9. Dr Michael Kincaid
Chapter nine
Dr Michael Kincaid
Dearest Helen,
These past days of nursing Mr Hughes through fever have left me utterly confused.
I found myself singing to him, holding his hand through the worst of his delirium, my heart tightening each time he called out for someone named Mary-Anne.
What started as a clinical arrangement has become something far more perilous to my peace of mind.
But I write primarily about a more urgent matter.
I’ve discovered a disturbing pattern in London’s East End.
I cannot shake the feeling that the two are connected.
Have you heard anything about the mortality rates in that district?
Any information about recent infrastructure changes would be invaluable.
I know I should focus solely on my medical practice, yet I find my thoughts constantly straying to him. I am lost, Helen. For the first time in my life, science offers no clear answer.
Your devoted friend,
Emma
P.S. He kissed me during his delirium. I pretend not to remember, but the memory haunts me.
Emma had just finished changing Everett’s bandages, her breath catching slightly whenever they brushed his warm skin.
Three days of fever had left him weakened but alive, and she found herself unreasonably pleased by each small sign of his recovery, the clarity returning to his eyes, the way his hand had steadied enough to hold a teacup.
Their hands brushed as she passed him the teacup, and a jolt like static electricity passed between them. They both froze. For a moment, neither moved, her fingers still touching his, his eyes locked on her face. Then Emma pulled away, trying to ignore how her skin tingled where they’d connected.
Their daily routine had developed a dangerous familiarity.
Each morning, as she changed his bandages, her touch seemed to linger longer than strictly necessary.
Each evening, as they talked, they found themselves sitting closer, voices dropping to intimate murmurs despite being alone.
It was becoming harder to remember why maintaining professional distance mattered so much.
“The stitches are healing well,” she said, forcing clinical detachment into her voice. “Though you’ll need to rest at least another week before—”
A knock at the door had her straightening quickly, suddenly aware of how close she’d been leaning to examine Everett’s wound.
“Miss Brown?” Mrs Norris called through the door. “Dr Kincaid is here to see you.”
Emma groaned internally, part resentment at Michael’s interruption and part shame for this sentiment. “I’ll be right there.” To Everett, she added, “Excuse me. He’s a physician from the hospital.”
She didn’t miss how Everett’s expression had shuttered slightly at the announcement, but she pushed the observation aside as she hurried to make herself presentable.
Michael waited in the parlour, golden hair catching the afternoon light. His smile, when he saw her, held the easy familiarity of long acquaintance. “Emma! I was concerned when you missed rounds this morning.”
“A patient required constant attention,” she explained, gesturing for him to sit.
“Ah yes, your mysterious cemetery patient.” Michael’s tone held a hint of something beyond professional interest. “Mrs Norris mentioned you’d taken in a stranger. You know how I feel about you caring for male patients in your home.”
Emma busied herself with the tea service, avoiding his knowing look. “He was gravely injured. What would you have had me do, leave him to die?”
“Of course not.” Michael accepted the cup she offered, their fingers brushing, but she barely noticed. “I only wonder if your home was the wisest choice of location.”
“The hospital was full,” she said shortly. “And he needed careful monitoring.”
“Which you provided personally?” His raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
Before Emma could respond, a soft thud from above made them both look up. Michael’s expression sharpened. “Is that him now? Perhaps I should examine him myself.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Emma snapped. “He’s resting.”
“Emma.” Michael set down his cup. “You know I worry about you. Living alone, taking in strange men…”
“I’m hardly alone. Mrs Norris is here, and Mr Sotheby next door keeps watch.” She forced a light tone. “Besides, what sort of nurse would I be if I refused aid to those in need?”
“A prudent one?” Michael’s smile took the sting from his words. “At least let me meet him. For my peace of mind.”
Emma hesitated. The thought of Michael and Everett in the same room made her inexplicably uncomfortable. “He’s still quite weak.”
“All the more reason for a physician to examine him.” Michael rose, already heading for the stairs.
“Michael, wait—”
But he was already ascending, his long legs carrying him swiftly upward.
