Ecstasy Wears Emeralds

by Renee Bernard

  “Another lesson learned,” she said, unable to keep from smiling at the simple pleasure she felt when he looked at her with approval—but also recalling how she’d spent the night draped over textbooks.

  They reached the laboratory door, and Rowan opened it for her as gallantly as a man bringing her to a grand ball. “Since you’ve shown an interest in chemistry, let’s see if we can’t get you to begin assisting me with my compounding, Miss Renshaw.” He walked her over to the locked corner cabinet and the narrow worktable next to it. “Everything here must be clean and orderly. Everything taken must be returned to exactly the same place from where it came. One mistake with identical-looking powders and it’s all too easy to dispense a deadly dosage to the wrong patient. So take care that you clean every beaker as you see, and put every jar with its contents just so. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. It was daunting to think of the responsibility that came with the prescription of medicines. “Clean and orderly, yes, I understand.”

  He pulled down two black leather books with worn covers from atop the cabinet and set them down for her. “I keep all my combinations here, each annotated with ingredients and measurements as well as their sources.”

  “Their sources?” she asked.

  “Not every chemist is as reliable as another, and I like to keep a good eye on where I’ve acquired an ingredient so that if potency is lost or there is a change in a patient’s reaction, it may offer a clue.”

  “There’s so much to remember.”

  He smiled. “Which is why we write everything down. In this book with the green ribbon, I make sure I record which patient a medicine is intended for and in what dosage. Naturally, the same information is reflected in my working journal, but this book stays with the supplies so that I can see at a glance the pharmaceutical record for a specific drug and sometimes see a trend in treatments.”

  “A trend?”

  “Either to see that something is working or to catch myself in a tired routine if it isn’t and ensure that I’m not doing more harm than good.” He opened the book to a page so that she could see an example. “These formulas are extremely confidential and considered trade secrets, Miss Renshaw. I work closely with only one or two chemists to safeguard my efforts—and my patients’ privacy.”

  “I understand.”

  “If there should be a fire in the laboratory, you must see to it that you get out safely, of course; but if there are seconds where you can take something with you to preserve it, you’ll take these two books. Everything else, I can replace. But these . . .” He shook his head. “They’re the legacy of three generations of physicians and my own research.”

  “What are you researching, Dr. West?”

  “Heat.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m trying to understand the correlation between heat and disease. The worst diseases spring out of the tropical heat, do they not? But why? What is it in the nature of heat that inspires death to move more quickly? Is it sweat that transmits these fevers? Then how? The very nature of fever is in debate by some of my colleagues. Some see it as an outside force imposed on a person’s body that ravages and destroys, but others wonder if we are not built to create fevers as a ward and defense. Like a counterfire against the clutches of some unseen advocate. A dangerous defense, but one of last resort.”

  Defense against an unseen advocate. The words echoed in her head like some call to arms, and she found herself caught up in his passionate words. “But isn’t the fever the disease?”

  “Perhaps not, and wouldn’t that be a revolutionary thing to uncover?” He led her over to another table and pulled down weather maps and charts as he spoke. “But we want to understand why would a particular disease strike one place but not another? And what if the seasons have more to do with it than we suspect?”

  “It’s fascinating!”

  “I am studying the effect of temperature on the progress of various diseases. The Quakers swear to cold baths and chilled air to cool a person and slow disease’s progress. Others claim such an approach is suicide. We close windows and pile on blankets and press in as much heat as we can. But if heat is the adversary . . . Well, you can see the endless dilemma that I am hoping my work will help to resolve.”

  “That’s why you went to India!” Without realizing it, Gayle had imbued her opinion of his journey to India with that of her aunt—and at the moment, she felt her cheeks start to warm with shame. I have promised to form my own opinions and this seems a good place to start.

  “Yes, indeed. Cholera is said to have sprung from India, and there are other fevers inherent to other regions, that seem to spread without logic. Why are they deadlier abroad than their birthplaces? If the tropical heat is a source, wouldn’t a disease like cholera or typhoid lose its bite in the cold and damp of England?” He pulled down a large atlas and opened it to a worn page covered with worn pencil marks and faint notes. “This shows the progress of the Black Plague, at least, what we know of it. And again and again, I keep thinking that there is a pattern here, influenced by more than ships. There are seasons at play, and social tides that I’m probably too slow to see. But if I could see the pattern and grasp its meaning, who knows what monstrous disease could be avoided?”

  “And did you . . . learn a great deal in India, then? Were there answers there?”

  He shook his head, his expression growing sad. “The answers may still be there, but I learned very little due to a bit of bad luck and poor timing.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissing the pain of whatever memory she’d evoked with her questions. “Another man, another day will finish the journey, and I’d be a fool to complain. After all, I made it back in one piece. Now”—he walked over to the long table set directly against the glass wall—“I want to reset and clean all these containers so that we can begin a new batch of experiments. Some of the glass boxes we will heat and others will stay the temperature of the room and a third set, we’ll do our best to keep cool. With equal samples of bacteria in each to begin with, we’ll monitor the changes in each dish. As we compare the results, you must be extremely careful to record everything that you do so that we can write out our methods and brave the scrutiny and criticism of our colleagues.”

