by Martha Hix
“Sorry, sir.” Emma emptied a tray of used bandages into a bin and turned to face her mentor.
“May we have a moment of private conversation?” He gestured to the side. “Perhaps in that anteroom over there?”
She followed him to an austere room with white walls and wooden chairs.
“I’m pleased with your progress, Emma,” Dr. Boulogne commented; of late he had begun to use her given name. “You have a deft hand with the patients.”
She murmured her appreciation of his comment. Though he still categorized her as a nurse, Boulogne had given her tasks far beyond even an apprentice’s expectations. Normally a physician in training could expect to do no more than mix medicines, observe the master, and sweep floors. Over the past weeks, however, Emma had set bones, treated burns, prescribed materia medica for various ailments, and on two odious occasions she had participated in bloodletting, which she preferred not to think about.
She forced a smile. “Doctor, you haven’t yet allowed me to do more than observe in surgery. And I’m growing impatient over your lack of faith in my abilities. I really believe it’s time.”
“An ambitious femme you are.” His face stern, Boulogne folded his arms across his chest. “It is folly, this way of yours.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A nurse should not chide the physician.” He walked to the window and stared out. “There are your high-reaching demands, and you have fussed at me, about washing my hands with disinfectant.”
Emma made no apology. “I meant no offense, Doctor. But I’ve read much on the matter. This new method kills the germs we see under the microscope, and that has to be good for our—I mean your—patients. It keeps infections from being spread from one sick person to another.”
“But you question my wisdom about the leeches!”
“I fail to see how draining blood heals a weakened body.”
He chuckled. “D’accord. For a long while, this theory I have questioned. I will give up the practice.”
Emma sighed in relief. No more would she punish a patient with bloodletting. And never again would she have to place her hand in a crock of wiggling, slime-coated worms. She was blessed with a stomach of iron, but she did have her weaknesses.
“How long have you studied medical books?” Boulogne asked.
“Even as a child I was interested in my father’s work, and I mastered Latin then. But hard study? Going on four years.”
He ran his fingers across the top of a chair. “That is longer than courses of study at medical schools.”
She studied his profile. He was baiting her with something, and Emma had to know what. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Dr. Boulogne?”
“As of today you are not my nurse,” he said sternly.
Was he letting her go because she had questioned his methods of treatment? Disappointment edging each syllable, she said, “I’m sorry I’ve displeased you. Please give me another chance.”
“Displeased me? Not so, Emma. As of today you are my apprentice.”
Squealing her delight, she threw her arms around him. “You won’t be sorry. I promise you! This is the most wonderful day of my life!”
Scarlet flames shot from his cheeks, and he pulled Emma’s arms from his neck and stepped back. “You would cause a scandal on your first day as a physician? Shame on you, Dr. Oliver.”
Dr. Oliver! Oh how wonderful it sounded. Grinning, she raised her chin. “Decorum will be my byword.”
“But warn you I must. Medicine is a difficult profession, one fraught with long hours and many battles sans reward. None but an imbécile accepts the situation.”
“None but the dedicated,” she corrected, now solemn. “I intend to be the very finest physician in America . . . after you of course.”
He winked a blue eye. “You flatter me, Madame Docteur.”
Madame Docteur. Paul had called her that. When she had attended to his wounds, he had shown faith in her, had encouraged her. Oh, why did he have to be so difficult in other matters?
“And now,” Boulogne said, “we must return to our duties.”
Emma brushed a stray lock of hair away from her temple. “The little girl . . . Surgery is hardest to deal with when it involves a child.”
“A good physician cannot allow sentiment to impede his, er, her healing powers.”
Facing him squarely, Emma said, “I understand that personal involvement is dangerous to a doctor’s emotional well-being, but too many physicians are callous about the feelings of their patients. I make no apology for wanting to be different.”
“That is your prerogative, but leave sentiment at the door of an operating chamber, you must.”
“Did I go weak when I stood by during the amputations?”
