A Debutante In Disguise. Eleanor Webster
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of men’s trousers, loved the ability to wear her spectacles whenever she wanted, but still resented the wig.
At least she no longer had to wear it daily as she had during her training, or rather Dr Hatfield’s training.
The fifth Jamison arrived with a lusty cry as her mother collapsed against the birthing stool, her face wet with sweat and tears. The maid wiped her mistress’s face while Letty cut the cord. Taking the damp cloth, Letty wiped the blood from the red, wizened, angry little face. Then she swaddled the infant in the blanket, handing her to her mother’s waiting arms.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Jamison whispered. There was a sanctity in the moment, Letty thought, a joy that was also pain.
She turned away, rubbing away the sweat from her own forehead. What would it be like to bring life into the world, to be responsible for, to protect and love this fragile, new human being? She hadn’t attended many births during her training at Guy’s Hospital. Most people that came there were incurable, clinging to life by the merest thread. There had been more death than birth.
Helping Mrs Jamison to rise from the birthing stool, she settled her more comfortably on the accouchement bed and tidied the bloodied cloths needed for the birth.
‘A girl. I’m that glad—Lil, my eldest, will be wanting to get wed herself and it will be nice to have someone to help out around the house, mind,’ Mrs Jamison said, bending over the child cradled within her arms.
‘Lil can’t be ready to marry yet?’
‘Well, no, she’s only eleven, but they grow up so quickly, mind. It seemed like only yesterday she was this size.’
‘A few years to wait yet, then. Anyway, perhaps your lads could help.’
Mrs Jamison chortled. ‘Have you met Cedric? He’s a one. Likely burn the house down as like as not.’
Letty smiled. She’d given Cedric stitches on more than one occasion. ‘I have indeed. He is a repeat customer.’
* * *
For the next hour, Letty kept busy, the afterbirth was delivered and then the Jamison family trooped in solemnly to meet their new sibling. Of course, Mr Jamison offered a sup of something to wet the baby’s head and, as always, Letty refused.
She never lingered. With the child born, Mrs Jamison would be more likely to notice her doctor’s feminine features, too poorly disguised. She might see the tufts of red hair peaking from under the wig, the swell of her breasts, despite the binding, or that her hands were too small and delicate for a man.
While treating any patient, Letty seldom worried that she would be discovered. It was as though her mind was too occupied with treatment, remembering the details of anatomy, relieving pain, determining the correct poultice or herb, or placing stitches into flesh. But once finished, her mind circled, worry omnipotent.
At times, she still could not believe that the crazy idea she and Ramsey had concocted four years ago on a bright, starlit winter walk was working...had worked.
Besides, she was too hungry and exhausted to do anything save return home with all possible dispatch.
So, after checking once more on patient and child, she packed her belongings into her doctor’s bag, made sure any stray hair was tucked under the wig, adjusted her jacket, straightened her shoulders and strode out into the bright daylight with a masculine swagger. The Jamison lads had already hitched up her horse, the stalwart Archimedes, and Cedric stood on the second plank of the fence, balancing precariously, a long yellow straw clenched between his lips at a jaunty angle.
‘Hello, Cedric,’ she said, clambering into the trap and watching as he climbed down to open the gate. ‘You happy with your new sister?’
‘She’s all right. A brother would have been better.’ He peered up at her, wrinkling his freckled nose. ‘Girls are dull. Still, at least I’m not the youngest no more.’
With that consoling thought, he swung open the gate and Letty tapped Archimedes into reluctant movement and he ambled forward, happy to find his own way down the narrow lane.
At times, she missed the lectures at Guy’s Hospital, the lively discourse between students, the classes in anatomy and the excitement of the illegal autopsies and new procedures.
Today was not one of them. In London, there had also been an undercurrent of fear. She remembered hurrying through poor, narrow streets with her collar turned high and her shoulders hunched, even more determined to hide her gender than at the hospital.
Sewage from the Thames tainted the air. Garbage littered the streets and beggars and drunks would lie at the entrances of the shops, hospital and along the river bank while urchins would run up to her, grimy hands out-thrust. Sometimes prostitutes would sidle up with their toothless, painted faces, taken in by her male garb.
This was much nicer, she thought, gazing through heavy-lidded eyes at the country’s clean, morning brilliance. It was nice, to relax to Archimedes’s rhythmic movement, the reins limp in her hand.
Sometimes her secret felt heavy, but on this fresh, shimmering hopeful dawn it was delightful and precious.
As always, she took the back route, skirting the village centre so that she could approach the stable by the lane. Doubtless, the villagers thought the doctor an odd recluse and Miss Barton equally eccentric. Still, she could take no chances. She had worked so hard for this life and it still felt fragile—like the houses they’d constructed as children from playing cards and toothpicks.
The lane behind her house smelled of lavender. Already the day promised to be warm. It had been an unusually hot summer and the air had that heavy, lazy perfumed feel of August. Mixed with the lavender she detected manure. Likely Arnold had been gardening, already eager to beat the day’s heat.
‘Ah, there you be, miss.’ Arnold stepped out from the stable. She’d known him since childhood: groom, gardener and friend. He always kept an eye open for her when she was out at night and irritatingly insisted on calling her ‘miss’ despite trousers and wig whenever they were alone.
He was quite stooped with his years, moving with a rolling nautical gait as he stepped forward, taking hold of the reins. ‘You must be that tired. You go up to the house. Sarah will have a bite ready for you, no doubt.’
‘Thank you.’ She gave Archimedes’s wide girth a final pat before getting down from the buggy and entering the stable.
She found her clothes in the small valise under the hay and dusted away the yellow straw, before hurriedly removing her trousers and thankfully pulling off the powdered wig. She shoved this into the valise, running her fingers with relief through her straight red hair. Then she pulled on her dress and exited the stable’s dustiness.
In the winter months, she’d likely abandon this practice. Even now it seemed like an excess of caution, but worry was deeply rooted and in these bright, long summer days she feared that someone might see ‘Miss Barton’ enter the doctor’s house or vice versa.
Thanks to her inheritance from her father, she owned both the two stone houses visible at the far end of the garden. Eagerly, she hurried towards the one on the left, stepping across the paving stones of her overgrown herb garden. The leaves brushed against her skirts which would likely be yellow with pollen.
‘I am that glad to see you back.’ Sarah came to her the moment she’d pushed open the back door.
Sarah had first worked as a nursery maid and was also more friend than servant. ‘Sit there. I have fresh bread and the kettle is hot so I can make tea.’
‘Thank you. I was going to head straight to bed, but perhaps I will eat first,’ Letty said.
She had not eaten for hours and the kitchen smelled delightfully of cinnamon and fresh bread. Kitchens always smelled wonderful. Even as a child, she’d loved kitchens above all other rooms, except the library. Of course, her mother had seldom entered the kitchen, or had done so only to lecture the staff. Her mother was the daughter