Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (5 page)

She bit her lower lip and crossed her arms defensively, but he could see that he'd scored a few points of logic. While he might not want Mrs. Jane Hamilton on his doorstep, neither did she, and for the first time, he felt a certain kinship with Miss Gayle Renshaw.

At last, she nodded. “I will be the soul of discretion, Dr. West.”

“Then I'll have my solicitor draw up the usual documentation for your signature this afternoon. You'll occupy the room I have set aside for my assistant, and I will require all the work and study of you that I would have from any man in your position, if not more.” Rowan paused, and then went on to the practicalities. “As for the master's fee, keep it. I don't need your money, Miss Renshaw, and I think I'll sleep better at night knowing that you have something to fall back on, in case—”

“I. Won't. Fail.” She bit off each word, her hands clenched at her sides. “And every decent apprenticeship has its price, Dr. West. I'll pay you, because when this is over, I want no one questioning the legitimacy of our agreement or the nature of our relationship and the education I shall receive.”

“Are you going to argue against everything I say, Miss Renshaw?”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips before she recovered and crossed her arms. “Not after I win this point, Dr. West. After this, I shall be the very soul of conciliation and contrite obedience.”

“Very well.” He kept his voice level, wanting to convey to her that this was no game. “I'm not hiring a chaperone. You are not in London for social pleasures or to make any new acquaintances. You are officially in my employ and will obey me without question. Are we clear?”

She nodded, once again all prim business and calm control. “We are clear.”

“Mrs. Evans will fill you in on the rest of the rules for the house, and while you report directly to me, I'll terminate this in an instant if she reports to me that you're causing her any trouble.”

“As you say,” Gayle replied, undaunted.

“Your self-directed studies were undoubtedly limited. We'll see how far behind you are, and since I cannot send you to lectures at the Academy, you'll have to work twice as hard to make up for lost ground and demonstrate your worth. I'll tutor you personally and provide as much practical knowledge as I can. And when the time comes, I'll do my best to see to it that you are given the medical examinations that any male surgeon or doctor would take, but I'm not in a position to say that anyone will accept the results.”

“They'll have to! All I need is the chance.”

He had to swallow a cynical groan in the face of her unwavering faith. The men he knew would rather jump off London Bridge than see a woman anywhere near the medical profession, and he feared that even if she passed a hundred exams, they would never let her step foot inside their “hallowed” halls or give her the certification she wanted.
Hell, they'll try to stone her first.
“Because you're a woman, you're expected to fail.”

“I understand. I won't fail.”

He looked at her for a moment and questioned his own judgment.
What if she doesn't quit? What if this insane creature really does have the tenacity and intelligence to stay the course? What in God's name am I going to do with a female apprentice? And am I forgetting that I will have Charlotte's cousin under my roof?

Months and months of avoidance and resignation to the strange half-life he had led evaporated as Rowan marveled at the lovely and stubborn manifestation of Fate that had landed on his doorstep. Miss Gayle Renshaw would receive her money's worth, and Rowan had the feeling that he would never be the same.

A line from the Oath of Maimonides came into his mind. “
May the love for my art actuate me at all time; may neither . . . the thirst for glory or for a great reputation engage my mind.”

He held out his hand. “Then, there is no time like the present to begin.”

Chapter
3

She'd shaken his hand when he'd offered it to her, and a small shiver ran through her at the gesture. Gayle told herself that it was because he'd held out his fingers as he would to an equal, not to gently uphold her hand for a dance floor turn or for a gloved touch in a formal introduction at a park. He'd held out his strong bare hand and she'd taken it with her own bare fingers, marveling at how warm and firm his grasp was and how quickly the business of a handshake could be accomplished.

She ignored the nonsensical thought and turned her attention back to the business at hand. Dr. Rowan West was giving her a tour of the house and her new working environment. The ground floor was taken up by the entry way and receiving area, the waiting room, a small exam room (though most of his patients preferred to be seen at their own homes) and doctor's office, a library, and Mr. Carter's quarters. The first floor provided for bedrooms and an extremely interesting private study and library that she caught only a fleeting glimpse of through a partially opened door as they strolled past. The second floor was more utilitarian, though the hallway she caught a glimpse of was still wonderfully appointed with antiques, and Gayle tried not to wonder what else was in store.

“This is where you will be spending most of your time, on the third floor.” Rowan answered her unspoken question. “Above you are the servants' quarters and a bit of storage, but your room is just off of the laboratory—a convenience you'll come to appreciate.

“The laboratory is”—he pushed open a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway and stood aside to let her go in ahead of him—“my pride and joy.”

In a room that was clearly designed as a solarium, it was a decadent and breathtaking sight to behold. Rather than merely housing one or two windows, the entire back wall was fanciful wrought iron inset with clear-blown glass to give the sun a chance to illuminate every corner it could. And instead of plush chairs for some ladies' embroidering or tables for letter writing and china painting, the female sensibilities had given way to a true working laboratory with long waist-high tables and dark-stained stools.

“It can be drafty, but I've been keeping it so warm with the braziers you should be comfortable enough for the work.”