“No, you didn’t. And do not be defensive. This is a discussion I would have with any new doctor.” He glanced her way. “Especially on the day he . . . or she . . . first assists in surgery.”
Ready for the challenge, Emma’s heart skipped a beat. “Your confidence isn’t misplaced.”
“Bon.” He turned on his heel, making for the door. “Now we must save the life of a twelve-year-old girl.”
Emma gave thought to the patient. Myrtle Ann Murray had been pulled by a fisherman from the jaws of an alligator. Huge chunks had been eaten from her right calf and knee. The wounds had turned gangrenous, and if the limb was not removed promptly, death was certain to follow.
As they walked toward the operating chamber, Dr. Boulogne went on to explain the procedures Emma was to perform.
“Doctor, there’s something else. . . .”
He threw his hands upward. “Who might I ask is the teacher, and who the apprentice? Answer not. I fear your reply.”
Swallowing a smirk, Emma smiled fetchingly, she hoped. “I, uh, I’ve done some experimenting on induced somnambulism.”
“Oh?”
Thankfully he hadn’t exploded in rage, as her father had. She took that as a good omen. “I’d like to use sulfurous ether to ease Myrtle Ann’s discomfort.”
“Where do you get such an idea?”
“I have two older brothers, both students of medicine. Several months ago I was a guest at one of their socials. It got rather out of hand, you see, and my brother Brian brought out a vial of sulfurous ether.”
“A wicked young man he seems.”
“No, just curious. Anyway, he sniffed it and got rather giddy. Drunk, if you will. Then he fell and cut his hand . . . and he felt no pain.”
“A flesh wound has petit comparison to surgical shock.”
“Granted, but watching him set my mind to whirling. He’d only taken a couple of whiffs, so I asked myself what would happen if a larger dose was administered.” She paused. “As I mentioned, I did some experimenting.”
“On who?”
“When they were injured, my dogs and cats. I discovered that deep sleep can be induced by continuous inhalation of ether.” She added quickly, “While I tended their wounds they experienced not the slightest operative discomfort. I’ve used the method numerous times with no ill effects.”
“Animals are not people.”
“We’re all mammals. I believe we should ease Myrtle Ann’s discomfort by this method.”
“I trust your theories not!”
“Please, Dr. Boulogne—please! She’s so young and frightened.”
He brought his fingers to his lips and studied the floor, then raised his head. “No sulfurous ether is in this clinic.”
“Wrong. If you’ll pardon my presumption, I distilled some last night after you left for home.”
He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Too determined, you are, for your own good.”
“I don’t think so.” She straightened. “Will you allow me to use the ether?”
“No-o-o-o-o!” Myrtle Ann’s bloodcurdling scream resounded through the room when she caught sight of the surgeons. The child flailed her arms and writhed about, but her small body was held down by four h
usky attendants. “Mama! Want my mama.”
Emma carried the ether and its paraphernalia forward. “Shhh, little one,” she cooed while brushing Myrtle Ann’s brow. “Dr. Boulogne and I will make this so much easier.”
“How?”
“We’re going to help you go to sleep.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Emma explained the canister of ether and the gauze pad’s purposes. “And when you wake up, it will all be over.”
Her chest still heaving in fear, the girl eased back against the table.
Emma scrubbed up to her elbows with a disinfectant solution, and draped a tent across the girl’s abdomen. Afterward she repeated the washing procedure. Dr. Boulogne swabbed Myrtle Ann’s thigh with iodine, then washed his hands. They moved to the table. The attendants bore down on the girl to halt her movements.
“That won’t be necessary,” Emma said. “Step back.”
They did.
“Can you count to fifty?”
The child nodded, and was instructed to count backward from that number while Emma uncorked the ether. Hurriedly she pressed a square of gauze over the bottle opening, turning it upside down. The rotten-egg fumes burned Emma’s nostrils, so she held her head away from them as she placed the gauze over Myrtle Ann’s mouth and nose, and used a dropper to place more ether on it.
“Fifty, forty-nine,” came the girl’s muffled voice. “Forty-eight, foh-se . . . sis . . .” She wilted.
