“Huh. So I am. Well, all I can say is, the smartest thing those people did was to send for help, ’steada tryin’ to treat the damage themselves. It’s real tricky, dealin’ with infection, Miss Burton. You remember that.”
Now here she sat, many exhaustive hours later, in what had become her uniform of full-length white apron—to cover her pretty dress—and fluffy white mob-cap—to cover her pretty hair—both presently spattered with some unidentifiable and disgusting splotches. Collapsed in a chair, while her compassionate sister cosseted her. That was fine; she could do with some cosseting.
“Tough case?” Camellia asked, as she poured her mixture into a pan, already greased and floured, and set the whole thing inside a hot oven. She had learned, over the course of the past few months, that conversation with the aspiring student meant using medical jargon.
Letty shivered. “Worrisome. The patient may lose his arm. And he’s but fourteen, Cam.”
In response to a concerned question, she described in only casual detail the extent of the wounds (giving, with respect for her sister’s sensibilities, a much abridged edition), and the possibility of suppuration and poisoning despite the record amount of carbolic acid used as antiseptic.
“His name is Willie O’Day, and Gabe brought him back with us, to the office, to ensure he follows orders about cleanliness.” She yawned. “I’m to rest a bit, then return to see what else needs to be done.”
“Are you staying here, or are you going back to your own room at McKnight’s?”
Another huge yawn. Eyes squinted until tears formed, and facial bones emitted a soft creak of protest. “I’ll just fall over, right here on your kitchen floor, Cam, if you let me.”
Camellia, hauling out a basin of the potatoes she was about to peel, chuckled. “Even as tired as you are, Letty, dear, I doubt you’d find the floor very comfortable. Ben won’t be home for hours yet. You just take yourself on upstairs; the spare room is always made up fresh for visitors.”
“Canny Cam.”
“And the dreams?”
She shrugged. “I do believe I’ll have to ignore the opinions of those who think they should be directing my life, and simply do my own directing.”
“M’h’m. I’d say that’s the wisest course of action.”
The medical office, designed and built per Gabriel’s fussy specifications some five years ago on a shady side street, contained everything necessary for professional curative care, and a surprising amount of space.
One entered immediately into a reception area, whose walls were papered, whose plank floors stood covered with a large carpet, whose upholstered furniture was conducive to comfort. Directly to the left lay the consultation room, also papered, and bordered in wide rich dark trim. Here were the roll-top desk and castered chair, a spare single-wide iron bed and mattress, the examination table, the storage cabinet holding a multitude of small drawers (containing who knew what—potions to be mixed? medicaments to be dosed? herbs to be crushed and steeped?) and shelves upon which rested various pieces of equipment.
At the back of the house one could find a small windowed chamber, available for use as a mini-hospital room, if you will, minus the horrifying connotations; and a spacious kitchen and dining area with all the accouterments. What occupied the second floor was anyone’s guess; those were the doctor’s private quarters, and no one had climbed the stairs to visit (or, if some particular lady had, on occasion, she wasn’t talking about it.).
The patient, dosed with Gabriel’s favorite sleeping tonic / painkiller of laudanum, lay dead to the world upon his cot, segregated from the rest of the house, in the space designated for those requiring special care.
When Letitia made her way there through the shadows of a sweet September afternoon, the doctor was taking a well-deserved nap in his office. She reached up to the top of the door and stilled the clapper of its bell before inching quietly inside.
At the careful sound of her footsteps, Gabe raised a tousled head and bleary red-rimmed eyes from his desk.
“You look terrible,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you get some sleep on the bed?”
“Letty, honey, a scoldin’ is much more effective if it’s administered in normal speakin’ tones. No need to lower your voice; Willie boy is down for the count.”
“Oh. Not likely to rouse for a while, you mean.”
“Yep, that’s about it.” He yawned, scratched somewhere below the desk at an unseen itch, and yawned again. “Well, Miss Burton, I must compliment you on doin’ a fine job today. I would take my hat off, if I were wearin’ one. And I will admit to bein’ wrong.”
“Wrong? You?” She almost snorted her derision.
“Mark my words, b’cause it don’t happen often. But, over the past few months, you’ve proven that you do have a callin’ to the medical profession. I’d be proud to have you work with me whenever you get a chance.”
Letitia beamed. “Oh, Gabe, thank you! You don’t know what it means to hear your praise!”
The doctor’s eyes twinkled as he attempted to sit up straight—or lean back farther. “I sure do. Been in your shoes a time or two myself. Think I can persuade you to watch over our patient for a bit, whilst I go forage for some supper somewhere?”
The old flimflammer. How well he understood the knack of sweetening with honey before presenting the medicine! She laughed. “Of course I can. But wash your face, first, before you go. And change your shirt; that one is disgusting.”
Even as he disappeared to another room, to follow orders, he protested: “I’m a grown-up man, Letitia. Graduated from college ’n’ everything. You don’t haveta tell me what to do.”
“Apparently someone does,” she murmured, low enough to ensure that she had the last word but that he couldn’t hear it.