Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (9 page)

Because she was.

Chapter
6

It was late in the afternoon when the bell finally rang, heralding his return. Gayle glanced quickly at the mirror, a habit of vanity, smoothing one of the black braids of hair back to tuck it up out of the way and into an elegant twist. She'd deliberately selected one of her better work dresses, the periwinkle print flattering her coloring and figure. It was a feeble gesture, but she was afraid that she'd done so much damage to the strange relationship they'd enjoyed that perhaps even the smallest thing would help her cause.

She came down the stairs so quickly that she found him still in the entryway with Carter.

“You look tired, doctor. And”—Carter was holding out what remained of Rowan's mangled hat—“mishap, sir?”

“See what Mrs. Evans can do to restore the damn thing. I must have accidentally sat on it in the carriage.”

Carter gave it a dubious look—as the crown of it hung by a single thread—before nodding. “We'll do our best.”

Rowan gently caught his arm as he turned away. “Wait, Carter. Don't bother Mrs. Evans with it. I don't think a street urchin would want it in its current condition. Why don't you ask her to buy me a new one, instead? I have an account at that haberdashery off Drummond Street. Theo can drive her and she may even enjoy the outing.”

Carter brightened considerably. “She'd like that a great deal, doctor. But don't be surprised if she isn't after you to get a new coat while you're at it.”

“One thing at a time, Mr. Carter. One thing at a time.”

“Dr. West,” Gayle spoke to him as she descended the stairs, anxious to catch him before he announced that he was going to his room to rest.

Carter's look was disgruntled iron as he left with the doctor's hat to find Mrs. Evans. But Rowan's eyes were clear and his expression neutral. “Miss Renshaw.”

“I'm . . . sorry.” She'd intended to try small talk and remark on the unseasonably warm weather for his call, but the words of regret tumbled out.

Two steps from the bottom, she was standing nearly eye to eye with him, and for the first time, Gayle was aware that Rowan's eyes were the color of an English forest, dark green and brown in a potent blend.

At last, he spoke. “As am I.” He picked up his leather bag. “If you don't mind, I'll drop this off in my private study on our way upstairs.”

She walked with him up the staircase, surprised at the sudden forgiveness so easily given. “Thank you. I'd expected a bit more yelling and you've every right to do so. I was horrible this morning.”

They reached the landing to the first floor and he opened the doors into his private study. “Yes, you were.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but then realized he was smiling. “To what do I owe your good humor, doctor?”

“I made a social call on a good friend and his wife who both reminded me in their own ways that no matter what else may or may not be true—I did need an apprentice.” He sighed and managed a cheerful shrug. “Theo took me on a ride around the park, and when I found myself reliving the morning and losing my perspective . . .”

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “You murdered your hat and felt better?”

“Amazingly refreshing and well worth it.” He smiled, nodding as he placed his bag next to the large ornate desk at the room's center. Rowan sat on the edge of the desk to face her. “No more battles today, Miss Renshaw. Agreed?”

She hesitated.
He could have demanded that I behave from now on. He could have said,
Never again.
And I would have readily agreed. How can he be this kind after everything I said?
“Agreed. No more battles.”

“Today.”

“Why not require a more lasting truce?”

His gaze never wavered. “It's not in your nature, Miss Renshaw, and at least if you're openly fighting me on the battlefield, I don't have to worry about you cutting my throat in my sleep.”

She gasped at the imagery but held her tongue.

“But I will request one more thing if you're in a giving mood.”

“And what is that?”

“That you use that clever head of yours and make up your own mind. A scientist would hardly make a summary judgment based on the word of someone else and not trust his own experiences and observations.”

“You want me to trust you.”

“I want you to trust your own instincts. I want you to have proof before you start slinging libel in my direction, Miss Renshaw. Hearsay has its place, but not in this instance. Construct your own opinions and leave rumor out of it. If you decide that I am the worst of the worst, then so be it. But let a man demonstrate villainy before you call him one. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Gayle said, then she realized just how absorbed she'd been in their conversation and her quest for forgiveness as the library's ambience struck her for the first time. “Oh, my!”

Everything about the room was warm and inviting, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and curios, every decoration placed almost at random until it was nearly impossible not to smile at the African masks leaning up against a statuette of the Roman goddess Ceres or the model of a Nordic ship that had decided to land next to an Arabian camel doll complete with bells.

The chairs were all overstuffed and upholstered in leather or brocades so worn that it was hard to discern the original patterns, but every one invited a guest to linger without any regard to their posture. Even the floor was a wonderful eclectic mix of various small rugs woven in one country or another until the sight of a bearskin peeking out from behind Rowan's desk came as no surprise.

Where the rest of his home was orderly and elegant, the character of his private sanctuary was completely unique—and she wondered if this were a better glimpse of the man. “Your study is . . .”

Rowan nodded. “Florence has finally forgiven me for her being the unlucky soul who has to dust in here. Mrs. Evans used to, but her arthritis isn't improved by this particular exercise. It's a jumble, but it's a good jumble.”

“Where did all these wonderful things come from?” She circled to a curio cabinet filled with glass and ceramic figures blended in with strange pipes and antique devices.