“We can proceed now, Doctor.”
Boulogne looked at Emma in amazement before collecting a scalpel from the tray of instruments. With the speed of lightning, he set to his skill, and fifteen minutes later, he raised his eyes to Emma. “Close.”
Emma abandoned the dropper and ether to take up the needle that had been threaded from a skein of thin, iodine-soaked catgut. Deft fingers sutured fifty-three blood vessels at the girl’s upper thigh.
Boulogne, working with No. 3 catgut, closed the incision at the base of the stub. Finished, he checked Myrtle Ann’s pulse. “Make it, she will.”
As the doctors wiped their blood-stained hands, the assistants, who had stood back during surgery, bore the child away.
Emma cleared the door and wilted against the jamb. “Saints be praised.”
“Mais non. Dr. Oliver be praised.” Chuckling, Boulogne shook his mop of strawberry-blond hair. “I believe that you, not I, will be the—how did you say it?—the best doctor in America.”
She shot him a satisfied grin, then pranced away, calling over her shoulder, “You said it, I didn’t.”
Six hours later, seated in the drawing room of term of endearment. She cringed at Franklin!
“What an interesting endearment, ‘Kitten.’” Again Paul lifted a glass of sherry to his now-arrogant lips. “I’d be fascinated to know how you arrived at such a name for Mademoiselle Oliver.”
“Because of her green eyes. Aren’t they lovely?”
“Quite so.” Paul easily extended a black-booted foot on the Oriental rug. “Enough to make a man suffer and suffer. But a young cat’s? No, they put me in mind of a tigress’s.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“That’s enough!” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “It isn’t decent to discuss me as if I weren’t in the room.”
“Oh, I’m sure neither gentleman meant disrespect, Emma dear,” Marian put in. She smoothed the skirt of her mourning frock. “Isn’t it a shame Tillie has such a terrible headache tonight?” She received no reply. “Howard, would you excuse me? I’d like to check on dinner? It is getting late, and I’ll just bet Mr. Underwood enjoys crab.”
Evidently Marian had sensed the unease. Emma was glad for the switch in tempo, but she held her breath, hoping that Franklin, who eschewed seafood, wouldn’t complain about the crab.
“Good of you, my dear.” Howard helped his fiancée from the chair, then turned his eyes on Franklin. “I understand you’re interested in sculpture, Mr. Underwood.”
“Quite so. Mother and I toured Europe last year, and we—”
“Well, do come along, my good man. I’ve some interesting marble to show you.”
“Marvelous!” Franklin jumped to his feet. “Join us, Kitten?”
“I . . . I—”
“Mademoiselle Oliver looks as if she could use another sherry.” Paul winked her way. “I’ll do the honors, so you gentlemen may just enjoy yourselves.”
At any other time Emma would have protested, but the thought of walking at Franklin’s side called for another aperitif. Still, she hated to give Paul the pleasure of winning so easily. “Thank you, Mr. Rousseau.”
Howard closed the French doors after he and the other two departed, leaving Emma alone with Paul. She clenched her fingers on her lap while he poured a glass of sherry and walked over to her. Instead of handing it over, he eased onto the middle of the sofa and took a sip.
“I thought that was for me,” she said.
“It is.” Paul scooted closer to hold the glass to her lips. “Have a sip, m’amoureuse, unless you’re frightened—”
“I’m frightened of nothing.”
“Then why are you hugging the arm of this sofa?”
Emma snatched the drink, downed it, and pressed her thigh against his. “Satisfied?”
“Not . . . quite.” Paul lifted her chin with the edge of his forefinger. “I hope that fool doesn’t expect to get you back. He’ll be in for a disappointment. You’re mine.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to set him straight about Franklin, yet she didn’t. Let him think whatever he pleased. She smothered a grin. He was jealous! She delighted in it. Paul Rousseau had been so sure of himself and of her after he had turned Howard’s Garden District home, Emma would have gladly renounced the Hippocratic oath so she could murder Uncle Rankin. Having just returned from his trip, and before she could speak to him privately about Paul, he had used Aunt Tillie’s malady as an excuse to renege on dinner. If he hadn’t, Emma felt certain he’d bring the man she wanted to hate to his knees, or at least get her out of this uncomfortable situation.
