Crescent City Courtship (7 page)

One at a time the six students placed their hands on the patient’s midsection. When John’s turn came and the shape of the organs slid under his hand, the power of knowledge rushed through his entire body. The woman gasped as he pressed the infected gallbladder and he resisted the urge to flinch in sympathy. A physician must remain in control.

“My turn,” said Abigail boldly.

John looked up frowning, but she stared him down. He grudgingly moved aside, giving her room. She had been standing with her arms crossed, fingers tucked under her armpits. Dropping them, she leaned over the patient, placing her hands in the correct position.

“Your hands are warm,” mumbled Mrs. Catchot, visibly relaxing.

Abigail began the examination, her movements becoming more deft until she found the tender spot. “Hold on. Oh, I feel it.” She looked down into the
patient’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. You must be in a lot of pain.” She glanced at the professor. “Will you remove the infected organ?”

He’d been observing the procedure with a finger to his lips. “What do you know about surgery?”

She looked frightened. “Nothing.” She backed toward the wall, head tucked against her chest.

“Humph.” Professor Laniere, frowning, returned to the patient’s side and replaced the woman’s gown and bedclothes.

John took his life in his hands and stepped close. “Will you, sir? May we watch you take it out?”

The professor glanced at him, but addressed his patient. “Mrs. Catchot, your pain is caused by an inflammation of a tiny sac attached to your small intestine and liver. If we remove it, you’ll have a good chance of recovering with no residual effects.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “
Remove
it? You’re going to cut out part of my stomach?”

“Mr. Braddock, please give Mrs. Catchot a brief summary of what is involved in cholecystostomy.” The professor’s black eyes narrowed. “Gently.”

John blinked, snatching for last week’s lecture during dissection laboratory. “The surgeon—Dr. Laniere—will administer ether anesthesia. Then he’ll make a small incision in your lower abdomen. The gallbladder will be removed with a quick cut and the intestine tightly sutured back together. A few stitches will repair the abdominal incision.”

“But—if you cut it out, won’t I die? The Good Lord put it in there for a reason!”

“This surgery has been successfully performed for about ten years now,” John assured her. “You’ll recover in about six weeks and never miss that little piece of flesh.”

“Thank you, Mr. Braddock, that’s quite enough,” said Dr. Laniere drily. “I assure you, Mrs. Catchot, that if you
don’t
have the surgery, you’ll continue to experience excruciating pain, and the infection could poison your entire system, leading to an early demise.” He patted the woman’s rigid shoulder. “Try to rest. I’ll send someone in to prepare you for surgery. Come with me, gentlemen.”

The whole troupe hustled to keep up as the professor exited the room. John, the tallest, managed to edge out everyone except Abigail.

Dr. Laniere spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Girard, you will give Miss Neal the history of the cholecystostomy.”

“Yes, sir!” Marcus all but ran to catch up with Abigail’s long, gliding steps. “Dr. John Stough Bobbs from Indianapolis, Indiana, was operating on what he thought was an ovarian cyst and rather accidentally found some stones in an inflamed gallbladder. He took them out, stitched up the gallbladder and left it in the abdomen. But here’s the funny part—” Marcus burst out laughing. “The patient recovered and outlived Dr. Bobbs!”

A wicked glint of humor lit Abigail’s eyes. She looked at Marcus, eyebrows up. “Just think how many of your patients will outlive you and your drinking partners.” She slid a glance at John.

The woman had a tongue sharper than any scalpel. “Alcohol is a fine preservative,” he said, annoyed. “Girard didn’t finish. Just last year, Marion Simms designed and performed the first cholecystostomy on a forty-five-year-old woman with obstructive jaundice. Unfortunately, she lasted only a few days because of internal hemorrhaging. But Dr. Laniere has been to Berlin to observe Carl Langen
buch, who perfected the procedure.” He looked at his teacher. “Langenbuch is only twenty-seven years old and he’s already director of Lazarus Hospital. Prof says we’ll see astonishing things in our lifetime.”

Abigail looked away. “I’m sure you will.”

The history lesson was aborted as the class approached another ward. As they examined a young man whose foot had been amputated at Antietam, John made a deliberate effort to ignore Abigail’s distracting presence. Before he knew it, they’d finished rounds and were given half an hour to themselves before afternoon lectures.

John met Marcus and Weichmann in front of the hospital for their daily run to the French Quarter for gumbo. He didn’t care what happened to Abigail Neal. Weichmann caught him looking over his shoulder as the three of them dodged through the midday traffic on Rue Baronne.