“The men in my family for as long as anyone can remember have enjoyed traveling abroad for academic purposes. This little library was transformed into our odd trophy room and study. Other homes boast stags' heads and lions and, well, as you see . . . Wests hunt ancient scrolls and salt shakers.”

“A hero's spoils!” She stood with a smile.

“If my grandfather's obsession with trying to discover the medicinal powers of rare water lily species can be qualified as heroic, or my father's fascination with the dark continent of Africa and ritual wood carving, then . . . yes. The West men are notoriously interested in all things most decidedly
foreign
and have historically succeeded only in the scholarly sense of the word.”

“No fortunes made abroad?”

“My ancestors had a complete disinterest in anything remotely resembling a commercial interest in their travels. They sought the priceless rewards of knowledge.”

“As did you on your travels to India, am I right?”

He nodded, a modest flush creeping across his face. “I did.”

“And where are your trinkets and souvenirs? While your ancestors may not have had a talent for fortune hunting, they did seem to have a good eye for wonderful bits and pieces of the exotic world.”

“My fortune is tucked away in the books in this room. Their contents should be enough for any man.” He shrugged, as if embarrassed or uncomfortable with the topic. “But enough. Let's head to the laboratory and see if we can't make the most of the day.”

Our battle-free day, he means.
“Yes, that sounds wise.”

They left the study to make their way up the stairs together, and Gayle reveled in the ease she felt around him again. “I'm a terrible person when I'm tired, Dr. West.”

“Then your patients are in for the worst of it, Miss Renshaw. Women in confinement don't choose to wait until you're rested to bring you out on a wintry night for a long delivery, nor sick children with a cough, nor any patient for that matter. Fevers don't break simply because you're tired or you've been at one bedside nor another for three days straight.” His tone held no reprimand but echoed with the sorrowful demands of their profession. “You'll have to learn to sleep whenever and wherever you can—and you'll have to practice your social graces when you're overtaxed.”

“Another lesson learned,” she said, unable to keep from smiling at the simple pleasure she felt when he looked at her with approval—but also recalling how she'd spent the night draped over textbooks.

They reached the laboratory door, and Rowan opened it for her as gallantly as a man bringing her to a grand ball. “Since you've shown an interest in chemistry, let's see if we can't get you to begin assisting me with my compounding, Miss Renshaw.” He walked her over to the locked corner cabinet and the narrow worktable next to it. “Everything here must be clean and orderly. Everything taken must be returned to exactly the same place from where it came. One mistake with identical-looking powders and it's all too easy to dispense a deadly dosage to the wrong patient. So take care that you clean every beaker as you see, and put every jar with its contents just so. Do you understand?”

She nodded. It was daunting to think of the responsibility that came with the prescription of medicines. “Clean and orderly, yes, I understand.”

He pulled down two black leather books with worn covers from atop the cabinet and set them down for her. “I keep all my combinations here, each annotated with ingredients and measurements as well as their sources.”

“Their sources?” she asked.

“Not every chemist is as reliable as another, and I like to keep a good eye on where I've acquired an ingredient so that if potency is lost or there is a change in a patient's reaction, it may offer a clue.”

“There's so much to remember.”

He smiled. “Which is why we write everything down. In this book with the green ribbon, I make sure I record which patient a medicine is intended for and in what dosage. Naturally, the same information is reflected in my working journal, but this book stays with the supplies so that I can see at a glance the pharmaceutical record for a specific drug and sometimes see a trend in treatments.”

“A trend?”

“Either to see that something is working or to catch myself in a tired routine if it isn't and ensure that I'm not doing more harm than good.” He opened the book to a page so that she could see an example. “These formulas are extremely confidential and considered trade secrets, Miss Renshaw. I work closely with only one or two chemists to safeguard my efforts—and my patients' privacy.”

“I understand.”

“If there should be a fire in the laboratory, you must see to it that you get out safely, of course; but if there are seconds where you can take something with you to preserve it, you'll take these two books. Everything else, I can replace. But these . . .” He shook his head. “They're the legacy of three generations of physicians and my own research.”

“What are you researching, Dr. West?”

“Heat.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm trying to understand the correlation between heat and disease. The worst diseases spring out of the tropical heat, do they not? But why? What is it in the nature of heat that inspires death to move more quickly? Is it sweat that transmits these fevers? Then how? The very nature of fever is in debate by some of my colleagues. Some see it as an outside force imposed on a person's body that ravages and destroys, but others wonder if we are not built to create fevers as a ward and defense. Like a counterfire against the clutches of some unseen advocate. A dangerous defense, but one of last resort.”

Defense against an unseen advocate.
The words echoed in her head like some call to arms, and she found herself caught up in his passionate words. “But isn't the fever the disease?”

“Perhaps not, and wouldn't that be a revolutionary thing to uncover?” He led her over to another table and pulled down weather maps and charts as he spoke. “But we want to understand why would a particular disease strike one place but not another? And what if the seasons have more to do with it than we suspect?”

“It's fascinating!”

“I am studying the effect of temperature on the progress of various diseases. The Quakers swear to cold baths and chilled air to cool a person and slow disease's progress. Others claim such an approach is suicide. We close windows and pile on blankets and press in as much heat as we can. But if heat is the adversary . . . Well, you can see the endless dilemma that I am hoping my work will help to resolve.”