  It was all she could do to simply nod, almost speechless in her euphoria at the inclusion she felt. She was doing the work of a man, and it was a giddy sensation to be trusted and treated like an equal.

  He pulled forward a polished wooden box and opened it with a small key from his pocket. “Here is my microscope. See that you treat it with great care.” He set it up, showing her how to assemble the instrument for use. “The light is best here, but you’ll learn the nuances. I’ll leave my key in this drawer so that you can use it whenever you wish.”

  “It’s beautiful!” Gayle was almost breathless with awe at the small instrument.

  “Not many women would say so, but thank you. It’s a prized possession given to me by my father when I graduated from medical school. It’s from the finest maker in Germany and is crafted in German silver.” He unfolded a bit of felt with samples of feathers, leaves, and some shells. “It may seem silly, but practice looking at these objects with the different lenses. Give yourself the freedom to play and experiment and see what you can uncover. This is the immersion oil and you redirect the mirror below for the best light. See?”

  She leaned over, sighing in admiration over its construction. “It’s simply marvelous!”

  “After each use, you’ll oil these pieces to protect the brass and nickel fittings and wipe off the lenses and cases with this soft cloth to remove every fingerprint.” He stepped aside to allow her to explore it at her will. “I want you to be as familiar and comfortable with it as you are with a pocket watch.”

  “I will!” And with that, she leaned over the contraption to look into the scope and lost herself in a new world of hidden sights and details and endless possibilities.

  Gayle forgot everything and never even heard Rowan laugh a
s he left the room.

  Chapter 7

  “You have the handwriting of an angel.” He spoke without thinking as he glanced over the copy she’d transcribed of his notes from the previous week’s appointments and calls. He tried to be nonchalant as he set the leather-bound notebook aside. “Mrs. Evans swears she cannot read a word of my scrawl.”

  “Yours isn’t completely illegible.” She answered without moving, then finally glanced up from her work, and he immediately recognized the preoccupied expression that heralded a good question.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “According to this, women seem to be the origin of some diseases. Harboring them in our very anatomy as if we’re malignant beings somehow . . . But it doesn’t feel right. Or is it that I’m a woman and would instinctively be unhappy to learn such a thing?” She closed the book with an unhappy sigh. “I certainly don’t feel like a dangerous creature.”

  “You don’t see a correlation between the accusation of immorality in some women and disease?”

  “I see it, but I don’t see how it would only apply to women. Why would a woman’s state of grace or lack of one fester disease to infect her ‘pristine’ partner where his immorality and indulgences are not a factor? The writers assume that his participation is irrelevant, or that his superiority is intact until he comes into contact with a woman of ill repute.”

  “I agree that the truth is probably more balanced.”

  “Is this . . . one of those areas of knowledge I am not supposed to be familiar with?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  She did her best to look him squarely in the eye as she forged ahead. “So a man cannot spontaneously contract these diseases without being with . . . a woman of questionable virtue?”

  “That’s the general consensus.” Rowan responded as neutrally as he could. Here was a subject rife with political and social dangers, and he wasn’t sure which direction her mind was turning.

  “Oh,” she answered, a bit crestfallen as she absorbed the implications. “Dr. West, if that’s the case, then . . . Before a woman falls, she is idealized as pure and desirable as such. It never says in the books how a woman is changed by . . . I meant, is there any medical evidence of a physiological change besides the obvious after a woman succumbs?” She took a deep steadying breath. “Is there anything that science has shown to prove this slant that women spontaneously harbor disease after . . . losing their virginity?”

  “None.” Why do I feel like a man standing over hot coals? As her teacher, Rowan was doing his best to track the scholarly points of the conversation, but as a man, it was hard not to be distracted by the delightful changes in her coloring.

  “It’s wretched.” She pushed the book across the table, as if it offended her by proximity. “Women are viewed like separate creatures. As if we’re not as human or that just by being female we require a science and medicine apart from the rest of it.”

  He put his hand on the book and set it aside. “The physical differences are undeniable, but I agree with you as I don’t think women need to be shunted off into another category of study. You are very human.”

  “Then why is it that almost every condition women are said to suffer from is inherently tied to their reproductive organs or sexuality? Are we so singular in our natures? I don’t see the medical texts pointing incessantly to the male reproductive organs every time you get the hiccups or discussing having them removed!”

  He sighed. Damn, there was that keen mind again, tracking like a falcon, a mesmerizing thing to behold in motion. “It is a bit skewed, isn’t it?

  “Don’t you think they’ll have to decide? Either we’re too innocent to be aware of our own physiology, or we’re overly sexual and inherently dangerous creatures harboring the worst of diseases to prey on men? Don’t they have to choose? Can both of those views exist side by side?”

