Crescent City Courtship (15 page)

“This is Dr. Cannon’s ward,” Prof said reasonably enough. “Has his group not already completed rounds?”

“Yes, but I’m not satisfied with the diagnosis.” The woman’s face reddened. “What, if you please, is a
fungus hoematodes
?”

Abigail watched Dr. Laniere’s expression go still. “How old is your son?”

“He is six.” The woman swallowed. “He’s in a great deal of pain and they won’t operate until tomorrow morning.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Laniere’s black eyes scanned his group of cowering first-years and fixed on Abigail, towering over the lot of them in the back. “Miss Neal. Is your Latin up to this one?
Fungus hoematodes.
”

Terrified, Abigail cleared her throat. “
Fungus
—dating
from 1529, parasitic spore-producing organism.
Hoematodes
—gathering of blood. It would be a cancerous growth which attaches to an organ and…” Faltering as the woman’s face went ashen, she swiftly transferred her gaze to her teacher. “It can be removed with surgery.”

Dr. Laniere nodded. “Yes, and those kinds of growths are exceedingly rare in small children. Perhaps it would be instructive for us to take a look. Mrs…?”

“DeFord,” the woman supplied, looking relieved. “My boy’s name is Roddy.”

“All right, then. Gentlemen and lady—” he smiled at Abigail “—follow me.”

At least she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself, Abigail thought as she trailed behind the men into the pediatric ward. The sounds and smells here were unlike those in the adult wards or the Lanieres’ home clinic. The nurses had done a good job of making the six little white iron beds clean and orderly, and straight-backed wooden chairs provided a place to rest for the few mothers in the room. But the fretful crying of the babies and the listlessness of the older children in all this spartan whiteness struck Abigail as nothing sort of depressing.

The professor seemed not to notice. He followed Mrs. DeFord to a bed in the center of the east wall, where a small blond-haired boy lay on his side. Tears slowly leaked from beneath his closed eyelids and dripped on the pillow.

“Roddy,” said his mother, touching his hair gently, “this other doctor is going to look at you. Can you lie on your back?”

“It hurts, Mama.” But he obeyed, drawing down the sheet himself to expose his midsection. There was a perfectly round egg-sized bulge on his right hip.

Dr. Laniere leaned over to palpate the affected area. “Did you injure yourself somehow, son?”

The little boy blinked. “I don’t know. Me and my brother was playing in the hayloft one day, and the next this big bubble popped up.”

The doctor glanced at his students. “Does anyone know what would be characteristic of a fungal mass? Texture, shape, color?”

The six male students looked at one another, avoiding the eyes of both the professor and Abigail. Several of them shrugged.

Abigail tipped her head, meeting the professor’s eyes. “I don’t know for sure, but common sense says such a mass would be lumpy, asymmetrical, hard to the touch.”

Dr. Laniere nodded. “Correct. Touch this lump, Miss Neal.” He moved aside to allow her space next to the bed.

Insecurity turned to curiosity as Abigail did a quick visual scan of the little boy’s hip, then slid her hand over the protrusion. She looked at Dr. Laniere. “It has a jellylike interior. That’s pus—it’s not lobulated like a fungus hematode would be.” She paused, shaken by doubt. “Is that right, professor?”

His eyes lit briefly, although he did not smile—perhaps to avoid offending the boy’s mother. “That’s right,” he said softly. “Good work.”

A ridiculous burst of pride shot through Abigail, quickly squelched as she imagined the pain this poor little boy must be enduring. “So what will you do, Professor?”

“
You
tell me what we will do.”

Her gaze went inward as she pulled up her meager store of information on abscesses. “Anesthetize him and open the hip. Depending on the location of the abscess, we’ll
lance and drain the affected area, then close him up, inserting a tube to release any remaining mucus that collects.”

Dr. Laniere looked around at the young men listening to Abigail, mouths ajar. “Do you fellows see any reason to postpone the operation?”

“Actually, sir,” said Ramage timidly, “if we wait, the abscess could burst and poison the boy within minutes.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” said Dr. Laniere. He touched Mrs. DeFord’s elbow. “Do you understand the danger your son is in? I presume you have no objection to going through with the procedure.”

