I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I’m assuming he’s going to dive face-first into an interrogation on the subject of why exactly I have made my bedraggled appearance on their doorstep begging for shelter. But instead he says, “Thank you for the paper you sent.”
I was so prepared to make protestations that my surprise visit to London is not a sign of an impending crisis that I turn a bit too hard into this subject. “Wasn’t it fascinating? I mean, it’s annoying that he calls it Saint Valentine’s Malady the whole bleeding paper, but it’s brilliant how many physicians are advocating alternatives to bloodlettings and surgeries. Particularly for a disease like epilepsy where we still don’t have much of a real idea where it originates. And his footnote about the unlikeliness of epilepsy having any relation to illicit sexual desires was gratifying—that isn’t often acknowledged. But the whole idea of a consistent preventative dose of pharmaceuticals rather than treating in a moment of crisis—preventative rather than prescriptive—for a chronic illness that doesn’t manifest every . . .” I trail off. I can tell Percy is struggling to follow so many words spouted so quickly and with so much vigor. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“Don’t be sorry. I wish I had something intelligent to offer in return. Maybe when I’m a bit more . . .” He waves a hand vaguely to indicate his current invalidity.
“Have you tried anything suggested? He makes a good case for quinine.”
“Not yet. We don’t have the money right now. But the Royal Academy of Music here in London will be looking for violinists in the fall, and one of the lads in my quartet is a student of Bononcini and said he’d introduce me—I’m hoping something will come of that.” He leans back against the headboard as he studies me, legs curling into his chest so that his toes are no longer hanging off the end of the bed. “Are you all right?”
“Me? Yes, of course.”
“Because we are very happy to see you, but your arrival seems rather . . . unplanned. Which would cause a concerned party to wonder if you had left Edinburgh in some kind of distress.”
“It would give cause, wouldn’t it?” I hope my casual tone might stall him, but he goes on staring at me, and I sigh, my posture sinking into a very unladylike slouch. “Mr. Doyle—the baker, you know, the one I work for.” Percy nods, and I continue with great reluctance. “He has expressed an interest in someday making a proposal of marriage to me.”
I expected some fantastic start, the same sort of surprise that struck me when Callum made the actual ask, but Percy’s face hardly changes. “How very clinical.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Should I be? Were you?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“Because of everything you wrote about him! Unmarried gentlemen don’t pay young ladies that sort of attention unless they have long-term plans. Though I suppose you Montagues are first-rate at not noticing when someone is smitten with you.” He might mean for it to make me laugh, but instead I take a strong interest in picking at the pills of wool on my skirt where my rucksack rubbed. “You don’t sound very excited.”
“Well, considering that after he asked me, I immediately booked a carriage here and wrote to Saint Bartholomew’s about an appointment with the hospital governors’ board, I can’t say that I am.”
“I thought you liked Callum.”
These woolly little bastards are really clinging. I catch the ragged edge of my thumbnail in the grain of the material and pull up a loop of thread. “I do. He’s kind, and he makes me laugh—sometimes, if the joke is clever—and he works very hard. But I like a lot of people. I like you—doesn’t mean I want to marry you.”
“Thank God, because I’m spoken for.”
I’m resisting the urge to fall face-forward into the bed—I would have been more likely to indulge had I not been concerned that the mattress would offer no give and I’d be left with a broken nose. “Callum is sweet. And he’s helped me. But he thinks he’s saving me from all my ambition when really I can’t see any future scenario where I come to be as interested in Callum as I am in medicine. Or interested in anyone that much. Or interested in doing anything other than studying medicine.” I release a long breath, fluttering the fine hairs escaping my plait. “But I could do much worse than a kind baker who owns a shop and worships me.”
“In my experience, it’s less gratifying for both parties if that worship is single-sided.” Percy rubs a hand over his face. I can tell he’s getting drowsy, and I think he might beg to retire, but instead he says, “Not to abandon this subject entirely, but can we return to something for a moment? What was that about the Saint Bart’s Hospital board?”
“Oh.” The subject inspires in me an entirely different sort of anxiety than talking about Callum. “I requested an appointment with the hospital governors.”
“To be admitted as . . . a patient?”
“No. To make a petition to study medicine there. Though they don’t know that’s what I want to talk to them about. I may have implied the meeting would be to discuss a financial donation I wanted to make to the hospital.” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip. It sounds far worse when I say it aloud. Particularly to Saint Percy. “Should I not have done that?”
He shrugs. “You could have picked a less dramatically different reason. They’re all going to wrench their necks from the shift in topic.”
“It was the only way I could be sure they’d see me. Nowhere in Edinburgh will have me as a student—not any of the hospitals or the private physicians or teachers. I’d have to leave eventually if I want schooling and a license.” I let my head fall forward so that it’s resting against the headboard of the bed. “I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”
“To study medicine?”
Yes, I think, but also to be a woman alone in the world. My character was forged by independence and self-sufficiency in the face of loneliness, so I assumed the tools for survival were already in my kit, it was just a matter of learning to use them. But not only do I not have the tools, I have no plans and no supplies and seem to be working in a different medium entirely. And, because I’m a woman, I’m forced to do it all with my hands tied behind my back.
Percy shifts his weight and flinches, a shudder running up his arm and twisting his shoulder. I sit up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sore. I’m always so sore after a fit.”
“Did you fall?”
“No, I was asleep when it happened. In bed. Maybe I wasn’t asleep.” He presses the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t remember. Sorry, I was feeling awake but I’m getting fuzzy again, and I can’t remember the last thing we talked about.”
“You should sleep.”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” I stand up, smoothing out my skirt where it’s gotten rucked up over my knees. “I am more than capable of entertaining myself. Do you need anything?”
“I’m all right.” He burrows down into the blankets, the bed frame letting out an ominous creak. The weight of the day settles through me: exposed to the freezing winds as I rode the imperial of the coach down from Scotland, reeking of the horses relieving themselves and the man next to me asking again and again for my name, where I live, why won’t I smile? I’m weary, and cold, and Percy is a soft place to land.