“She stayed to talk to Professor.” Weichmann grinned.

“Who?” John quickened his pace.

“The girl. The
pretty
girl. You’d better guard your spot as the favorite.”

Marcus snorted. “Prof ain’t the susceptible sort.” He dug his elbow into John’s ribs. “Unlike some people.”

“Shut up, Girard,” John muttered automatically. He glanced at Weichmann. “I’ve got more important things to worry about than a street tart with a penchant for voyeurism.”

Weichmann shook his head. “Smartest street tart
I’ve
ever run across.”

“Citing your broad experience,” John said with a quelling frown. “Let’s talk about something more interesting—ingrown toenails, for example.”

Girard exchanged delighted glances with Weichmann. “Braddock’s got his drawers in a twist because the lady’s
got better hands than he has. Fifty says she’ll give him a private lesson in deep palpation before the end of the term.”

John grabbed Marcus by the shoulder and whirled him around, heedless of the milling crowd on the street corner. “If I hear you speak of her that way again,” he said through his teeth, “I’ll take your head off.”

Girard’s mouth fell open. “You called her a street tart!”

“I was mistaken.”

Girard swallowed. “Weichmann, Braddock just admitted he was wrong. Look for the four horses of the Apocalypse.”

Suddenly aware of just how foolish he had made himself, John laughed and let go of Girard’s shoulder. “Best hope not. By all accounts, I doubt any of the three of us are ready.”

A
fter the hospital rounds, Abigail was not allowed to accompany the men to the medical college for lectures; she was not a tuition-paying student, of course, and even if she were, women were not allowed into the hallowed halls of the medical college.

The decision to stay created complications. The fear of being found out never left for one moment, and of course she would be giving up the job in the sail loft. Although she would eventually have to go back for her few belongings, the opportunity to learn medicine under the tutelage of a man of Dr. Laniere’s stature was too good to pass up.

So she agreed and presented herself to Camilla Laniere, who found other chores requiring Abigail’s attention: trapping and disposing of a mouse determined to build a nest in the clinic medicine chest, folding piles of linens and alphabetically organizing the contents of the pharmacy. Every so often she would run upstairs or return to the clinic to check on her patients.

But by mid-afternoon, Tess, far from lying in bed where
she should be, insisted she was well enough to go home and back to work.

“You aren’t well enough to go back.” Abigail held Tess by the shoulders to keep her in her chair, looking to Camilla for support. “Besides, we need you here in the clinic.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to be up and around a bit.” Camilla stood in the clinic doorway with Meg in her arms. “But I wish you wouldn’t try to do too much too soon. Your fever only began to come down last night.”

Tess looked down, pleating the black skirt Winona had lent her. “It’s too hard. I can’t watch the children…”

Abigail knelt and took her friend’s restless hands. “Tess—”

“And I’m no good with nursing. Sewing is all I know how to do.”

With a smile, Camilla glanced at the pile of darning in her workbasket on the table. “There’s plenty of that around here. I could truly use your help.”

Tess got up and moved to the window. Pressing her hands against the glass, she watched a fine carriage rattle down the brick side street. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Laniere, but I simply don’t belong here.” She turned her head and met Abigail’s eyes. “You don’t either. You should go back with me.”

Stung, Abigail got to her feet. “If you insist on leaving, I can’t stop you, but I’m going to stay here as long as they’ll let me. I’ll go back to the District when I’ve learned enough to make a difference—”

“Make a difference?” Tess turned her back on the sunny window. “People are going to do what they’re going to do. So what if you save a few lives? Save them for what? More poverty and prejudice and hopelessness?”

Camilla took a step toward her. “My dear—”

“And you—with your beautiful dresses and fine house and handsome husband. What do you know about where we came from? What do you care?” Tess’s face was white. “I used to be just like you—” She pressed her fingers to her lips.

This was more than Abigail had learned about Tess in the six months she’d known her. She reached for her friend.

Tess shook her head hard. “Let me go, Abby.” She looked at Camilla. “I’m sorry to have insulted you, ma’am. You didn’t make my choices for me. But you can’t undo the consequences, either.” A small, bitter smile curved her lips. “There’s much truth in what the Bible says about that.”

“There’s
all
truth in the Bible, although you’re missing the healing parts.” Camilla’s deep sigh blew Meg’s fine curls. “As Abigail said, we can’t hold you here. But remember, you’re always welcome to come back.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Tess hesitated, then rushed to kiss Abigail’s cheek. “Goodbye, Abigail. You’ve been a good friend.”