She stared at the blackguard Paul Rousseau. His frame dwarfing the high-backed Chippendale arm chair, he met her scowl and smiled. After she had warned him not to pit the O’Reillys against the Olivers, that despicable fire-starter had a lot of nerve flaunting himself in Howard’s home!
Though she had this thought, Emma hadn’t forgotten the feel of Paul’s hair beneath her fingertips, the taste of his lips, or the sound of his slightly Gallic-flavored voice. But why, tonight of all nights, did he have to reappear in her life?
“Sailing here was horrendous. I had a deathly case of seasickness,” Franklin Underwood admitted in his high-pitched voice. “But it was worth it. It’s wonderful being with Emma.”
Emma stole a glance at her former intended, whose pale face was framed by overlong hair and the ruffles at his collar. He had arrived on Magnolia Hall’s doorstep late that afternoon, and her good manners had not allowed her to turn him away.
She had been worn to a frazzle from her day at the hospital, and her guard had been down. Now she regretted the Southern upbringing that had prompted her to invite Franklin to escort her to dinner.
Howard didn’t appear too pleased by Underwood’s presence, either. Neither he nor Marian offered much in the way of conversation.
“Not much of a sailor, huh, Underwood?” Paul asked, curling his lip.
“Give me the good green earth, rain or shine, over the sea.”
Paul took a sip of sherry. “Planter, are you?”
“Why, no. I’m due to inherit a great deal of property from my father, but tobacco planting isn’t for me.”
“Then what do you do with your spare time?” Paul asked.
“Society keeps me busy—we have a marvelous set in Richmond.” Franklin fingered his cravat’s bow, subsequently scratching a thinly grown, brown sideburn. “And home is a comfort, too. Mother encouraged me, in my childhood, toward the classics and chamber music
, and I shall be forever in her debt.”
Emma ground her teeth together. She knew Franklin was a bore, but she had never before realized how boring he was. He had no purpose in life beyond the little world centered on himself. At least Paul was dedicated to the Texas Navy, and his conversation inspired more than yawns.
Taking a peek at Franklin’s outfit, then at Paul’s, she made comparisons. Paul eschewed the fripperies so many men favored; his clothing was tailored in clean lines, and his short, thick black curls just brushed his ears.
Franklin patted the area next to himself on the horsehair sofa. “Do come closer, Kitten.”
Staying put in the far corner, Emma cringed at the away from her heart and body that night in his room. This taste of sweet revenge went down smoothly and easily, like warm cider on a December evening. “Aren’t you modest?”
“No, intelligent.” His expression was worthy of an emperor’s. “And delighted to meet the worldly Franklin Underwood.”
“My, if you were a woman, I’d call you catty.”
“Did I strike a nerve?” Grinning, Paul ran his thumb over the rim of her glass. “If I were a woman, I’d be scared witless to have children by such a fool.”
“That’s a nasty thing to say.”
“Is it? Consider this. Do you want to be the mother to five or six little Underwood sons, all of them with leavened-dough faces and squeaking voices?”
“I’m sure I’d love my children no matter their appearance.”
“Don’t forget the begetting of those bundles from heaven.” Not having received the comeback he’d sought, Paul welded his gaze to hers. “What do you see in that weak-kneed Mama’s boy?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I’m making it my concern.”
Those whispered words melted through her reserve. How could she despise and adore him at the same moment? Yet it was so easy to forget his evil ways. She wished she understood what had driven him to criminal measures.
“You want me, too,” he murmured, “and I was a fool, a damn fool, for not making love to you that night at my hotel.”
“If memory serves me right, you didn’t because I was a virgin,” she reminded him, perhaps in too self-serving a manner. “I still am.”
