Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (6 page)

She sighed. “I don't think your housekeeper approves, Dr. West.”

“She won't be the first not to do so, Miss Renshaw,” he countered. “But on a somewhat related subject, I should point out that your door has a dead bolt.”

“I see.” Except she didn't see what in the world dead bolts had to do with Mrs. Evans.

“To protect your virtue,” he added, instinctively providing another clue.

“I see,” she repeated, with a little more confidence. “I shall be sure to use it, if only to reassure Mrs. Evans that my virtue is intact under your roof.”

“See that you do,” he said, a mysterious heat in his eyes making the command almost hypnotic. But before she could identify it, he'd turned away and returned to the workroom and the business of her apprenticeship. “I'll have a small desk brought up to your room as well. The laboratory is very good for studying, but you'll still need a private space of your own, I'm sure, for letters, journals, and any personal business you may have.”

“Thank you.”

Rowan began pulling down books, barely looking at the shelves as if he knew the volumes by touch alone. “How is your Latin?”

“Very good,” she answered confidently.

“Have you studied Hippocrates?”

She shook her head. “Only vicariously, I'm afraid.”

“We'll start with the classics. You'll read these, Miss Renshaw, and know them like you know your own history. I want you to absorb as much as you can, taking it all in, and when commanded, you should be able to quote it like the Bible.”

She took the books reverently.
Hippocratic Writings
;
Hippocratic Aphorisms
;
Fasciculus Medicinae
;
Articella
; and
Pantegni.

He placed his hand gently on the top of the page, breaking her connection to the words and drawing her back to the present. “Study them, Miss Renshaw, and while I may have asked you to be able to quote them like the Bible, I want you to be clear that this is no religion, although some of my colleagues use words like heresy and blasphemy for those who argue against this ancient wisdom. While there may be some elements of useful truth inside these texts, they are not infallible or inerrant.”

“Oh!” she whispered in quiet shock. She had always understood that health was tied to the balance of the four bodily humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. Everything she'd overheard the physicians of her childhood saying had only reinforced that belief. “I thought that all doctors still believed in the four humors.”

He smiled. “Belief is an action of faith. As I said, this isn't religion. We are in the service of science. If we have learned that we know anything for certain, it is that we know almost nothing for certain. The ancient Greeks and Arabs and their medieval followers have had a great influence on my profession and our approach to healing. But I am a heretic, Miss Renshaw.”

“Why ask me to study them at all, if you don't hold to their teaching?” she asked.

“Heretic is from the root of a Greek word that means
one who can choose
, Miss Renshaw. You must understand a school of knowledge thoroughly before you can claim the wisdom to choose what to keep and what to disregard. And for you, it's a step that you cannot omit. If you truly want to keep pace with your masculine contemporaries, you must be fluent in the language of medicine—flawlessly fluent.” He added another heavy leather book to the growing pile. “And remember, I said that there are useful elements of truth in these. Hidden, I grant you, but they're there for the keen and discerning mind.”

The look she gave him was solemn and made his chest ache in its sweetness. She was so open and hungry for knowledge, eager for anything he imparted, and so trusting. It was a heady power to think that the imperious and unstoppable Miss Gayle Renshaw would look up at him like that, but Rowan knew the danger. And it was probably precisely the reason that it wasn't wise to have women at universities. She was so beautiful, a temptation to body and to soul, and a man would have to be blind and dumb to be unaware of the corrupting allure of such a student.

“We'll start here and then I can determine just how quick a study you are, Miss Renshaw.” He eyed the daunting stack of books and calculated just how bruising a task they might present. “Start with the
Articella.
I'll check back with you when I return from my patient calls.”

“Can't I go with you?” she asked impulsively.

He shook his head. “Not yet. For now, you read.”

“But, surely, I could—”

“Read, Miss Renshaw. Read. And one of the first things you'll read is that ‘life is short, the art long.'”

“Yes, Dr. West.”

“Study, Miss Renshaw. Study as if your life depended on it, for I assure that in this instance, it will.”

Chapter
4

Rowan adjusted the oil lamp on his desk and finished his final note on the day's calls. He'd begin having Gayle copy them out soon so that she could see the course of treatments for each patient and start to understand some of the practical work involved in diagnosing illnesses and providing care. It would be tedious work, but he doubted she'd mind it. Miss Renshaw's enthusiasm hadn't waned despite all his efforts to bury her in books and assignments.

In ascertaining the extent of her medical education, he'd learned just how tenacious Miss Renshaw really was. She said she'd learned all her herbal remedies by eavesdropping on a Scottish apothecary situated next to a milliner frequented by her mother. She'd augmented that wisdom with practical bits of advice from various housekeepers, cooks, and country women she'd come into contact with. When visiting family friends, she'd once gotten her hands on a book on anatomy, which was unfortunately in German, but the illustrations had been fascinating enough—until the book's owner discovered her in his library and removed the unseemly material from her wayward hands. Most recently, the surgeon in Standish Crossing had inadvertently provided a few more hints, but in the village, surgery was considered a rough trade, and since the man also pulled teeth, he was barely acknowledged socially, so he'd been an elusive source for her to use.

