Crescent City Courtship. Elizabeth White
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to Winona, who had gone back to her preserves. “How is Tess?”
Winona looked around, amusement curving her lips. “I don’t know, Mr. John. You better ask Miss Abigail here. I been so busy helping Miss Camilla with the children and tending to the laundry, I ain’t had time to even look in on her. Miss Camilla say the lady’s been in good hands.” She smiled at Abigail.
“Tess is a little stronger.” Warmed at Winona’s praise, Abigail lifted her chin. “Even without the opium, she slept well last night and most of today.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave her a curt nod and stalked off toward the clinic.
Abigail gave Winona a wry glance. “Is he always this charming?”
An inscrutable smile played around Winona’s full mouth. “He can turn it on when he wants to.”
Abigail didn’t want to know what that meant. “When will Dr. Laniere be home?”
“Oh, right about—” The kitchen door rattled and opened—” now.” The doctor came in whistling, with his hat under his arm, and Winona reached to take it from him. “Miss Camilla said to tell you she’s up in the nursery when you get home. The two older boys’re down with the pox now. It’s a mess for sure.”
The doctor’s cheerful expression fell. “All five of them? Poor Camilla.” He sighed. “All right. I’ll just check on Miss Montgomery, then I’ll see about the children. I’m sure Camilla’s got things under control.”
Abigail followed him into the clinic, where she was just in time to witness the unhorsing of Sir John the Terrible, who had leaned over to grasp Tess’s wrist between thumb and two fingers.
Abigail slipped past Dr. Laniere when he halted just inside the ward, holding his hat behind his back with both hands. He rocked on his heels, watching his student with a sardonic expression that Abigail found impossible to interpret.
“Well, Mr. Braddock.” Dr. Laniere’s dry tone conveyed not a trace of the tenderness he’d shown in his ministrations to Tess. “I see that having skipped early rounds, you decided to compensate with a late-evening tour of duty. I trust you’ve recovered your customary blooming health.”
Braddock dropped Tess’s hand with a start and backed up a step. “Professor! I was just—”
“No, no, carry on, Braddock. You were doing quite well. Would you like to borrow my stethoscope?”
Braddock recovered his aplomb. “No, sir.” He discreetly pulled back the sheet to examine Tess, who turned her head away, enduring the humiliation with her eyes closed.
Abigail anxiously watched her friend’s face. She’d give anything to be a doctor herself, able to spare women the degradation of being handled familiarly by male strangers. It wasn’t the first time she’d entertained this utterly hopeless dream. She clenched her hands, silently, fiercely repeating it, almost a prayer. All she wanted was a chance to study, to learn the things John Braddock took for granted.
Resentment gave her boldness. “I’ll take Mr. Braddock’s rounds tomorrow morning if he doesn’t want to go.”
John Braddock snorted. “Very funny.” Straightening, he dropped the sheet back into place and folded his arms across his chest.
Abigail’s bravado disappeared when Dr. Laniere turned. “What did you say?”
“I s-said I would like to assist you as nurse. I’ve quite a bit of experience.” Abigail found her knees shaking. She put a hand against the wall behind her.
“I don’t believe that’s exactly what you said.” Dr. Laniere tapped his lower lip with a finger. “But if you’d like to assist, you may meet me in the carriage house at seven in the morning. We’ll see what you can do. So I suppose you should stay another night or two. Camilla could use an extra pair of hands, if you don’t mind pitching in.”
Abigail felt the blood rush from her head. “S-Sir! Do you mean it?”
“Professor!” Braddock’s hazel eyes all but popped out of his head. “This woman is no nurse! She’s a prostitute!”
Abigail came away from the wall, indignation overpowering her sense of unworthiness. “Tess and I are both respectable women who have fallen on difficult times. We are not prostitutes. Do not compound your idiocy by spouting such utter claptrap!”
“My idiocy—”
Dr. Laniere raised a hand. “The two of you may continue this discussion outside, if you please. I wish to examine my patient in peace and quiet.” When Braddock looked about to argue, the professor’s brow knit. “Now.”
Braddock clamped his lips together and stalked toward the doorway into the kitchen. He paused beside Abigail and bowed with elaborate exaggeration. “After you, ma’am.” He waited for her to precede him out of the ward.
She grasped her skirts as daintily as if they were finest silk and gave him the curtsy her mother had made her practice before a mirror when she was a little girl. Rising with gratifying grace, she turned to Dr. Laniere. “I shall meet you in the carriage house in the morning, sir.” She smiled at her unexpected champion. “Thank you, sir.”
Braddock followed her outside into the shadow-dappled courtyard, shutting the door sharply behind him. “What do you think you’re up to?”
She whirled to face him. “Accepting an invitation.”
“You invited yourself. What possible help do you think you’ll be—you’ll only get in the way of those of us who have paid tuition and earned a spot at the professor’s side.”
“What difference does it make to you whether I’m there or not? Do you think my brain will absorb all the information in the room, leaving you without any?” Closing her eyes, she placed her thumbs at her temples in imitation of a French Quarter spiritist. “Ooh, I think you’re right. I definitely sense your intellect dissipating by the second.” She looked at him in mock sympathy. “No wonder you seem so monumentally stupid.”
“Don’t be absurd.” His mouth quirked a little in spite of the heavy frown. “It’s a matter of what’s fair.”
“Fair?” She could feel her fingers curling into her skirt. “How does Dr. Laniere’s generosity remove your benefit? Besides, even if I had the wherewithal to pay tuition, I wouldn’t be allowed to take classes with you. So don’t prate to me of fairness, Mr. Braddock.”
His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to articulate whatever was boiling behind those hot multihued eyes. “It’s just not right,” he finally muttered. “We keep women out of medicine to protect them.”
“Well, I’ve been protected right out of my homeland and my family, thank you very much,” she said. “Now that I’ve landed on my feet here, you’re not going to convince me to go back.”
“Miss Neal—Abigail,” his voice softened, “I wouldn’t send you back to the District. I merely want you to consider carefully before you force your way into a place where you won’t be accepted, much less welcomed. The other fellows will be brutal if you show up tomorrow morning.”
Abigail stared at him, chin raised. “Your warning is well taken. And I shall prepare myself accordingly.” She dipped him another curtsy and turned for the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Braddock.”
She forced herself not to look over her shoulder as she reentered the kitchen, leaving her adversary fuming on the other side of the door. John Braddock had a thing or two to learn about women if he imagined he’d thwarted her desire to follow rounds in the morning.
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