Chapter 11
Much as she wanted to, Nora couldn’t automatically reject Mrs. Phipps’s evidence.
Some women kept rigid accounts of their monthlies.
And apparently, some—like Mrs. Phipps—kept rigid accounts of other women’s monthlies.
Nora, however, had never been one to count days.
There was too much work to get done without worrying about something that inevitably came on its own, whether she expected it or not.
You don’t know anything for certain yet, she told herself.
And—this was hard to do—there was no point in thinking about it until she did.
She stumbled over simple tasks and took two wrong turns on her walk to the Roland house.
Once arrived, she wasn’t ushered immediately to the sitting room of her recovering patients, as she had been on every other visit.
The haughty butler instructed her to wait in the hall.
Instead of Gladys or Lady Woodbine appearing, she was startled by a harsh voice coming down the stairs, matched by an equally heavy tread.
“Mrs. Gibson, is it?”
She looked up—and willed her face still. Dr. Adams, affronted in every look and line, paused on the stairs, taking advantage of the height to glower down at her, as intractable as the heavy-chinned woman glaring from a massive portrait behind him.
“I prefer ‘Doctor,’” she said with a warning edge.
His face spasmed into a frown. “My patient is not in need of your assistance,” Dr. Adams said. “I returned to London yesterday and was informed of Mrs. Roland’s delivery—and your treatment.”
“Yes, it was fortunate Lady Woodbine thought to consult me. Otherwise, Mrs. Roland would have been quite unattended.” Remembering what he’d said to Daniel, and what Daniel had then said to her, it was impossible to keep the acid from her voice.
But she checked her tone, adding, “I’m here to assess her recovery. ”
“Unnecessary,” Adams declared. “And unwise.”
“Unwise?” Alarms jangled faintly in the back corners of her mind.
“I do not think Mrs. Roland needs to be reminded of the way you conducted her birth. I haven’t been fully informed, but what I’ve heard was damaging enough.”
Nora stiffened. “Damaging?” She needed to do more than parrot his insults. “I thought you’d be more concerned with the error in your calculation of Mrs. Roland’s dates. You’ve seen little Lily?”
His eyes narrowed over his pointed beard.
“Then you know she wasn’t a seven-month child when I delivered her.”
He smoothed his face, waving away the evidence of his negligence like a mosquito. “Yes, that does sometimes happen. Clearly there was no need for Lady Woodbine to go into a panic.”
“There was every reason, based on what you’d told them. If Lily were that early, she wouldn’t have survived.”
His brow lowered. “I have something very particular to tell you.”
Her blood, heating with each of his words, scalded her chest and face. “Whatever it is, there’s no need to proclaim from the stairs like some second-rate stage actor.”
He practically flew down the stairs, stopping a mere foot in front of her. Her momentary burst of courage wavered under his scowl. “It would be best for everyone if you left.”
“I’m here to follow up with my patient,” she said. “Just as I have been for these past three weeks in your absence. She’s been nothing but pleased with my care.”
“That hardly matters now. Mr. Roland has dismissed you from his wife’s case.”
Nora held her breath. “Why?”
“He was very displeased by an unnamed account published in the Provincial, which I showed him this morning.” Adams rocked on his heels. His voice held a note of suppressed satisfaction. “Have you seen the piece?”
Nora blanched, her eyes darting to his. She’d written a detailed account of the labor.
Such articles were for doctors only—not patients, and certainly not their family members.
The words she’d used—entirely necessary in medical journals—would sound sordid and ugly to anyone other than an investigating doctor.
Because Mrs. Roland was a gentlewoman, Nora had withheld her name.
She wouldn’t have, though, for a working-class patient.
Adams gave a small smile, no doubt reading guilt in Nora’s consternation.
“Yes. You see, it matched many of the particulars described to me by Mrs. Roland’s maid, Gladys.
When I put it to Mr. Roland that the published case could only be referring to his wife”—Adams stepped back, glancing into the hall mirror to adjust his collar—“he said you were not to be readmitted to his house. He was most disappointed at the description of his wife, laboring in a way that you compared favorably to indigenous methods from Africa and the .”
Nora’s teeth locked together. Because she had omitted names, Mr. Roland might be upset, but no matter what Adams suspected, neither of them had proof.
“I was particularly concerned,” Adams continued, “that you appear to be championing—what was the phrase?—‘the reservoir of experience among midwives.’”