But of Gayle Renshaw, the woman, he knew almost nothing. Where exactly her family was from or how her parents had died were secrets she'd yet to reveal. His new apprentice was determined to keep her distance. From what he could deduct, she was born of country gentry and had been offered a life of some comfort and a middling education. But she'd blithely managed to pursue the most unfeminine interests of botany and science and acquire a better education than her parents thought suitable for their only daughter.

The next logical step in her education was anatomy, and he only hoped her Latin was up to the task. If she'd been allowed a formal education, it was groundwork that would have already been laid. But her boast of being a quick study was proving true. Even so, the books could only take her so far, and then it would be a challenge to get her access to a corpse and—

He caught himself with a frustrated groan, arresting the path of his thoughts. Miss Renshaw was to quit long before the grim work of a hands-on anatomy course, and he, of all people, needed to remember that.

The torture of his new apprentice was supposed to be a necessary inconvenience, not something he was beginning to genuinely enjoy. But as she'd demonstrated more and more of that keen intellect and tenacity, he'd started to look forward to every battle, test, and exchange with his unusual pupil. He'd pushed her harder than any apprentice had ever been pressed, and she'd simply borne it with a grace that often left him speechless.

“Sorry to interrupt, doctor,” Carter broke in from the side panel door, hidden by one of the curio cabinets, his entire stance apologetic.

The fact that he hadn't used the main door from the hallway to Rowan's study spoke volumes. It meant he'd come straight up the servants' backstairs in his haste, which hinted that Mrs. Evans or the cook had put a fire under his feet. “It's fine, Carter. Yours is the face I am always happy to see.”

“Nonsense! I'm the poor man constantly besetting you with the worst news of patients' calls at all hours, and don't think I'm not grateful that you don't snap at me for it.”

Like my father used to.
Carter had been a part of the family for as long as Rowan could remember, and before he'd graduated to long pants, he'd quietly sworn that no matter how tired or out of sorts he was feeling, he would never take it out on dear Carter. Every dent in the wooden molding around the private library room door told the tale of a brass bookend hurled at Carter's head for interrupting one of his father's happier moments mapping a future adventure or daydreaming of medical discoveries. His father's living had depended on his patients, but the man had never stopped resenting them for falling ill at the most inconvenient moments. “Never kill the messenger! Some wise Greek said it and we'll carve it over your bedroom door if it's any comfort.”

Carter smiled. “Bless those Greeks, sir.”

“What was it you wanted?” Rowan prompted diplomatically.

“Oh yes! I'm afraid it's to do with Miss Renshaw.”

“Is Mrs. Evans unhappy? Is she proving to be a troublesome or demanding guest?”

Carter sighed. “Just the opposite, doctor. It seems Mrs. Evans is sure the girl is underfed. She's missing meals when you're not in the house, and the women have decided she's not ringing for trays—perhaps in an effort not to bother the staff.”

“Ah! But now it's becoming a worry. . . . Has Mrs. Evans not offered to simply tell her that ringing for a tray or for tea is not a problem? We can't have her fainting from malnutrition, Carter.”

“And there we are. It's all caution and care and not knowing how to address a woman who is neither truly an employee nor a guest under the roof. They're all pride and speculation downstairs, wanting to please but not wanting to overstep if she's not to be here long and not welcome.”

“She's—”
Damn! I'm scheming to drive her out and my empathetic household isn't sure who to help. Mrs. Evans can't stand to starve her out but is wondering if I'd be perfectly happy to see it happen. What a world!
Rowan closed his notebook carefully. “Miss Renshaw is very welcome here, Carter. I would appreciate it if you would convey to Mrs. Evans that a tray be arranged for her meals, whether the lady remembers to ring for them or not. She is studying very hard, at my insistence, and has a tendency to lose track of the hours, so the fault is mine. But let's not punish the girl for it, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Carter answered with relief. “I knew you'd see it just so.”

Rowan smiled.
I'll never make a tyrant, and that's not a bad thing to boast at the end of the day.
“And would you please remind Mrs. Evans that since
I
am starving at the moment, if she could send up a tray of those wonderful little ginger cakes, I would be eternally grateful—and I will even promise not to track so much mud into the house.”

Carter bowed before retreating back through the hidden doorway. “She'll send a mountain of them for
that
promise.” And with that, he was gone.

The sound of a bird striking one of the glass window panes awoke her instantly. Gayle lifted her head in a strange, breathless momentary panic at the stark transition from dreamless sleep to exhausted alertness.

She realized she must have fallen asleep while studying, her cheek sore from resting against the open pages of a book of anatomy plates. Unsure of the hour, she knew only that it was daylight and she could only pray that she hadn't lost enough of the day for Dr. West to have noticed. A small clock on one of the shelves read nine o'clock, and she stood to brush out her skirts and smooth her hair as quickly as she could. He was usually in the laboratory by then, and her face flushed with shame at the idea of him catching her like this, dazed and mussed over her reading.