Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (7 page)

She wanted to betray no weakness of any kind, especially since it was clear he was sure she would beg off at the first challenge or obstacle.

As a teacher, he was thorough, extremely knowledgeable, and genuinely inspiring. He was also demanding and ruthless when it came to her performance. At any moment, he would require an oral recitation from her assigned studies, a defense of an assumption she might have uttered, or an explanation of a medical technique or practice. Failure to provide an adequate answer inevitably meant the reward of more study, or the repetition of her lab work. No meal was enjoyed in leisure without the inclusion of a lesson. Even at the end of an exhausting day of patient calls, he would make his way to find her and inquire on her progress.

For eight days and long into the nights, she'd done nothing but study—every waking thought given to the medical arts and to not disappointing Rowan.

It was a strange slice of heaven sprinkled with a little bit of hell. The freedom to learn the forbidden sciences and arts of medicine, to have at her fingertips all the answers she had craved to all the endless questions in her mind. She'd sacrificed her future and her reputation to achieve her hardscrabble hold on this chance—and it was more than she'd hoped for so far.

Even so, she was surprised to be suffering from a touch of homesickness. Not that she'd lived in Standish Crossing for very long, but perhaps it was the care and security of the life she'd abandoned that beckoned to her in the night. She'd always chafed at the restrictions and confinement of her days before, but it was hard not to think with fond nostalgia on some of the leisure she'd forfeited. Even her room at Aunt Jane's had offered a garden view and every comfort. Here, the accommodations were drafty and Spartan. She'd never lived without a maid and had learned that she missed the companionship of one as much as having an extra pair of hands when it came to laces and buttons. Even so, it wasn't the lumpy, thin mattress or the bare room that threatened to spoil her paradise.

It was Dr. Rowan West.

His presence was unsettling. She hated the way her heart pounded whenever he came too close, a fluttering weakness that distracted and dismayed her. After all, he was her employer and nothing more. But already, her days and nights revolved around him—as a mentor and teacher, but also as her only link to the outside world.

A bell in the lab rang whenever he went out on call or returned—a signal to his apprentice to be at the ready to offer assistance—and it was a sound that still jarred her nerves.

It had rung just before dinner the night before, and she'd waited hopefully, indulging in a daydream where he burst into the lab, handsome and vibrant but anxiously seeking her out. Then he had commanded her to grab her coat and accompany him.
Come, Miss Renshaw! I need you!

But naturally, he hadn't done any such thing and her plan to study until his return had ended up in the uncomfortable sleep on top of a pile of books.

Except she liked the way he pushed her. He expected perfection and credited her with the capability of it. When he corrected her, it never felt like an admonishment. And if she asked him to clarify anything, he would willingly provide examples or stories to ensure that she knew the content and the context of the lesson they were covering. Yesterday at breakfast, he'd even demonstrated a surgical technique on her kipper, much to Mrs. Evans's horror.

She moved to stretch her back and neck, massaging the base of her skull to dismiss the dull ache there. She knew better than to bother Mrs. Evans for a cup of tea, but Florence and the others were warming up to her, and Gayle wasn't too shy to head below stairs and ask if she could make up her own tray.

“Pardon.” An unfamiliar male voice from the doorway interrupted her thoughts and startled her into a very unladylike yelp.

She did her best to recover quickly. “May I help you?”

“Didn't mean to frighten you, miss! Carter had his hands full with some business in the kitchens and I just let myself up as usual.” His smile and friendly demeanor put her at ease as he moved comfortably into the room as if he'd been there a thousand times. Only an inch or two taller than she was and apparently of a similar age as herself, the slender young man was anything but intimidating, his cheerful blond good looks dismissing fear. “Are you assisting Dr. West?”

“Yes.” She knew that Rowan wanted her to be discreet above all things, and she didn't want to jeopardize her position. She wished to be recognized as far more than an assistant, but Gayle was wise enough to choose her battles.

“I'm Peter James, Mr. Fitzroy's assistant.”

When she failed to react, he went on. “Mr. Fitzroy is the chemist. I'm his apprentice and training to be an apothecary myself.”

“Oh!” Gayle smiled, now dutifully doing her best to look impressed.
I wonder if he'd be as cordial if I told him that I was an apprentice as well.
“I'm Gayle Renshaw. Dr. West is out on a call at the moment.”

“A pleasure, Miss Renshaw. His assistant, you say? Well, the doctor is out more often than he's in, and I'm used to it. I've come to check Dr. West's inventory there in the cupboard and make sure he's not in need of an order,” Mr. James explained. “I'm sorry if I startled you. The house knows me and I come every fortnight or so.”

“I wasn't startled.” The denial was foolish, but the impulse to lie was faster than her wits after only a few hours of sleep. “I simply . . . thought you were Florence bringing up a tray.”

“Studying, are you?” His eyes rested on the stack of books and still opened texts spread across the table.

“Dr. West is . . . indulging me. I am very interested in medicine.”

Peter eyed the Latin text and then looked back at her with a touch of awe. “That's quite an interest.”

“I've always been fascinated with the practice of medicine. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“Really? It seems an odd thing for a woman. Not to be abrupt, but my sisters never seem to lift their noses past their bonnet ribbons. However did it capture your attention, Miss Renshaw?”

His interest seemed so open and without judgment, and Gayle could detect no trace of sarcasm in his tone, so she found herself dropping her guard. “My father once said I was born asking questions, and I've always loved discovering how things work and what they're composed of—even to the sad end of several of my family clocks and our garden fountain.”

“Oh, my!” Peter commented, offering a bit of jovial encouragement.