“No—I mean, yes, I understand the danger, and of course you must proceed as you see fit.” The woman bent to kiss her son’s sweaty brow. “Mama will be right with you, Roddy, praying for you. Be a brave boy for the doctors.” She backed away from the bed, glancing at Abigail with reluctant respect. “Thank you, miss.”

Abigail nodded. “He’ll be in very good hands.”

“All right, then.” Dr. Laniere patted Roddy’s arm. “Miss Neal and Mr. Ramage, because you two have been brave enough to admit to having studied the affliction, you may both scrub up and attend me in the main operating theater.” He turned to a nurse who had appeared in the doorway. “Our patient will need to be prepared for surgery. Be so good as to send Crutch to prepare the theater and then bring a wheelchair to transport young Mr. DeFord.”

Abigail and Ramage stared at one another for a moment; then, galvanized, they rushed after Dr. Laniere, who was already halfway to the door.

Abigail could hardly restrain her exultation. She was going to assist in a surgery—because she had corrected the diagnosis of a tenured surgical and clinical professor. She
had no notion how she had come into this situation—but suspected that it should be attributed to the intervention of the Almighty.

“Thank You, God, oh thank You,” she whispered as she slipped into the washroom behind Ramage.

“W
hat I want to know is how she managed this.” John, lined up against the back wall of the peds ward with Girard and the other second-years, shot an envious look at Abigail. She stood quietly at Dr. Laniere’s side as Dr. Cannon vented his feelings about his patient being co-opted by another professor.

“No explaining Prof’s reasons for anything he does.” Girard shook his head. “Thought old Loose Cannon was going to have an apoplexy right there in the ward. Still might.” He glanced at Dr. Cannon’s flushed cheeks, then Dr. Laniere’s notably unrepentant countenance. “But Prof was right to go in immediately. Even
you
knew that lump didn’t look or feel like a tumor.”

“I’d have looked like an idiot, contradicting my professor. Still—glad the little boy’s recovering, even if I didn’t get to attend the surgery.”

“You don’t think they’re really going to let her come to lectures, do you?” Girard’s broad brow wrinkled. “I mean, a
woman
in the classroom—just ain’t right. Might
as well serve tea and put up curtains. She’ll be fainting at the first sight of—”

“Girard, this is no maudlin wilting lily. You haven’t seen her—” John stopped. He wasn’t going to mention the autopsy. “—do an examination,” he ended lamely.

Marcus made a rude noise. “Yes, I have. She’s a pervert, if she can examine an unclothed body without losing countenance.”

“It’s not like that and you know it. After all,
we’re
not perverts, are we?”

“Well, no, of course not. But it’s different for women.” Marcus was looking at him as if he’d gone round the bend.

Perhaps he had. Abigail Neal had turned John’s life wrong-side out on so many levels there was no going back to normal. Whatever “normal” was. One minute she was all soft and feminine and confused—as she’d been when they danced together—the next she was taking over territory that had previously belonged to him.
You’d better study, Braddock.
What was a fellow to think about a woman like that?

The argument between the two professors sharpened into focus, with Abigail’s serene face in the background. John looked at her more closely. There was a tiny crease between her eyebrows. And her knuckles were white where her fingers clasped one another at her waist.

John pushed away from the wall.

“Cannon told us to stay put, you moron,” Girard whispered stringently.

Ignoring him, John moved next to Abigail, allowing his shoulder to briefly touch hers. She looked up at him, her expression shifting from that faint anxiety to annoyance. When he winked at her, her mouth pruned slightly.

Professor Laniere turned. “Ah, Braddock. Now that Dr.
Cannon and I have gotten this situation sorted out, I believe we’ll move on toward the schedule for the latter part of the day. You fellows may go for lunch, then report to my classroom for this afternoon’s lectures.” He turned to Dr. Cannon. “I trust this plan meets with your approval, Professor?”

Dr. Cannon visibly struggled not to argue. “Fine. But I insist on a faculty meeting no later than tomorrow. I wish to present my objections to the rest of the board.”

Dr. Laniere bowed as John snagged Abigail’s elbow and towed her along with him toward the door. “Come on,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Let’s get out of here before you start something else.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Abigail balked as he hustled her quickly down the stairs behind the rest of the students. “I could tell by Professor Laniere’s face there was something wrong with that diagnosis.”

