the elderly doctor as a lion, Abigail smiled but didn’t try to penetrate his obvious deafness with a reply.

Camilla nodded at a suave middle-aged man who surveyed Abigail with blatant curiosity. “Dr. Pitcock is professor of physiology and pathological anatomy.”

“The rumors of the autopsy cannot be true,” he murmured to Dr. Laniere.

“Wait and see,” Dr. Laniere replied and smiled at Abigail. “One more in the lineup, Miss Neal. Dr. Cannon is our retiring professor of anatomy and clinical surgery. We’ve worn him out over the last twenty-five years, poor fellow.”

Abigail’s gaze went to a thin, wispy old gentleman notable for a pair of thick-lensed spectacles perched on a beak of a nose. Of the four doctor-professors, he was the only one who bowed to her as if she were as much a lady as Camilla Laniere. “Miss Neal, I look forward to discovering what has triggered your interest in the medical sciences.”

She looked at Dr. Laniere in alarm. “But—is my interest general knowledge, sir?”

“No, no, my dear—only among us professors. I would never have your name bandied about in the general community.” He sent a cautioning look at Dr. Cannon. “But I confess we’re all fascinated by the idea of a female of such
exceptional talent in a field previously reserved for the male sex. In fact—” he glanced at his wife “—I would be interested to see what would happen if your wits were pitted against those of some of our best students.”

Abigail’s lips parted. “You cannot be serious.” She looked around the ring of teachers staring at her as if she were a specimen under a microscope.

Dr. Pitcock sniffed. “Women are entirely too weak-minded to compete with men in the scientific fields, Laniere. You’re wasting our time.”

Adjusting his glasses, Dr. Cannon leaned toward Abigail to peer into her ear. “She’s very tall, but I confess I was expecting a larger head—if she were truly as bright as you say.”

Caught completely off guard, Abigail laughed. “Why would the head of an intelligent woman be larger than a man’s?”

“Never mind that,” growled Dr. Girard. “Is it true you’re fluent in Greek, Latin and Mandarin Chinese? What happened to ladylike languages like French and Italian?”

Dr. Laniere coughed. “Er, perhaps we should dispense with personal remarks and see if Miss Neal might be willing to stand for a few questions. I believe you gentlemen will find her quite well-spoken.”

“I want to ask the girl some questions!” roared Dr. Lewis.

“Good idea,” Cannon shouted into his ear.

Unfortunately, at that very moment the music halted, along with the conversation, and every guest in the vicinity turned to find the source of the commotion.

Abigail wanted to be allowed to quietly study medicine and she had begun to dream of one day holding a license to practice. Finding herself the center of a gawking crowd,
however, was her idea of a nightmare. Her old instinct to run kicked in.

Then she happened to see John Braddock, standing just behind Dr. Laniere’s shoulder, a glass of lemonade in each hand. His expression was frankly horrified, as if a pet bear had suddenly got loose.

His patent disapproval sent a steel rod up her spine. “I’ll be happy to answer your questions,” she said clearly. “I studied Latin and Greek with my father because the sciences were originally documented in those languages, and I was frankly interested. I learned Mandarin out of necessity.” She paused, flicking a glance at Camilla for courage. “What else, professors?”

“You
used
me to get yourself into the school!” John shoved one of the glasses of lemonade at Abigail and dragged her behind a potted palm.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I have possibly imagined they’d ever consider admitting a female?” She waved her hands, sloshing lemonade all over his mother’s ballroom floor.

“You—you stood there and answered questions as cool as a cucumber!”

“What did you imagine I would do? Go up in hysterical flames?”

He almost wished she had. As she’d defended herself quite competently, he had experienced a revolting mixture of worry, embarrassment and suicidal pride in her utter self-possession under attack. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it. She hadn’t even needed his lemonade.

Now she seemed likely to pitch the contents of the
glass in his face. To his surprise, she instead tipped it up and drained it in one long gulp. “Thank you,” she said tight-lipped.

“You’re welcome,” he said coldly. “Do you think anything but disaster is going to come of the spectacle you made of yourself? And of me?”

“I was under the impression that you care very little what anyone else thinks, particularly your father. And what my behavior could possibly have to do with you, I fail to see.”

