by Julia Quinn
“Well, no,” Georgie said, scooting out from under him so that she could lie on her side, head propped up on her hand. “Not really. But I heard a little bit of the lecture earlier today. It didn’t make much sense to me.”
“Today’s lecture wasn’t specifically about bloodletting,” he told her. “It was just mentioned at the end as a disruptor of circulation.”
She blinked a few times.
“Which was the topic. Circulation.”
Again, she said nothing. And then, as if she’d decided she’d heard his words and found them irrelevant, she said, “Right. Well, here is the problem. I don’t understand how, if men regularly bleed to death on battlefields, not to mention all the other people who bleed to death at other times, people think that the removal of blood from the body can be helpful.” She stared at him for a moment. “It’s clear that blood is necessary for survival.”
“Ah, but is all of our blood necessary for survival?”
“Ah, but wouldn’t you think that more is better?”
“Not necessarily. Too much fluid in the body is called edema, and it can be very dangerous.”
“Edema?”
“Swelling,” he explained.
“This is like that ecchymosis thing,” she said with a slight curl of her lip. “Doctor-speak so the rest of us don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You mean a bruise?” he asked innocently.
She swatted him on the shoulder.
“You’ll ecchymose me,” he pretended to whine.
“Is that a word?”
“Not even slightly.”
She chuckled, but then, ever tenacious, returned to the topic at hand. “You still haven’t said—why do you bleed patients?”
“It’s all about balance,” Nicholas said. “Of the humors.”
“Humors,” she repeated skeptically. “This is accepted scientific fact?”
“There are some competing theories,” Nicholas admitted. “And in some schools of thought bloodletting is falling out of favor. It depends a great deal on whether the physician is a devotee of heroic medicine or solidism.”
This, she seemed to find too much to accept. “Wait just a moment. Are you telling me that there is such a thing as heroic medicine?”
“Some would say all medicine is heroic,” Nicholas tried to joke.
“Stop that,” she said impatiently. “I want to hear more about this. It seems very self-congratulatory for a branch of science to label itself heroic.”
“I’m not entirely certain of the origin of the phrase,” Nicholas admitted. “It is also known as heroic depletion theory.”
“That’s not off-putting at all,” Georgie muttered.
“Likely why the more basic term has prevailed,” he replied.
“But what does it mean?”
“It follows the idea that good health is achieved when the body’s humors are in balance.” He explained further: “Black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood.”
“All liquids,” she observed.
“Precisely. Which is why the theory stands in contrast with solidism, which follows the idea that it is the solid parts of the body that are vital and susceptible to disease.”
She frowned. He’d noticed she did this when she was in deep thought. He’d also noticed that he found this fascinating. When Georgie thought deeply on something, her face was in constant motion. Her brow might dip, or her eyes would dart from side to side.
She was not a passive thinker, his wife.
Then something occurred to him. “Were you ever bled?” he asked her. “For your breathing illness?”
“Twice,” she told him.
“And did it work?”
She shrugged. “According to the doctor it did.”
Nicholas did not find this reply satisfying. “What was his criteria?”
“For success?”
He nodded.
She looked at him frankly. “I’m not dead.”
“Oh, for heav—”
Georgie cut him off with a shake of her head. “According to my mother, that is the ultimate proof of cure.”
Nicholas smiled, although he didn’t really think this was funny.
“But,” Georgie continued, “I don’t think that the bloodletting had anything to do with my getting better. If anything, it made me feel worse. It was exhausting. And it hurt.”
“The exhaustion is to be expected. The body must work to produce new, healthier blood.”
“—that is more in balance with the other three humors,” she finished.
“That is the thought.”
She frowned, and an odd, growly sound came from the back of her throat. She was impatient, he realized.
“How do we know I wouldn’t have improved without the bloodletting?” she asked. “How do we know I wouldn’t have improved faster?”
“We don’t,” he admitted.
Georgie’s eyes met his and then held them in a piercingly direct manner. “Would you have bled me under the circumstances?”
“I can’t answer that,” he said. “I don’t know all the circumstances. I don’t know how labored your breathing was. Was it shallow, rapid? Did you have a fever? Muscle aches? Rigidity in your spleen?”
He paused for a moment, even though his questions were largely rhetorical. “It is dangerous to dispense medical advice when one does not have all the facts at hand.”
“I’m not sure the doctor had all the facts at hand,” Georgie muttered.
“He certainly had more than I do.”
She dismissed this with a little snort. “But think about it,” she said. “The difficulty was in my breathing. Whatever was wrong with me, it was in my lungs, not my veins.”
“Everything is connected,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. Hard. “You keep answering with platitudes that don’t explain anything.”
“Sadly, medicine is as much an art as a science.”
She wagged her finger at him. “Another platitude.”