“Articles in the Provincial are not for laypeople. Any husband would be shocked by an account of his wife—”
“In a public paper? Yes, indeed.”
Nora swallowed back a rush of bile. “It’s not a newspaper. It’s a medical journal for professionals only. As you well know. How dare you make him think I paraded Mrs. Roland in the public—” The words cut off in a rush of nausea.
“You brought in a midwife to treat a distinguished and wealthy woman.” How did Adams manage to sound like he was yelling the more he lowered his voice? “You let a midwife put my patient on her hands and knees, like a dog littering puppies.”
“That midwife caught your mistake within minutes,” Nora retorted, her voice higher than she wished. “If you had bothered to properly examine Mrs. Roland, you wouldn’t have erred in your calculations. You might have been here to attend her when she needed it—”
“Be very careful, Mrs. Gibson,” Adam said.
“I am.” She drew herself up, determined to feign strength, even if she couldn’t feel it. “That’s why Mrs. Roland is in such excellent health.”
“You are not your guardian. I doubt our colleagues will let you voice things they only tolerate from Horace. I certainly will not. Not when you actively propound the virtues of folk remedies and midwives. Are you a doctor, Mrs. Gibson, or a neighborhood woman peddling cures?”
“I’m a doctor. And at least in Mrs. Roland’s case, a better one than you.”
“You—” He twitched, forcing control on his face.
The effort rippled over his features, carrying down his arms and shoulders until at last his hands uncurled.
“Things will go badly for you, Mrs. Gibson, if you don’t step in line.
” He reached into his chest pocket and drew out a folded document.
“After reading your letter, I started a petition.”
He spread out the paper and held it up, inches from her nose.
“Mr. Roland, though not a physician, is a man of considerable standing. He has signed his name. He agreed that you could visit with his wife—one more time, under my direct supervision—if you add your name to this list and never discuss Mrs. Roland’s case again, in conversation or in print.
” He unfolded the paper, already half-filled with signatures—some tight, some looping, in black, Prussian blue, and sepia inks.
Nora scanned it, heart sinking. She knew so many of these names: Silas Vickery, her old nemesis, who’d probably die before allowing her or Harry into St. Bart’s, where he presided. Dr. Thompson, who’d once been her ally. Seagrave and Traffett, who’d both attended her last lecture.
Her eyes narrowed. Clark…Milford. Adams had allowed dressers to sign their names here, beneath his lines of absolute drivel.
Dangerous precedent steeped in folklore and tradition… Need for consistent standards… Aim to stop the abuse of vulnerable women afflicted by unskilled midwives.
Abuse? Her hands shook.
“I was there. You weren’t, Dr. Adams.” Nora snatched the paper, folded it closed, then handed it back, afraid she’d tear it in pieces if she kept it even a second longer.
This thing belonged in the fire. Maybe she should have shredded it.
She could handle criticism. She was used to it.
“I know my work, Dr. Adams, and I know that Mrs. Franklin did very well with hers. She is neither dangerous nor unskilled, having been trained extensively by experience and a medical doctor—”
“You?” Adams mocked.
“Yes. And Mr. Roland should be grateful for her careful attention to his wife. Neither of us have any mistakes to apologize for.” The hot queasiness had passed, and Nora found her feet firm beneath her.
“You should be ashamed of manipulating her husband into thinking that article would ever be read by his associates or that the nameless patient would be recognized as his wife.”
It had been too hasty, writing the case so soon.
Adams might not have realized if she’d waited a year or even six months.
Nora cursed herself silently and fervently.
She’d let regret overtake her later, but not in this man’s presence.
As for signing his petition—she’d not be blackmailed into anything.
“So you’ll not be adding your name with the other physicians?” He paused, about to return the paper to his pocket.
“No. I disagree with every point.”
“Once again, setting yourself apart from the profession…” His voice dwindled like someone dangling a string for a cat. She’d not bat at it.
“If signing your absurd document is necessary, I’m afraid that prevents me from seeing my patient today,” she said with a coolness she didn’t feel.
“It is necessary,” Adams said stiffly. “It is essential.”
“Well.” Nora smoothed her gloves. “Please give Mrs. Roland my regards. She is welcome to consult me again at any time.”
Unfortunately, Nora knew she probably wouldn’t. That decision had been taken from her.