“Everyone saw us dancing. Now they’ll think—”

She uttered a short, hard laugh. “No one will suppose you anything but a benevolent host to the crazy woman who thinks she can compete intellectually with men. How Professor Laniere could do that to me in public—” She looked away, her throat working.

“Don’t you see? He did it in public so that your abilities cannot be denied. Everyone saw you answer every question—brilliantly, I might add. You made Professor Pitcock look like a moron.”

“Which will in no way endear me to him,” she muttered.

“It doesn’t matter. Now they’ll be bound and determined to put you in there and prove you can’t survive.”

She looked at him, her green eyes burning with something that might have been rage, might have been humiliation, but was in no way tame or feminine. “And where do you stand on the issue, John? If Professor Laniere sponsors my application, do you think I can survive?”

He wanted to shout
yes!
He wanted to assure her again that she could do whatever she put her mind to. But the truth was, he was afraid for her. If she entered medical school, her reputation as a lady was gone and she would be forever lost to him.

Four bars of a minuet lilted before he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

For half a moment her eyes shone brilliant with unshed tears. Then she blinked and straightened her shoulders. “Well. Ultimately it doesn’t matter what you think. Professor Laniere says I can do it. And he’s willing to talk the others around.” A hard smile pulled at her lush mouth. “Which will make me a rival for that first spot you want so badly. So you’d better learn to study, John Braddock.”

I
n the quiet darkness of the enclosed carriage, Abigail huddled inside her cloak opposite Camilla, who was asleep on her husband’s shoulder.

“I shouldn’t keep her out so late.” The professor tenderly adjusted the hood of Camilla’s cloak. “The children wear her out, plus running the house and clinic…It’s been good to have you for an extra pair of hands, Abigail. Winona’s going to miss your help.”

Abigail, who had been drowsing, head jarring against the seat’s leather squabs, jerked awake. “Sir? Are you throwing me out?”

The professor chuckled. “Not at all. But when you start regular lectures and rounds you won’t have time for tending babies and peeling potatoes and doing laundry. That’s why you’re the perfect candidate for our little experiment. No husband, no family, no other responsibilities.”

“No money,” she added drily and laughed with him. “I’m not naive enough to suppose the tickets to the lectures and matriculation fees come free. How can I expect the professors to teach me at no cost?”

“Hmm. That is a most excellent question.” The professor’s voice was smooth and quiet, but a hint of something else prickled the nerve cells along Abigail’s neck. “I do have a proposition that I think might solve your dilemma…and be of some service to me at the same time.”

Abigail’s stomach clenched. The evening’s social confrontations had worn her to the bone, rubbing all her defenses on the raw. As she tried to imagine what else would be expected of her, her mind leaped from one terrifying possibility to the next. The things she had seen in Shanghai…

But surely Dr. Laniere was the moral, upright gentleman he seemed to be. He had never said or done anything untoward; in fact, he had treated her with the utmost respect and kindness.

“What is it, sir?” she forced herself to ask. “I can’t think of anything I’m qualified to do, other than the housework you’ve already said will be out of the question.”

“No need to sound so terrified, my dear.” The professor sounded amused. “Having observed your gift of observation and memory, I merely ask you to apply it in a more specific sense. However, before I divulge anything else, I require your promise to keep this conversation between the two of us.”

Abigail hesitated. “Is Camilla aware of this…assignment?”

“She knows some, but not all. You are free to talk to her at any time, of course, but I should prefer that you come to me first.”

The fact that the professor had not excluded his wife was reassuring. Abigail took a deep breath. “All right, then,” she said recklessly. “I’ll give you my promise of secrecy. And I’ll help you with anything that is within the bounds of the law.”

“Good.” The professor nodded and settled back. “Then I should first explain a bit of my background. I don’t make a practice of airing this information in our circle of acquaintance, but during the war between the states I served as an intelligence operative for Union naval forces.”

“Did you, sir?” Abigail’s political leanings were decidedly ambiguous due to her foreign rearing. She considered herself an American mainly because she had been born of American parents. “How very enterprising of you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Enterprising? Perhaps, though convincing my Southern-born bride to elope during the height of the conflict turned out to be a bit tricky. At all events, you can understand why I find it difficult to say no to serving my country when asked.”