“I didn’t mean it as such,” he said. “I swear. I wish we had more proof to guide our practices. I truly do. And I’m not sure I would choose to bleed a patient who was having difficulty breathing. At least not as a first measure.”
“But when someone is having difficulty breathing,” she said quietly, “there may not be time for a second measure.”
A cold shiver passed through Nicholas, the kind one didn’t feel so much as sense. He had never witnessed one of Georgie’s breathing attacks. He’d heard about them over the years, though. He hadn’t given them a lot of thought—it always seemed he found out about them well after the fact, when it was clear that she’d come through with no lasting implications. So he had not realized just how serious they had been.
And besides that, he’d been young. And not medically minded. Certainly not thinking like a doctor.
“Georgie,” he said slowly, his thoughts coalescing as he spoke, “did your doctor ever suggest you might have asthma?”
“Oh yes, of course,” she replied, with a tone and expression that suggested she found his question somewhat silly.
“No, no,” Nicholas said. He had a feeling he understood her reaction. Many doctors—especially those who were not affiliated with a university and thus not as up-to-date on medical progress—used the word “asthma” to describe any sort of breathing malady. He explained this to her, then asked, “Did anyone ever use the term spasmodic or convulsive asthma?”
She thought for a moment, then gave an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know,” she said. “Not to me. Maybe to my parents.”
“It’s a very specific sort of breathing disorder,” Nicholas explained, “one that manifests itself differently in different people.”
“And this makes it difficult to diagnose?”
“Not that so much as difficult to treat. Different people seem to respond to different treatments. The good news is it is rarely fatal.”
“Rarely,” she echoed, her voice flat.
&n
bsp; “My late professor—he died just last year—wrote extensively on the subject.”
At that she smiled. “How fortuitous.”
“To be honest,” Nicholas said, “he wrote extensively on almost every topic of medicine. His major life’s work was the arrangement and classification of disease.”
“In a book?” Georgie asked. “I should like to read that.”
He regarded her with some surprise. “You would?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I already have done,” he answered. Dr. Cullen’s tome was required reading of every medical student at the University of Edinburgh. Nicholas knew that some of his classmates had skipped the sections they were not interested in, but he had tried his best to give his full attention to the entire work.
Which hadn’t always been easy. Synopsis Nosologiae Methodicae was, in a word, dense.
“Did you find it interesting?” Georgie asked.
“Of course. Well, most of it. I don’t know that there is any doctor who finds every aspect of medicine interesting.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I think I would enjoy reading it.”
“You probably would. Although you might like a different one of his texts better. It’s less about the classification of diseases and more about how to treat them.”
“Oh, yes, that does sound more interesting. Do you own this book?”
“I do.”
“Is it here or at Scotsby?”
Nicholas glanced at his overflowing bookshelf, and then tipped his head in its direction. “It’s right there.”
She twisted to look, not that she could have possibly known which book he was motioning to. “May I take it back with me? Or will you need it?”
He smiled. “Not between now and when I next see you.”
Her entire face lit with anticipation, and it occurred to Nicholas that she looked far more excited at the process of reading First Lines of the Practice of Physic than any medical student he’d ever seen, himself included.
“Thank you,” she said, before snuggling into the pillow with a sigh. “It will give me something to do while you’re gone.”
“Is it so very dull, then?”
One corner of her mouth turned down—not sad, but a little sheepish. “It shouldn’t be. I have so much to do. But at the same time it feels like there is nothing to do.”
“Nothing you want to do,” he said.
“Something like that.” She inched up a little on the pillow to look at him. “I want to set up our household. I think it will give me great joy. But that’s not Scotsby.”
“One more week,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.
She nodded, closing her eyes as she slouched back down into the pillow. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“As do I,” he murmured. Although it had to be said, his bed was uncomfortable enough with only him sleeping in it. If she spent the night, neither of them would get any sleep. And not for the reasons he’d like.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked. Her eyes were closed; she looked almost unbearably content.
Unbearable because he was going to have to rouse her from her position momentarily.
He reached over to his nightstand and checked his pocket watch. “We’re going to need to leave soon,” he said. “You’re due back at the carriage in half an hour.”
She let out a groan. “I don’t want to go.”
He chuckled, giving her a nudge.
“What if I remain here?” she asked, one eye popping open. “I will be quiet as a church mouse. You can bring me food, and I’ll read your medical texts, and—”
“—and Mrs. McGreevey will likely have heart failure the next time she comes in to clean my room.”
“She does that?”
“Every other day.”
Now Georgie looked panicked. “Every other—”
“Not today,” he cut in.
“Oh, thank goodness.” She sat up, regrettably pulling the bedsheet up with her. “I was only joking about staying here, you know. Well, mostly only joking.”
He chucked her under the chin. “It would make me far more eager to return in the evenings.”
She rose from the bed to dress, facing his bookshelf as she pulled on her frock. She’d need help with the buttons, and he wondered how he’d make himself do them up when all he wanted was to kiss the tender skin on the nape of her neck.