  “All good questions. I don’t . . .” He’d never discussed sexuality so openly with a woman before. With his patients, even if a woman were pregnant with her sixth child, it was a careful dance of euphemisms and outright avoidance. “These books are written by men, Miss Renshaw. Remember the first time I told you that this wasn’t a religion? It’s science. But like anything else in the world, it’s viewed through the filter of our beliefs. It’s difficult to set aside social perceptions, and they can get in the way of theory and fact. A man sees what he wants to see sometimes.”

  “And what do you see? When you look at me?”

  The question stirred his blood, ignoring the context of the conversation and causing a physical response that was unmistakable. Like hot, heavy sand, he could feel his flesh thickening, the taut tension building at the base of his spine all too pleasurable. But he did his best to ignore it. Rowan held his breath before carefully composing a civilized response. “You are definitely complicated and decidedly human, Miss Renshaw. And after this rattling discussion, I’m wondering if perhaps a female physician could break through all the wretched perceptions and work to protect her patients from all those misguided theories. Maybe you would help them to feel that they had an ally who understood . . . their plight.”

  She reached up to touch his upper arm, her fingers gripping the light wool of his morning coat. “Do you really think so?”

  And there it was—that bright, fierce light in her eyes that made him want to kiss her senseless or just laugh and waltz her around the room. Her dreams were spinning out in her head, and he could almost see them, they were so vibrant and powerful.

  And there he was—inspired by her intense hope and wishing he could shield her from the worst to come and give her whatever she needed to make her dreams come true.

  I’m helping her move closer to a soul-crushing heartache when every medical school in the country slams its doors in her face. How’s that for villainy?

  It was time to retreat.

  “I should be going.” He stepped back, burying his hands into the deep pockets of his morning coat to hide his agitation. “I have more illegible patient notes to get caught up with, and I wanted to do some research and reading downstairs in my study. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He bowed without waiting for her reply, and headed out the door with a single unhappy glance at the carving overhead.

  Veritas vos liberabit.

  Rowan’s steps quickened. The truth isn’t setting anyone free, Grandfather. But as always, I appreciate the reminder. By the time he reached the staircase landing on the second floor, he felt more in control and a new calm came over him. “I’m getting too comfortable with her,” he confided quietly in a portrait of his great-aunt Mary. “And starting to talk to paintings.”

  He turned the corner and continued to the first floor and the unmatched sanctuary of his study. It was clear to Rowan that she was settling in, and flourishing. His plan to send her running had slowed to a crawl, and instead of frightening her away, he was aware that a new problem was developing.

  He was enjoying her company too much.

  He was looking forward to going over the laboratory experiments and hovering just to say stupid things like, “You have the handwriting of an angel.”

  Ashe was right. Passion begets passion, and not always in the direction a man desires. It was time to take charge.

  My next call out—I’ll take her. And if it’s the call I suspect is coming, then the reality of life and death will supply the lesson I need, and she’ll be gone.

  Chapter 8

  “Miss Renshaw, I’ve been sent for. Would you care to accompany me on this patient call?” Rowan made the offer from the doorway, his doctor’s bag already in hand.

  She looked up in astonishment. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday’s fiasco when she’d brazenly asked him about the unseemly topic of women’s sexuality. Gayle had been so caught up in her reading, and so frustrated by the strange logic on the page, that she’d forgotten propriety altogether. For a few moments, it had just been an intimate conversation with a trusted friend—and he’d even offered her the fir
st genuine encouragement she’d had on her quest. But then, it was as if she’d made a mistake or misspoken, and he was gone in an awkward rush.

  Now, without warning, he appeared offering her a remarkable opportunity. For a moment, she was tempted to pinch herself since the scene was far too close to her daydream for comfort. “A patient call?”

  “There’s no time for conversation. You either wish to come or you do not.” He didn’t wait for her response and simply turned to go.

  “Yes! I wish to come!” She untied her apron as quickly as she could and tucked a scrap of cloth in the textbook she’d been studying before hurrying to catch up with him as he headed down the stairs. “Should I bring anything in particular for a call?”

  He shook his head. “Just yourself. I have everything I need already present in my bag.”

  “Always? Or do you change what you carry depending on the call?” she asked.

  “A good question, Miss Renshaw. And it’s a bit of both. Give it time.” He was all brisk business, and she felt herself responding in kind as a rush of adrenaline and excitement poured through her at the prospect of seeing him in action and being on hand to work with one of his patients.

  When they reached the downstairs, Carter and Barnaby were waiting with their coats and scarves at the ready. “Shall I have Mrs. Evans hold dinner for you, doctor?” Carter asked as he helped Rowan into his coat. Gayle took her own coat and scarf from Barnaby and prepared for the crisp night air.

  “No, not tonight. No need for anyone to stay up and wait for us this time.”

  “Very well, doctor.”

  Theo tipped his hat from his driver’s perch atop the carriage as they came down the stairs. “Good evening, Dr. West. Miss Renshaw.”

  “Evening, Theo. We’ll need to be fast as you can if you please,” Rowan replied before he set in his bag and then helped Gayle to climb up into the cold confines of the carriage.