Abigail considered that. “I think I can. I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

“I’m getting there. My investigative duties after the war shifted back into the field of medicine, which, after all, was my first love. By then Camilla and I had married and started our family, so I needed a more stable and less dangerous way to earn a living. Research and teaching became my focus. But those of us on the forefront of the public health arena are increasingly convinced that regulation of licensing and control of addictive substances, at least at the state level, could be beneficial to the country as a whole. Our governor in particular is concerned about the unrestricted spread of opium use across the Deep South.” He paused. “I have heard you discuss the issue with John Braddock on more than one occasion.”

“We’ve disagreed on morphine’s efficacy in pain control.” She hesitated, unwilling to sound defensive, particularly with this learned and demonstrably broad-minded
doctor. “American and European physicians are quite disparaging about Chinese acupuncture and herbology.”

“We tend to discount what we do not understand,” he agreed quietly. “Personally, I believe morphine and other opiates can be used safely and effectively when under the control of trained medical professionals. However, what concerns me is the widespread recreational misuse of these drugs.”

Suddenly and quite unexpectedly Abigail was caught in knife-edged flashes of memory. She fought for breath, stuffing the shards away. “I…share your concern, sir.”

After a moment, Dr. Laniere cleared his throat. “Would you care to share your story?”

“I cannot.” She swallowed. “At least not now. Just…tell me what I can do. I can’t imagine—”

“We think opium is being smuggled in through someone at the hospital, probably a student who needs the income to pay tuition. There are several in arrears and I’ve had my eye on them all, but so far have not been able to get close enough to obtain the information I need. I want to plant you inside as another set of eyes and ears.”

“Me? But I’m a woman! The men will barely accept my presence, let alone talk in front of me.”

“They will also view you with a certain amount of—let’s face it—intellectual contempt. I’m hoping they’ll be less likely to guard their tongues.” He paused. “I also hope the novelty of having a women in lectures and demonstrations will distract from the questions you must ask.”

“You know I’ll do my best,” Abigail said, trying to control her shaking voice. She assumed a man of Dr. Laniere’s experience would have considered all the drawbacks, but she had to make sure. “What about one or two of the other
students who…who do not seem to be in need of funds? John Braddock or Marcus Girard, for example. Wouldn’t one of them be a better choice for this type of mission?”

The professor sighed. “For reasons I cannot go into, Braddock and Girard are both under suspicion themselves.” He paused. “I hope you won’t find it impossible to be objective where young Braddock is concerned.”

Abigail’s heart bounded into her throat. “I’ve no illusions about John Braddock’s morals or lack thereof.”

“It seems to me—in fact, one of the main reasons your participation in this little enterprise occurred to me—Braddock has demonstrated a rather marked affinity for you.”

“You are mistaken, Professor,” Abigail said in a suffocated voice.

“I rather think not,” he said gently. “In any case, if you agree to the assignment, come by my office in the morning after rounds. I’ll arrange to purchase your textbooks, equipment and supplies and meanwhile make you a loan of mine. You’ll need to make appointments with each professor for tickets—which I’ll pay for in advance—and be sure to see the dean for scheduling.” He hesitated. “There’s the formality of your application approval, but with myself and the four other faculty members who interviewed you tonight in your corner, you should have nothing to worry about.” He laughed. “Except, of course, passing your courses! Do you think you can do that?”

“If Marcus Girard can do it, I can,” Abigail said grimly. Or she would die trying.

Weichmann’s breath wheezed in and out rhythmically as he and John followed Dr. Cannon around the pediatric ward Monday morning. Of course the rest of the group was
back there as well, but Weichmann’s debility hovered like a cloud, a reminder that there were some things even advanced medicine could not cure.

The thing about pediatrics, John reflected, wincing as Weichmann palpated the distended abdomen of a three-year-old little boy in bed four, was the noise. When children hurt, they screamed. Or whined. Or their mamas pestered the living daylights out of anybody who passed within a mile of the ward. Usually he could block it out, focus on the physical challenge. But this morning he found himself easily distracted. Wondering, for example, whether Abigail Neal had had the nerve to act on Prof’s preposterous offer of admitting her into the medical college.

John hadn’t minded helping her, loaning her books, teaching her to autopsy, accepting her help with the languages. There’d been no reason not to. After all, who was going to let a woman into medical college?

And then it happened. Dr. Laniere had lost his mind and decided it would be a good idea for
this
woman to invade the sacrosanct halls of medical academia.