Before Abigail could blink, Tess was gone. She stood there, tears escaping in a messy flood. Helplessly she looked at Camilla. “What can I do?”

Camilla’s soft, heart-shaped face was tight with emotion. “Pray that God will deal with her.”

“You heard what she said! God doesn’t help those who don’t believe in Him.”

“Is that what you think?” Camilla’s smile suddenly lit her face. “Oh, my dear. You do indeed have a lot to learn.”

Later that night Abigail turned the page of the textbook she’d been studying, setting the candle flame aflutter. Camilla had firmly adjured her to get a good night’s sleep, placed the candle in her hand, and sent her up to her new attic bedroom.

After Tess’s departure, the day had been a long one. To keep her mind off worrying about her stubborn friend, she’d catalogued in her neat script the clinic’s medicines in a book Camilla gave her, separately noting all the names she didn’t recognize. After supper she presented the list to Dr. Laniere, who smiled and went to his library for the book now lying across her lap.

Resisting the urge to rub her stinging eyes, she adjusted the pillow behind her back. Sleep beckoned, but she had to know about the anesthesia to be used on that poor woman in the hospital. Maybe, armed with information, Abigail could return in the morning before the surgery and allay some of the woman’s fear.

Here it was. Ether, a flammable gas with a distinctive, sticky-sweet odor. Side effects could include postanesthetic headaches, nausea and vomiting. But it had been found to be more effective than chloroform as an anesthetic during surgery.

Abigail frowned. The side effects sounded almost as unpleasant as the disease. She set the book aside, blew out the candle and settled under the fresh sheet with which she’d made up her bed. The Chinese women she’d tended who had died of internal infections—some of which she suspected were gallbladder related—could undoubtedly have been saved if this relatively simple surgery had been performed. If only she’d known how. If only she could watch and learn.

She pictured John Braddock’s face that morning as he’d realized she could perform an examination every bit as thorough and skillful as he could. Smiling, she fell asleep.

Miss Charlemagne let John in without a cross word about the earliness of the hour and he took off his hat and
stared at her in surprise. He’d left his curtain open so the rising sun would wake him early. Filching a biscuit from Clem’s gigantic bread box, he’d let himself out, saddled Belladonna and made it to the hospital before the church bells chimed six.

Faintly smiling, Miss Charlemagne gestured toward the spartan little room off the entryway, furnished for the use of doctors in consultation with patients’ families. “Miss Neal struck up a conversation with Crutch, so I sent them into the parlor to keep the noise down.”

“Miss Neal?” He frowned. “She’s here already?”

The smile slid perilously close to a smirk as she patted his arm. “You’ve quite the task to keep up, don’t you? Call me if you need me.”

Juggling a confusing mixture of irritation and anticipation, John headed for the parlor. He stopped in the doorway, trying to decide whether to laugh or call the watch.

Abigail and the hospital handyman faced each other in the two wing chairs, knee to knee. Crutch had removed his jacket and sat in his shirtsleeves, still and rapt, as Abigail listened to his chest with Professor Laniere’s spare stethoscope.

John folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “How industrious of you, Miss Neal, I must say.”

Abigail jumped, dropping the bell of the stethoscope, and turned. “John—Mr. Braddock! You frightened me.”

“My sincere apologies.” He bowed. “Perhaps in future I should announce my presence with a ram’s horn.”

“A simple knock on the door would suffice.” Her hand fluttered to her hair as she removed the stethoscope from her ears, a self-conscious little gesture that softened his inclination to tweak her. “I thought I’d have time to look around and talk to any of the patients who might be awake.”
She hesitated. “Everyone’s asleep, so I persuaded Mr. Crutch to let me practice auscultation upon him.”

“I trust you found nothing out of order.” John nodded at Crutch. He was a good man, if a bit simple.

The elderly handyman jumped to his feet, proudly thumping his chest. “Lady says I’m right healthy. The old ticker’s strong as a mule.”

“I’m very happy to hear that.”

Abigail rose, clutching the bell of the stethoscope in one hand, her skirt in the other. “Mr. Crutch, I apologize for interrupting your morning routine,” she said evenly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Don’t mention it, miss.” Crutch shuffled into the entryway and looked over his shoulder at Abigail. “Mayhap you’ll want to check the young doc here’s chest. There’s some say he ain’t got no ticker at all.” With a sly grin he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Resisting the urge to protest such nonsense, John turned the ladder-backed desk chair around and straddled it, folding his arms along its back. Abigail’s patent discomfort at being alone in the small room with him was almost comical. She edged behind the wing chair she’d vacated, as if to place as much distance between them as possible.

