“Aye, first door on the right.”
“Am I allowed in?”
“He made a point of it, said you might look at his books.”
She quashed a small, pleased smile. His cooperation was a good sign, and beyond that, it made her feel welcome. Hopeful. Perhaps Mr. Lowell was only reading too much into that cooperation; in any other case a man being so amenable to a young woman would likely be read as affection.
“Thank you, Mr. Lowell. I think I’ll be fine from here, and I’ve kept you awhile now.”
“Not a problem, miss,” Mr. Lowell said, then inclined his head and went to a set of doors that she guessed led to the operating theater. The acrid smell increased for a moment as he opened one and slipped through it.
Jane looked at the hallway a moment longer. There were no portraits in the whole hall, and only one or two landscapes, right near the door and front sitting area. But there were some framed photographic prints of nebulous things. The daguerreotype closest to her appeared to be of a gnarled piece of wood. She frowned at it, puzzled, then made her way to his office.
The door stood open, and inside was a perfectly ordinary and clean room. Dr. Lawrence had a sizable desk that was in a much worse state than Mr. Cunningham’s, but beyond that, the room was spotless. There were two chairs across from the desk, as well as a large armchair by the far window, with a raised cushion to put one’s feet up onto. The walls were bare save for several bookshelves and cabinets behind the doctor’s desk.
Settling her reading glasses on her nose, Jane peered at the various drifts of paper, finding hastily scribbled notes with names in large script at the top right of each page. The cabinets, when opened, revealed row upon row of small folders, also all labeled with names, as well as a pad of preprinted paper. Ah. A look back at the desk showed a few leaves of that paper, with carefully written notes all in order, and the same name on top as a few of the closest note pages. He was transcribing the important notes into a neater system, she realized.
Quite clever, and helpful for her.
Before she could begin reading, however, some organization was called for. She set about tidying the piles and retrieving sheets that had fallen to the floor. She was reconsidering Mr. Lowell’s offer of tea when Dr. Lawrence cleared his throat from the office doorway.
“Dr. Lawrence.” She stood up from his desk, guilty as if she’d been caught peeping in his washroom. He didn’t look annoyed, however, as he entered the office and surveyed the stacks she’d made. He didn’t even look embarrassed.
“As you can see,” he said, “your skills would be much appreciated. Hypothetically speaking. If you are not too frightened by what you’ve found?”
“Hardly.” She squared her shoulders. “Where is your logbook? Of patient transactions?”
“I don’t have one,” he said.
She frowned at him.
He lifted his hands in defense. “I intend to have one. But as I only bill at the end of the year, I intend to reconstruct based on my notes.”
“That’s a great way to miss out on money that may already be difficult to collect,” she said. “Not only that, but you must need to replenish your supplies regularly—Mr. Cunningham has far fewer expenses, and he bills once every two months. I require that he keep a daily log of his work to make it simpler and more accurate. He balked at doing it by the minute, but a list of documents he creates, or procedures, in your case, is easy enough.”
He looked at her a moment, stunned into silence, then shook his head in wonder. “You really are skilled at this, aren’t you?”
“I have a lot of practice. I’m sure you understand that they’re different things.”
“Different, but often related.”
She flushed with pride, and began to pace to disguise it. “Do you at least keep a list of what medications you’ve prescribed?”
“In patient notes.”
“No, I mean an ordering list. How do you track inventory?”
He tapped his brow. “The age-old skill of eyeballing.”
“That won’t do at all.”
“Without somebody like you assisting, while all that work would be very helpful, it’s not particularly time-effective for me. I aim to survive and help others survive, Miss Shoringfield. That’s the extent of it.”
“Well, and now you have me.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them, and she firmed up her lips and straightened her shoulders to mask the sudden frisson of embarrassment that went through her. Too much.
Dr. Lawrence turned away, briefly tugging at his collar. “You’ve certainly convinced me to employ you,” he said. “But marrying—”
“Is essentially the same thing.”
“It certainly is not,” he said. “I’m not sure what kind of man you take me for, but I wouldn’t—a nurse in my employ—such intimacy—it’s insulting, Miss Shoringfield.” But he didn’t sound insulted. He sounded—
Flustered.
Frustrated.
He’d clearly been thinking about the implications of a marriage since last night’s talk. She should have been relieved that he’d come to the same conclusion—that intimacy was not appropriate or desirous—but instead she felt her own cheeks burning. Best to get this out of the way formally, though. She removed her glasses, rubbing them clean on her dress. “I suppose a marriage would need to be consummated, legally,” she conceded.
Dr. Lawrence choked, then turned back to stare at her incredulously. “You suppose,” he echoed.
“I am sure, though, that we can find a way to balance the statutory requirements with how we wish to conduct the marriage. But if you feel I misrepresented anything last night—”
She was interrupted by a sharp, loud banging on the front door, followed by the harried ringing of the bell and Mr. Lowell’s footsteps, fast and heavy, in the hallway. A muffled cry of pain from outside. The doctor’s troubled expression disappeared, his features blank and still save for the focused light in his eyes. He rolled up his sleeves.
“Miss Shoringfield,” he said, voice wholly transformed. “Please go into the operating room; leave both doors wide open. There are aprons and gowns in there. Have one ready for me.”
“I—”
The front door opened, and Jane could hear screaming.
“Now, Miss Shoringfield.”
CHAPTER THREE
JANE SPRANG INTO action, dashing across the hall to the operating theater. Mr. Lowell had left one door open, and she pulled the other one out of the way. She could hear a woman talking, fast, voice high-pitched in panic, as Jane looked around for the aprons. She found them on a coat stand out of the way, and pulled down one of them, then turned as the cacophony reached the doorway.
Mr. Lowell and another man were carrying the screaming patient, a heavy-boned, broad-shouldered laborer who was clutching his belly. “Get it out!” he cried. “Get it out, I didn’t mean it!” Blood pulsed from between his fingers, through the soaked fabric of his shirt, spattering on the floor.
Jane swayed on her feet, then clenched her jaw, determined to stay upright.
Behind the man an older woman clasped bloody hands around Dr. Lawrence’s forearm. “I heard him screaming from the woodshop,” she said. “He had the knife, he was cutting, I don’t know—”