“And to think most people have greenhouses!” she mused aloud, her fingertips tracing gently along the smooth worktable's surface. It was nothing like the grim rooms the village surgeon back home used. That had been a small brick building of poor means next to the blacksmith and not much of an example to go by.

But this! This was just as she'd hoped. Clean and open, it was a long rectangle of a room, the narrow worktable set in the room's center to run its length. Shelves of reference books, boxes, and various tools were set floor to ceiling along the inside walls, but the wall of fanciful flowerscrolled ironwork and glass had been left free of any obstructions, ensuring that the light could be used from every vantage.

In a tall cabinet in the corner, neatly labeled jars contained every hue of powder in black, ivory, and white alongside tins of compounds and chemicals she could only guess at. Also along the inside wall, on an ancient work surface with an untold number of burn marks and unique scars, was a configuration of burners and beakers with rubber tubing connecting various vessels and tying them all together for some unknown purpose.

She turned about, admiring all of it, from the elegant shadows that the iron made on the wooden floor to the Latin motto carved into the door frame they'd just come through.
“Veritas vos liberabit.”

“The truth shall make you free,” he translated softly, taking a seat at the table to give her room to explore. “Not very original, but my great-great-grandfather had a love for the classics.”

“I think it would apply as well today.”

“Of course, it does. I had a schoolmate that jested that it was a sad thing that truth didn't make you richer or happier, and now whenever I see the phrase I just remember his face and wonder.”

“What exactly do you wonder? If he was right?”

Rowan shook his head. “Oh, I know he was right. It doesn't take too many years before you realize that the best philosophy is uttered by ten-year-olds and the rest is rubbish.”

She had to struggle not to smile. “I hadn't realized that.”

“Because you probably haven't wasted your time studying philosophy.”

She nodded in agreement. “I don't think freethinking is ever encouraged if a young woman fails to master her music lessons.”

He laughed. “I take it you won't be entertaining the staff with any private pianoforte performances?”

Her smile outpaced her determination to not be charmed by her mentor. “And risk ending up on the doorstep for causing trouble? Mrs. Evans would insist on my removal if I sang a single note, Dr. West.” She decided to redirect the conversation away from her shortcomings. “Whatever happened to your friend, the young philosopher?”

“He died of a fever that summer, along with his sisters and parents.” It was a statement of fact, almost devoid of emotion, and Gayle was sure that there was more to the tale as an awkward silence held them in place.

“And here”—he walked over to another door at the end of the room and pushed it open for her inspection—“is your room. Not appointed with a lady in mind, I'm afraid, but you have your own water closet through there, and it should do well enough.”

Gayle peered in and tried not to let her disappointment show. Unlike the pretty guest room below with its soft butter yellow walls and rosewood furniture, this was as stark and austere a tiny bedroom as she had ever encountered. A narrow wrought iron cot with a white cotton mattress was set against the wall, a single small dresser standing sentinel next to it. Two windows set high with white eyelet curtains kept the room from total gloom, but it was hard to see it in a cheery light. The floor was bare of rugs and the walls devoid of ornamentation beyond a framed mirror and a faded print advertising the Great Exhibition of 1851.

“It's . . . very nice.”

“Mind yourself!” Mrs. Evans interrupted the exchange, her arms full of fresh bedding and towels. “I brought up a few things to make the room a little cozier for the miss.”

Her relief was instantaneous. “How kind of you, Mrs. Evans!”

Mrs. Evans grunted in response, unceremoniously dropping her large bundle on the cot. “One of the footmen will carry up your things later. You can settle yourself in, I'm sure. You make your own bed and I'll collect dirty laundry once a week on Monday. See that you have it ready before breakfast. Florence will come in for a sweep and a dust that afternoon, but she's not a ladies' maid! You're to see to your own needs and keep your room in good order.”

Gayle had to bite the inside of her mouth at the woman's tone, since she wasn't used to being addressed like a servant, much less used to making her own bed and “seeing to her own needs.” But Rowan was right at her elbow, looking at her expectantly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and was happily anticipating some little temper tantrum on her part over Mrs. Evans's brisk treatment.

“Thank you, Mrs. Evans. Please assure Florence that I'll try not to overtax her.”

Mrs. Evans's gruffness suffered a bit at the softness of Gayle's tone, and she wavered in the doorway before departing. “Will . . . will you be eating with the staff or . . .”

Rowan intervened. “Miss Renshaw will either dine with me on the first floor or, more often, in her room, I suspect. Her studies will keep her well tethered, I'm afraid, and as you know”—he rewarded his housekeeper with a smile that instantly turned the formidable creature into a blushing girl—“if she waits for me to have a meal, she'll die of starvation.”

“You work too hard, doctor!”

“Not at all.” He deflected her maternal concern, and Gayle marveled at the way he diplomatically turned his housekeeper into an ally. “I'm a tyrant of an employer and blessed to have you, Mrs. Evans.”

Mrs. Evans retreated in a happy flurry, returning to her duties without another glance in Gayle's direction.