“I’m sure you could. But Dr. Cannon is the
last
person you want on your list of enemies.”

She shot him a look. “John, they’re
all
my enemies—except Professor Laniere, of course. Nobody wants me here, not the doctors, not the students.” Unexpectedly, her eyes glistened. “Don’t pretend you like having a woman in the school.”

“Of course I don’t,” he said, surprising her into a snort of laughter. “But Prof has made up his mind and until he boots you out I know what side my bread’s buttered on.” To his relief, her incipient tears had vanished. “If you want to stay, you’d better not let the other fellows see any sign of weakness.”

“Weakness?” She marched ahead of him down the stairs. “Is it a weakness to wish for one single friend?”

John clattered after her. “I’m your friend.”

“Don’t let the
other fellows
hear you say that.”

“I think my reputation can stand it.” They reached the landing and John moved to open the heavy front door. “Besides, it’s time I quit spending all my free time cutting up with the boys.”

“Indeed?” She gave him an amused glance as she passed him.

“Yes. My mother keeps telling me so, anyway.” He looked up at the iron-colored clouds painting the afternoon sky. “It’s going to rain. We’d better hurry.”

She nodded, picking up her pace. “Supposing you suddenly reform—what are you going to do with this sudden massive quantity of free time?”

“I like experimenting. I thought I might invent something.” It was the first thought out of his head, a random comment intended to make her laugh.

She rewarded him with her infectious chuckle. “That’s a splendid idea. What are you going to invent?’

Clasping his hands behind his back as they crossed Common Street and headed toward Canal, John gave Abigail a sidelong look. She was taking him seriously. “A folding wheelchair,” he blurted. “With an interior push wheel so the patient can push himself and not get his hands dirty.”

“That’s magnificent! You should really do it.”

He hunched his shoulders, plowing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It’s absurd. I don’t know anything about engineering.”

“But you could find someone who does. You understand the needs of the sick and injured.” She beamed up at him. “You’re bright enough to figure it out—”

“John! Johnny! What are you doing here?”

John turned at the sound of his sister’s voice and found
her leaning out of the family carriage as it rolled down Canal Street. He waved.

“Stop, Appleton!” Lisette called to the driver. “I want to speak to my brother. Stop, I say.”

As the carriage came to a halt with a creak of springs and rattle of harness, John leaned close to Abigail’s ear. “Rescue me, I beg you.”

She shook her head and smiled, but accompanied him across the muddy brick street.

Lisette’s bonnet had disappeared inside the carriage, but the door suddenly popped open, exposing small slippered feet and a froth of petticoats. His sister beckoned imperiously. “Hurry, John! It’s starting to rain and we want your company!”

“We?” He approached the carriage with no intention of obeying his sister’s ridiculous commands. Making sure Abigail was behind him, he rested his forearm on the side of the carriage “Is Mother with you? Where are you going?”

“Not Mother!” Lisette bubbled with giggles. “It’s Dorothée. We’re on an expedition for new gloves and ribbons.” She turned to speak to her companion. “Move to the other side of the carriage, Dorothée. We have to make room for John.”

The carriage lurched as, presumably, Dorothée shifted to the other seat. Sighing, John met Abigail’s eyes. “I suppose we could ride with them as far as Bienville. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Abigail, clearly reluctant, stepped back. The rain was coming down in earnest now, soaking her hair and clothes. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up to the others.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He leaned into the carriage.
“Move over, Lisette. Miss Neal will need space, too.” As Abigail climbed in, he gave Appleton instructions to drive to Descartes’s Oyster Bar, then got in after her.

If Dorothée Molyneux was less than enthused about sharing the carriage with a strange female—and an exceedingly damp one at that—she covered her chagrin by batting her eyelashes at John as he sank onto the leather seat beside her. He watched Abigail pull her skirts close, making herself as small as possible next to Lisette. Raindrops trembled at the ends of her black lashes, the long spikes accenting the green of her eyes, and her dress clung to her figure. John made himself look at his sister.

Despite Abigail’s drenched aspect, Lisette seemed to have no trouble recognizing her. “Dorothée, I don’t think you met Miss Neal at our party—it seemed every time I tried to introduce you, John whisked her off somewhere else. She is a fellow bibliophile and has done amazing and heroic things with John and his medical friends. And then of course, she answered the questions of the professors quite brilliantly. I promise I should have been absolutely
stricken
to have been so put on the spot.”