He rested his chin on his forearms and looked up at her in amusement. “What do you think, Miss Neal? Is there a hole in my barbarian chest cavity?” When she gasped, he laughed. “Camilla told me what you said. Although how you can equate the desire to ease a patient’s pain with lack of civilizing manners is beyond my understanding.”

She fingered the modest frill of lace at her collar. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with anesthetizing before
surgery. I studied everything I could find on the subject last night.”

He studied the purple shadows beneath her fine green eyes. “Perhaps
all
night?”

She moistened her lips. “I got plenty of rest, though I thank you for your concern.”

He
was
concerned, although it galled him to admit it even to himself. “You must have arrived before the sun rose. Did you walk all the way here by yourself? Next time, let me know and I’ll come round to get you.”

“Thank you, but…as it happens, I rode in to the hospital this morning with Dr. Laniere.”

“Where is Prof?” John looked over his shoulder. Wouldn’t do to get caught sitting idle.

“He’s upstairs with paperwork.” There was a long moment’s silence during which Abigail avoided John’s gaze. Finally she huffed a little sigh. “Why are
you
here so early, Mr. Braddock? Making sure you don’t fall out of favor again?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But my rotation is with Dr. Girard today.”

“Dr. Girard?”

“Marcus’s father. Chemistry and clinical medicine. He’s less exacting than Prof in some ways, but considerably more volatile of temperament.”

“Indeed.” Abigail grinned. “I should think that would make you friends.”

He frowned. “I’m not volatile.”

She tipped her head.

“I’m not. In fact, I’m going to be magnanimous to the point of offering my body on the altar of science.” He thought of Marcus’s remarks about palpation and felt his
cheeks heat. “I mean, perhaps you’d like to listen to my chest and lungs to see if there’s indeed anything missing.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She stayed behind the wing chair, looking as if she didn’t quite trust him.

He could hardly blame her. But he shrugged out of his jacket and began to unbutton his vest. “Come, Abigail, missishness will get you nowhere in our profession.” He leaned forward across the back of his chair. “You start by telling me to take a deep breath.”

She glanced at the open doorway, biting her lips together. Then, squaring her shoulders, she put the stethoscope’s earpieces in her ears and approached him. She hovered beside him, a foot or so away. Finally she laid her hand on his shoulder and pressed the steth bell between his shoulder blades. “Take a deep breath.”

Involuntarily he sucked in a breath, jerking at her touch, modest and impersonal but warm through the linen of his shirt.

“Thank you. Now out.”

He forced himself to release his breath slowly. There was a very good reason women should not be allowed to treat men. She moved the bell to a position just above his left kidney. He breathed again, in and out.

“Your lungs are quite healthy,” she said. “But I’m detecting an alarming acceleration of the pulse.”

John looked up at her and found the green eyes brimming with laughter. He sat up straight as she stepped back, removing that warm hand from his shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like to listen to my chest.”

“Some other time, Mr. Braddock. Your fellow students will arrive soon and I wouldn’t want you to risk a reprimand from your irascible professor.”

He regarded her narrowly as he reached for his outer clothing. “Will you be joining us for rounds?”

“I’m afraid not. Dr. Laniere wants others to train me in some of the less complicated nursing duties this morning. But he says I may watch the gallbladder surgery. So I’ll see you in the operating theater at nine.”

“Very well.” He rose, buttoning his vest. “I wish you a successful morning, then. Until we meet again.” He bowed and exited the room, resisting the urge to see if she followed. Abigail Neal was proving to be a most unsettling addition to the hospital staff. In the presence of such a lovely, off-limits young woman, no wonder his pulse rate refused to remain normal.

Even for such a relatively simple procedure as the removal of a gallbladder, the surgical amphitheater was crowded with students, doctors and interested citizenry—all men. Dr. Laniere had planted Abigail in a corner seat—she could still hardly comprehend his courtesy and generosity—and repaired to a scrub room to prepare himself for the operation. As the room filled, loud male conversation echoed off the vaulted ceiling and marble panels set between the huge windows, but the seat beside her remained empty. Apparently no one wanted to contaminate himself by proximity to the brazen hussy in the ugly dress.