Weichmann licked his lips and glanced at Dr. Cannon. “Professor, it feels like a lump—a ball of something—just under the skin.”

“Really.” Cannon brushed Weichmann aside and put his hands on the little boy’s stomach. The child squealed. “Shush, bubba,” said Cannon sternly, “the doctor’s just checking on your tummy.”

John exchanged glances with Weichmann. “The little guy’s scared,” John whispered.

“That knot’s a bad one,” Weichmann muttered. He looked at his hands, which were still trembling. Weichmann loved science, but was rather frightened of real
people. “So, Braddock,” he whispered with a sidelong look, “you run into any more burning bushes lately?”

John shrugged. “Breakfast was a bit lively this morning. Clem caught the toast on fire.”

Weichmann laughed. “You know what I mean. I’ve been thinking about what you said. You think God cares what we do?” He glanced at the little boy, who suffered the professor’s examination with tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Patients get well, patients die. We cut ’em up to find the cause, but by that time they’re beyond help…” He sighed. “I’m losing focus, Braddock. I thought I knew why I wanted to do this, but sometimes it all seems…pointless.”

Professor Laniere’s words drifted through John’s head.
Your real problem is spiritual, Braddock…. Once I took off in a leap of faith, God began to prove Himself to me.

It had been acceptable for John to discuss such matters with his professional mentor, a man of Prof’s stature and experience. But a man did not admit confusion and weakness to his peers.

Evidently Weichmann hadn’t the usual compunction.

And Dr. Cannon had frowned over his shoulder at them. Twice.

John shook his head at Weichmann. “I know what you mean,” he whispered, “but we’ll talk about it later.” He crowded closer to the attending doctor. “Will you operate, sir?”

Dr. Cannon pulled at his mustache, covering a pleased smile. “I most certainly will. This is a most unusual case, gentlemen, a malignant tumor rarely seen in a child of this age, probably a
fungus hematodes.
Notice the unusual size of the obstruction.” He patted the child’s thin shoulder. “Lie still, laddie, the doctors want to examine you. One at a
time, gentlemen, slide your hands slowly, firmly across the abdomen, stopping at the tumor.” He stepped back to allow the six students to gather closer. “Notice its firm, perfectly round contour. We will arrange for the surgical theater tomorrow morning and you may observe as I remove it.”

John, who had waited with his hands warming against his body as he had seen Abigail do, took his turn to examine the presentation of the tumor’s exterior. He gently pressed, expecting to feel something in the nature of a rock under muscle, but found less resistance—more of a jellylike texture. The little boy gave an involuntary yelp of pain, quickly swallowed when John smiled an apology at him. “Sir—” John looked around and found the professor engaged in making notes on a sheaf of papers. “If this is a tumor, shouldn’t it come out now?”

Dr. Cannon looked up and frowned. “There is no immediate danger, Braddock. The thing’s been growing for some time, and one more day won’t matter. I wish to give my colleagues the opportunity to observe as I remove the mass—in the morning, when there are less distractions.”

John made way for Girard to move in. Of course surgeries were in the nature of performances. The bigger the audience the better. If he were in Cannon’s place he would have done the same thing.

He glanced at Weichmann. Or perhaps he wouldn’t.

On Monday morning, due to unexpected complications in getting Abigail’s supplies and textbooks settled, it was nearly nine o’clock before Dr. Laniere strode into the first ward with Abigail and six other first-year students in tow. Because the professor considered tardiness a sin punishable by hanging, his mood this morning was, in the
words of young Ramage, a baby-faced cotton farmer’s son from Booneville, Mississippi, “acid on persimmons.”

The group finished its round of the ward in record time, and all would have been well had not a well-dressed woman of some thirty summers planted herself in Prof’s path as they passed the pediatric ward. “Here, you!” She pointed, bosom heaving. “I’ve been waiting for someone to come for thirty minutes. I want you to look in on my son.”

The doctor’s countenance darkened at the woman’s presumptuous tone, and Abigail tensed. She had discovered that the medical school’s seven faculty members retained full attending privileges as physicians of Charity Hospital and divided the students among them for daily rounds, rotating them in and out of the various wards. The surgery wards were generally assigned to either Dr. Laniere or Dr. Cannon, depending on the severity of the injury or illness and Sister Charlemagne’s mood at the time of admittance. The doctors’ attitudes tended toward territorialism.