“When my older sister fell ill with scarlet fever, I was nine. She was seventeen and I idolized her. They banished me from her rooms, but I couldn't stay away. The doctor looked like a wizard with his white beard and all the magical items he pulled from his great leather bag. All those vials and strange instruments! And the way my parents seemed to shrink and defer to him whenever he entered the room . . .” She sighed, the memory taking on a life of its own. “I stole into Emily's room whenever I could to watch him tend to her. Everyone said in whispers when they thought I couldn't hear them that she was sure to die.”

“But she didn't!” he guessed.

“She didn't.” Gayle smiled. “I loved Emily more than anything in the world, and she didn't die that summer. And I knew right then that I wanted to be able to do that, to save someone's life and possess the knowledge of all the wonderful things that man had tucked away in that worn brown satchel.”

“And what does your sister think of your surprising ambitions?” he asked.

“I can only imagine.” Gayle returned to a more painful present by rote practice. “She died the following year in a tragic accident. She'd gone to stay with friends of the family and there was a house fire.”

“I'm so sorry! How horrible for you!”

“Thank you for your kindness, but . . .” She did her best to set the dark turn in the conversation aside. “I'm sure it's the reason my parents were so protective and eager to keep me close—and never pressed me to marry.” Gayle smiled at the thought. “So, there's the blessing! I became as independent and headstrong as a mule, and probably wretchedly spoiled. I never developed a talent for being told what to do, Mr. James, and now that I am on my own, I can pursue my interests as I have always wished.”

“It's a rare and lovely soul that can find the bright side to these things, miss.” Peter nodded his blond head, as if concurring with his own wisdom.

“Yes,” Rowan interjected from the open doorway, his expression difficult to interpret. “Miss Renshaw is a determined optimist, if nothing else.”

Gayle jumped a little, startled yet again by an unexpected presence, but this time, her heart only sped up when she saw him. She hated the guilt that poured through her, as if she'd been caught doing something illicit with the chemist and Rowan had walked in on them.

“How are we doing, Mr. James?” Rowan spoke directly to Peter as if she wasn't even in the room. “Did you get my request?”

“Yes, indeed! I brought more of the headache remedy just for you, doctor. And your general inventory is adequate enough, but I notice that you're running low on the opiates. Shall I ask Mr. Fitzroy to compound more of your usual amounts?”

“Yes, and have them delivered as soon as possible. I cannot be out of them as some of my patients will have need soon.”

“You use less than any physician I know, Dr. West, if you don't mind me saying.” He smiled at Miss Renshaw. “Your doctor doesn't trust the new miracle drugs!”

“I don't believe in miracles. But when Mr. Fitzroy produces them, I am always grateful.”

“And he meant for me to say as much to you, doctor! That new compound you suggested has our Mr. Fitzroy more cheerful than I've seen in years.” Peter pulled a packet of papers from his jacket pocket. “I almost forgot to give you his letter on the matter. I was instructed to hand it only to you personally.”

Gayle watched with some curiosity as the sealed bundle changed hands.

He read the papers in silence as she waited as patiently as she could for him to address her. Instead, he finished and turned back to Mr. James. “Well, thank you, Mr. James. I'll answer him by letter personally, but please convey my interest. You'll send the supplies we discussed right away, won't you? And otherwise, I'll see you in a few days.”

It was a dismissal, and Peter James seemed to take it in stride. He gave Gayle a quick smile and nod before retreating to get back to his duties at Mr. Fitzroy's.

Alone in the room, a long, awkward silence spun out between them before Rowan finally looked at her.

Gayle forced herself not to fidget under his scrutiny. “Did you just return? Was it Mr. Fisher? You didn't say before you left, but yesterday you'd mentioned that he was apt to send for you.”

“Did you have a nice visit with Mr. James?” he asked, completely disregarding her questions.

Gayle froze in place, then slowly stood away from the table to put herself squarely in front of him like a boxer preparing for the next round. “Say what you mean to say, Dr. West.”

“I asked you why you wanted to become a physician and you refused to answer me. But the druggist . . . You confide in my
druggist's assistant
?”

It was indefensible and a small comfort to him that she did manage to look abashed and unhappy at the question. Her cheeks stained pink, but he knew better than to expect her to retract anything or make excuses.

“I'll speak to whom I wish about any subject I wish! Perhaps you've mistaken the bounds of your authority, Dr. West, if you think to command personal confidences and memories!”

Rowan wasn't about to crumble at the first display of her claws. She looked exhausted and he knew he was the sole cause. He'd barely been inside his own doorway before Mrs. Evans caught him to express once again how anxious she was about the presence of a female apprentice under his roof and set him in motion with a pronouncement that Miss Renshaw looked positively ill from the dreadful torture he was subjecting her to. He'd rushed upstairs with the intention of making sure that she was hale and hearty and apologizing for the ridiculous scholastic marathon he'd been putting her through out of spite.

But instead, he'd walked in on her practically sighing on Peter James's shoulder. Rowan couldn't remember when he'd been this angry.

“I see. You are right, of course. Why answer
my
questions when you can prattle away to Peter James?”

“It wasn't prattling.” She looked at the floor, but the fleeting impression of a contrite child didn't hold. When she looked back up, she embodied defiance. “He was kind.”

“And I am not?” He'd meant it as a question, a statement that she would instantly deny and assure him that he was all that was kind—but instead she just looked at him as if he'd spat on the floor.

“If I had told you some maudlin story about my dying sister, you'd have looked at me like some sentimental hysteric and that would have been the end of it. You'd have directed me to spend a bit of time in some ladylike charitable pursuit addressing orphans or embroidering slip covers! Or worse!”

“How is it that you know so much of what I ‘would have' done? Are you that insightful, Miss Renshaw, or am I that transparent a cad?”