Emma followed, her heart racing for reasons she did not comprehend. Neither Michael nor Mr Hughes were her beau, yet she felt concerned.
They found Everett attempting to stand, one hand braced against the bedpost.
“Mr Hughes!” Emma rushed forward without thinking, steadying him with hands that remembered too well the feel of his fevered skin. “You shouldn’t be up yet.”
“My apologies for causing you alarm.” Everett’s voice was rough from illness, but his dark eyes were sharp as they took in Michael’s presence. “I heard voices escalating. I thought perhaps you needed assistance.”
“How gallant,” Michael said dryly. “Though considering your condition, I doubt you could assist anyone.” He stepped forward, looking austere. “Dr Michael Kincaid. I understand Miss Brown has been caring for you?”
Something flickered in Everett’s expression as he took in Michael’s extended hand. He shook it and said, “She has. Most skilfully.”
“Yes, well, Emma has always been…dedicated to her patients.”
Everett’s shoulders tensed, possibly because of Michael’s blatant familiarity with her.
Michael continued, “Perhaps I should examine you myself, to ensure there are no complications.”
Emma felt Everett stiffen beside her. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. Miss Brown’s care has been exemplary.”
The tension in the room thickened. Emma found herself keenly aware of every point of contact between her body and Everett’s as she helped him sit. Michael watched them with disapproval.
“I should fetch fresh bandages,” she said, needing escape from the charged atmosphere. But Michael followed her out into the corridor and took her aside by the arm. He whispered, “Emma, I came about our research.”
Emma’s professional interest caught. “How bad is it?”
“Worse than we thought. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?” The invitation held echoes of countless shared meals over medical texts.
“I should stay with my patient… Could you bring it here?”
“Surely he can spare you for an hour?” Michael’s smile held a hint of indignation.
Emma hesitated, looking between the guest chamber and Michael.
The choice should have been simple. Michael was her colleague, her friend, someone society would deem a suitable match.
Yet she found herself worrying what Everett would think if she dined alone with Michael.
The irony that she cared about the opinion of a man who claimed to sell his body, rather than pursue a respectable physician's interest, was not lost on her.
“Bring the work here, please. I should monitor him tonight, ensure there’s no relapse.”
Michael’s disappointment was obvious. “You never could leave a patient in distress.” He sighed. “All right. I shall return tonight.”
After Michael left, Emma returned to Everett’s room. An awkward silence fell as she busied herself straightening his blankets.
“Your colleague seems…concerned for your welfare,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.
“Michael worries too much.” She adjusted a pillow with more force than necessary. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Just friends?” The question hung between them, loaded with unspoken meaning.
Emma’s hands stilled. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Everett said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
But something in his voice made her turn to look at him. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air seemed to crackle with everything they weren’t saying.
“You should rest,” she said softly, breaking the moment. “Doctor’s orders.”
His lips curved slightly. “Yours or his?”
“Mine,” she said, ignoring the way his small smile made her pulse quicken. “Always mine.”
As she closed his door, Emma pressed her forehead against the wood, wondering why she had uttered those words that felt so much like a promise.
14 December 1840
My dearest Emma,
The installation of new water pipes in the East End was completed approximately three months ago.
I remember because one of our scullery maids live in that neighbourhood and complained about the water tasting foul.
Do you believe there is a link between the water quality and cholera?
If you do, my dear Emma, I must warn my staff of it.
Please do advise once you have an answer.
Now, let us discuss your obvious infatuation with Mr Hughes! Your letter practically vibrates with emotion. The way you write of nursing him, singing to him… You, who claim to be thoroughly unmusical and unemotional!
My darling, you are either besotted or bewitched. I must caution you. Physical attraction, while delightful, can mask deeper incompatibilities. In your next letter, I demand a thorough list of his virtues and shortcomings. We must approach this scientifically, as you so love to do.
Speaking of science, you remain frustratingly vague about your “encounters” with him. What happened to your usually precise documentation?
