19. Complicated
Chapter nineteen
Complicated
Everett sat in the carriage, his father’s latest letter in his hand, still unopened.
Inside would be more instructions, more careful lies to protect the family name.
Once, that name had meant everything to him.
The Moreland legacy: three generations of royal physicians, wielding influence that could make or break medical careers.
Through the window, he could see Emma in front of the hospital, consulting with a washerwoman whose child had fallen ill. She didn't care that the woman couldn't pay, that treating someone so low-born might damage the Moreland reputation. To Emma, a life was a life.
But what was that legacy worth? His mother had once told him that a physician's true worth lay not in his titles but in the lives he saved.
He'd thought her naive then, too soft-hearted for the realities of their position.
Now he knew she'd been the only one who truly understood what it meant to be a healer.
Warmth spread through his chest as he watched Emma press a small vial into the washerwoman's hands, refusing the few coins the woman offered.
The scene blurred before him, transforming into another memory: his sister Mary-Anne, feverish and desperate, begging for water.
Even then, he'd known it was wrong to refuse her plea.
But he'd trusted his father's assurances, his father’s medical wisdom.
He'd been raised to believe that maintaining order meant sometimes accepting casualties. 'The greater good,' his father called it. But watching more children die from the same water that had killed his sister, he couldn't help but wonder: greater good for whom?
The letter crumpled in his grip, tearing the envelope. He stuffed it into his coat pocket as he watched Emma descend the hospital steps, her medical bag clutched in one hand. His heart twisted with both adoration and uncertainty as she spotted him and smiled.
“This is unexpected,” she said as he helped her inside the carriage. “I thought you’d be collecting me tomorrow. Did you not have patients all day?”
“I finished early. Mrs Dinkleby had unexpected visitors, and Lord Whitcomb’s stomach ailment happened to be excess gas.” He settled beside her, drawing her close. “I thought we could talk in the carriage with a significantly less chance of me ravishing you.”
“Oh?” She relaxed against him, fitting perfectly under his arm. “I hadn’t realised the carriage was a preventive.”
“Well, I could be motivated if the promise of pleasure was greater than the bruises on my knees or ass, and you know how tolerant I can be of pain.”
“That is most informative, which I shall keep in mind. Now, what is it you wish to discuss so urgently that you’d abstain for three hours?”
“Um… What would you say to relocating to perhaps…Edinburgh? Their medical school is progressive, and the countryside would be ideal for raising children.”
“Edinburgh?” Emma sat up straighter, studying his face. “Everett, what’s brought this on?”
“I simply thought…since you may be conceiving any day now…” He traced her cheek with his finger. “Wouldn’t you prefer somewhere quieter? Away from all this chaos and politics?”
“Did Arthur put you up to this? Wait until I give him a piece of my mind!”
“No, no. He had nothing to do with it.”
She relaxed a little against him. “No,” she said firmly. “London is where the most important medical research happens. Where I can help the most people. And Alexi is here, and Helen…” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you really suggesting this?”
“I’ve been offered a position as Chief of Surgery at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh,” he said, watching her face carefully.
“And a professorship at the medical school. They’re expanding their surgical program, implementing new techniques.
The salary is triple what I earn now, with complete autonomy over hiring.
” He paused. “Including the freedom to appoint a female physician to the faculty.”
Emma went very still. The Royal Infirmary was at the forefront of surgical innovation, its medical school among the most progressive in Europe. A position there would put them at the heart of medical advancement, with resources London hospitals could only dream of.
“When did this offer come?” she asked quietly.
“Last week. Dr James Syme himself wrote to extend the invitation.” He shifted to face her. “Think of it, Emma. You could teach, conduct research openly. No more hiding your abilities or working under others’ names. Scotland has different laws about women in medicine. With my position and support—”
“And your father’s influence had nothing to do with this remarkably timed offer?”
His silence seemed answer enough.
“Did Dr Syme mention how he heard of your surgical expertise?” she pressed. “Or did he simply receive a generous donation from the Royal Physician with certain conditions attached?”
“Does it matter?” Everett’s voice held frustration. “The opportunity is real, regardless of how it came about. We could build something extraordinary there, together. Besides,” his voice softened, “seeing you only on weekends is driving me insane.”
Emma studied him, seeing both the temptation of the offer and the desperation behind it. “Tell me truly; would you even consider leaving London if not for your father’s pressure?”
“I would consider any opportunity that allows us to be physicians together openly.” He caught her hands. “Is that not worth exploring?”
But they both knew it wasn’t really a question of opportunity. It was a question of running or standing their ground. Of accepting a gilded cage or fighting for something harder but truer.
The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh might offer everything they’d dreamed of professionally. But it would come at the cost of knowing they’d been manipulated into exile.
Emma stared out the window, and fear gripped him as Everett felt her slip away from him.
“Emma,” he called to her, and when she looked at him, he pulled her closer. “Come back to me, love,” he said, capturing her lips in a kiss that quickly deepened.
She responded instinctively, melting against him as his hands tangled in her hair, loosening more pins.
“Everett,” she murmured against his mouth.
He silenced her with another kiss, remorse gnawing at him for using passion to deflect her questions even as she softened in his arms. The carriage swayed as his hands wandered, and she shifted closer.
But even as Emma surrendered to his touch, Everett knew he was only postponing the inevitable.
Soon, he would have to choose between his father’s demands and Emma’s trust.
For now, though, he lost himself in her sweetness, praying he would find a way to protect her and their marriage before the truth tore them apart.
As Emma dozed against his shoulder in the swaying carriage, Everett wrestled with his conscience. He should tell her about his father’s ultimatum. She deserved to know, and yet…
She would never leave London willingly if she knew the truth.
His brilliant, stubborn wife would see it as a challenge rather than a threat.
She would insist on fighting, on exposing the corruption, on seeking justice no matter the personal cost. It was one of the things he loved most about her, her unflagging determination to do what was right.
The irony wasn’t lost on him, using manipulation to protect her from manipulation. But the thought of Emma broken, her passion for medicine turned to ash by his father’s machinations… He would rather have her angry at him than destroyed by the truth.
No, he couldn’t risk it. Better to persuade her gradually, to make leaving London seem at least partly their choice rather than his father’s demand. The wheels in his head turned with another dilemma. Did he have the courage to expose his father and Snowden when it came to that? He didn’t know.
She stirred against him, mumbling something incoherent. How many more half-truths would he tell? How long before protecting her became indistinguishable from controlling her? How long before he’d completely lose her trust, and possibly her love, in the process?