Blond Dorothée, whose voice reminded John of a squeaky door, simpered. “What a positively ferocious brain you must have, Miss Neal.”

Since Miss Molyneux’s brain rarely contended with anything more taxing than deciding which ribbon to add to a bonnet, John didn’t waste time arguing with her. Besides, he thought, letting his gaze skate back to Abigail’s amused face, Abigail did indeed possess a rather razor-like mind. It was one of the things he most admired and feared in her.

Abigail ignored the implied insult. “Thank you for
taking us up, Miss Braddock. Your brother and I have to be back for a lecture in less than an hour.”

Lisette’s expression quickened. “What kind of lecture? John never tells me anything he’s learning.”

“Lise, you know you’re ill at the sight or even the description of blood.” John flicked a glance at Abigail. “Be careful what you tell her.”

“I’d be faint at the very idea of touching sick people.” Dorothée shuddered. “Indeed, Miss Neal, I can’t comprehend how you can stand being with all those cadavers and…skeletons…and naked body parts!”

“I don’t really think about it in those terms,” said Abigail. “I’m interested in what makes people well. The body is so intricately put together that the slightest flaw sends it into imbalance. Yet most of us walk around healthy and whole. That’s quite miraculous, I think.”

John studied her. For a long time he’d denied the handiwork of Almighty God in designing the human body. Lately it had begun to seem only natural to believe.

“When John becomes a real doctor I suppose we shall hardly see him,” Lisette sighed. “There are truly a great many sick and injured people in this city! Mama says she feels very sorry for Camilla Laniere because her husband is always at the hospital and bringing home one disease or another to the children. I could never marry a doctor!”

“If I married a doctor,” said Dorothée with a thread of grit in her shrill little voice, “I should make him stay home in the evenings. How selfish—to endanger one’s own family for the sake of strangers.”

“That’s quite a novel view of the responsibilities of the medical profession, Miss Molyneux,” John drawled. “Not to mention those of a wife.”

“My brother is the most unselfish person imaginable.” Lisette frowned at her friend. “Why, he saved the lives of thousands and thousands of people after that fire.”

John laughed. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

Dorothée’s blue eyes widened. “Of course I believe in charitable works,” she said, flirting a look at John. “I only meant that the love between a husband and wife should take precedence over one’s ideals.”

“You are going to have quite a search to find a gentleman who will entertain such romantical notions, Miss Molyneux,” said Abigail.

Though John agreed, the deep cynicism of her tone made him wonder. Her hands were clenched around her reticule, her lips tight.

But before he could question her, Lisette touched Abigail’s hand. “I didn’t say I agree with my mama. In fact, we had quite an argument with Papa last night.” She looked at John. “That’s why I’m so glad to see you today. I want you to ask him to allow me to go to college.” Lisette set her little chin. “I want to learn how to do something that will help other people. If Miss Neal can do it, why can’t I?”

“Because you’re—” He stopped.
The daughter of a gentleman. My giddy little sister.
His gaze caught Abigail’s, and the ironical look there shamed him. “What sorts of things would you do to help people?” he asked Lisette gently.

She shrugged. “I’m not smart enough for medical school, but I might like to be a teacher. I like children.”

“You’re going to have children of your own.” Dorothée rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to go to college for that.”

Dorothée interference put John’s back up. “I’ll speak to Father next chance I get,” he said but felt compelled to add,
“just don’t get your hopes up, Lise. You know how he feels about educating women.” Just then the carriage drew to a stop in front of Descartes’. John looked out. The rain had dwindled to a fine sprinkle. “Here we are, Miss Neal,” he said, opening the door. He stepped out and extended a hand to help Abigail alight. “Lisette, give my love to Mother. Miss Molyneux, your servant.”

John and Abigail ducked into the oyster bar, a dark, smoky establishment patronized by law and medical students, as well as denizens of the docks. The decor was plain and rough, but the food cheap, hardy and freshly prepared. Abigail didn’t seem to notice the overwhelmingly male company as she plunked herself on a stool beside John at the bar. In fact, she was so abstracted that John ordered two dozen oysters on the half shell and a couple of chicory coffees without her so much as opening her mouth.