I am relieved to hear of Mr Hughes’s recovery, though with England’s finest physician tending him, how could he not be well? Still, the way you describe holding his hand through the fever… Emma, dearest, I believe your heart may be as compromised as your clinical detachment.
Remember, a racing pulse and flushed skin can be symptoms of either love or fever. The trick is determining which afflicts you.
Your devoted friend,
Helen
Everett lay in bed, irritation crawling under his skin as Dr Kincaid’s muffled voice drifted up from below. The man’s cultured tones grated on his nerves like sandpaper.
When Emma checked on him, her cheeks still flushed from whatever discussion she’d been having with the good doctor, she announced that Mrs Norris would stay late to tend to his needs.
The childish urge to protest seized him with startling force.
But I want you, not the housekeeper! The thought emerged with such petulant clarity that he was transported back to age six, throwing a similar fit when his father had hired a stern-faced governess to replace his recently deceased mother’s gentle care.
Instead, he managed a polite, “Thank you, Miss Brown. You’re most kind.”
Mrs Norris bustled in shortly after, her round face beaming with motherly concern. Everett’s mind raced, seeking a way to despatch her without arousing suspicion.
He cleared his throat, a genuine flush creeping up his neck.
“Mrs Norris, I find myself in need of… That is to say… I require some personal items. Undergarments, specifically.” He gestured vaguely at himself, mortification making his voice crack slightly.
“I’d compensate you through Miss Brown, of course. ”
Mrs Norris waved away his embarrassment with motherly efficiency. “Bless your heart, dear. No need to blush! Why, just last week I had to fetch my Harold new drawers after his unfortunate incident with the chamber pot. Men’s small clothes are hardly a mystery to me after forty years of marriage.”
Everett’s face burned hotter. “Perhaps… Perhaps you should consult with Miss Brown first? Regarding payment?”
“Oh! Yes. Quite right.” Mrs Norris bustled down the stairs to the study door, rapping sharply. Everett followed on his crutches, bombarding the housekeeper with questions to slow down her steps.
Through the gap as the door opened, Everett caught sight of papers spread across the desk. Charts filled with cramped notations and maps marked with mysterious symbols. Two chairs were pushed close together at the desk, with Kincaid occupying one.
Emma’s gaze, when it met his through the doorway, was sharp with suspicion and barely concealed irritation. She subtly stepped forward and blocked his view.
“Yes, Mrs Norris?” Her tone was clipped, professional. Upon Mrs Norris inquiry, Emma approved the purchase without hesitation. “Mr Hughes will also require a suit for his departure. Please do your best to secure one for him.”
Emma met his eyes pointedly once more before closing the door firmly. Mrs Norris cheerfully started on her errands.
“You’re an angel, Mrs Norris,” he said, offering his most charming smile.
The moment she left, Everett crept to the study door, pressing his ear against the wood. The words “cholera outbreak” drifted up, making his blood run cold. How and how much did they know?
“…three hundred cases already,” Michael was saying. “You can’t… into dark alleys…”
“I’m perfectly… myself,” Emma retorted.
“Emma, please.” Michael’s indignant voice drifted through the door. “At least let me…”
Then she replied, her soft voice intimate and placating, and Everett’s jaw clenched.
Hearing footsteps approach, Everett made his way to the parlour as quickly as his crutches allowed, settling onto a sofa just before the study door opened and closed.
His pulse raced as he processed what he’d overheard.
Cholera in Rochester? Impossible. The outbreak had been carefully contained within London’s borders… or so he’d been led to believe.
How had Emma and Dr Kincaid acquired such detailed data?
His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities.
Either they had a contact at the Royal College feeding them information, or…
His thoughts turned to Lord Salisbury, but he dismissed the notion almost immediately.
The man was too mindful of his political position to risk involvement in anything unlawful.
Which left him with an uncomfortable conclusion. The nurse he’d been sent to investigate wasn’t just treating patients—she was actively gathering intelligence about the outbreak. The realisation settled like lead in his stomach. Emma’s position had just shifted from concerning to threatening.