“Don’t forget to get the book for me,” she said, oblivious to his hungry stare. “I don’t know which one you mean.”
“It’s the green one, all the way to the left,” he said, “but I’ll get it for you.” It still seemed strange to him that she’d want to read it, except . . . when he actually thought of it, it wasn’t strange at all.
He’d never have thought that anyone not involved in medicine would wish to read such a thick text.
But not Georgie. For her, it made sense. Nicholas wondered if there were any medical schools that accepted women. He had a feeling his wife would be an excellent student.
They finished dressing and made it out of the boardinghouse undetected. It was a warm day for Edinburgh, and the stroll to the carriage was most pleasant. Nicholas had one arm looped through Georgie’s, and the other holding the thick textbook. They chattered about nothing of importance; they didn’t need to. The air was bright and warm, and they were so comfortable and happy to be in one another’s presence, that there was no urge to fill the silence with anything profound.
The carriage was waiting at the edge of Old Town, in a relatively quiet square. Jameson and the driver were sitting on the seat, sharing a loaf of bread, and it looked like Georgie’s maid was waiting inside.
“There you are,” the maid said, poking her head out when they approached. “It’s getting late.”
It wasn’t, but Nicholas saw no reason to point that out. He waited for Marian to go back into the carriage, and then gave Georgie a boost.
But when she ducked her head to enter, he did not release her hand.
“Nicholas?” she said, gazing down at him with an expression of gentle amusement.
He looked at her. At her face, which was so familiar to him. Or rather, it had been familiar. Somehow it had become new. Her eyes were the same, blue, merry, but not quite as bright as his own. Her nose—it was the same nose she’d always had. Same for her lips, and her hair, and every little thing about her, except . . .
She was new.
He was new.
They had just begun.
“I love you,” he said.
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“I love you.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “I just thought you should know.”
She looked about, her eyes not quite panicked, but maybe a little discombobulated, as if she were expecting someone to jump out at any moment and yell, “Surprise!”
“I love you, silly girl,” he said.
Her lips parted. “Silly?”
“For not believing me.”
“I—I believe you.”
“Good.” He smiled, waiting patiently for her reply.
She began to blink, and her mouth moved, just a little. She looked quickly over her shoulder at her maid; Nicholas wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was a reflex. But then she turned back and said, “You love me.”
“I do.”
“Well.” She swallowed. “I love you too.”
“I’m very happy to hear it.”
Her mouth fell open. “That’s what you say in response?”
“You said, What?” he reminded her.
“I was surprised.”
He gave a little shrug. “I wasn’t.”
She gasped. “You—”
“Ah ah ah,” he said, with a little step back to avoid the swat she had been about to land on his upper arm. “You don’t want to do that. You love me.”
Her eyes narrowed. It only made him laugh.
“You do,” he said. “You can’t take it back.”
“I can’t beli
eve you told me now,” she said.
He hopped up onto the carriage step, one hand grasping the edge of the roof for balance, the other wrapping around her waist.
“Nicholas?”
“I couldn’t wait,” he said.
She flushed, smiling, then whispered, “Are we making a scene?”
“Do you care?”
She shook her head. “Do you?”
“Not even a little bit.” He kissed her again. “But alas, I have to let you go. I don’t want you on the roads after nightfall.”
She nodded and he hopped down. “I’ll see you on Friday evening,” he said. “I’ll leave for Scotsby just as soon as my classes are over.”
Then he shut the carriage door, and watched it pull away. Damn, he was going to miss her.
Mr. McDiarmid had said they could occupy their new house at the end of next week.
Nicholas couldn’t wait.
Chapter 23
Two days later, Georgie was back in Edinburgh.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. Or rather, Nicholas wasn’t expecting her. The plan had been for him to ride to Scotsby that evening, but Georgie had received a message from Mr. McDiarmid that there were additional papers to sign regarding the lease of their new house. She supposed Nicholas could have just taken care of this the following week, but truthfully, she’d been looking for an excuse to go back to the city.
She had it all planned out: She would surprise him again outside of class, they could see Mr. McDiarmid so Nicholas could sign the papers, and then they would travel back to Scotsby together in the carriage. Surely that would be more comfortable for Nicholas than to ride the whole way.
Now that she knew her way around Edinburgh—at least enough to get herself to the lecture hall—she was able to convince Marian that she did not need her accompaniment. Jameson would be with her; the driver, too. Plus, Georgie was no longer an unmarried maiden. She did not need chaperonage every time she left the house.
Not to mention that with Marian at Scotsby, Georgie and Nicholas would have the carriage all to themselves for the long ride home.
Georgie might be new to marriage, but she was not stupid.
But first there was the ride to the city. Georgie had never had difficulty reading in carriages, so she brought the medical textbook Nicholas had given her to help pass the time.
