Chapter Six #2
When word got around in the tenements and the rookeries that there was a doctor who would treat whatever patient came through her door, regardless of their financial standing, no one cared that she was a woman.
Or if they did, they kept it to themselves.
A welcome change from the prejudice she’d often found herself faced with then she had tried to open a similar office in Connecticut where doctors were more plentiful and the working class had made it clear that, free or not, they preferred to be seen by a man.
Unfortunately, she quickly found that she could not sustain herself on bread and stew.
Which was why, even though she’d sworn that she wouldn’t as it risked putting her in the same social circles as her husband, she’d agreed to take on the Duke and Duchess of Southwick as clients.
First Ambrose, with his leg, and then Mara, with her pregnancy.
An unusual union that had come about after one of their servants, whose friend Abigail had treated, recommended her to Mara following the duke’s mauling.
Ironically, it was Mara who had first urged Abigail to go with her to Southwick Castle to attend her wounded husband in person.
She had come all the way to London to collect her, and had a carriage ready to go.
But Abigail, not wanting to abandon her patients on the whim of a woman she’d just met, had given the duchess a powerful tincture to fight the duke’s brewing infection and sent her on her way.
Now she was the one who wanted to flee to the countryside. But only for as long as it took her to devise a plan on how to evade Stephen indefinitely. Because she would rather leave her patients for two weeks than be whisked away for an eternity.
Turning her head away from the cold winter wind blowing in from the west, she jammed her key into the rusty old lock and twisted it sharply to the left while simultaneously kicking the bottom of the door with her right foot.
Admittedly, she may not have known very much about being a countess, but she did know enough to understand that instead of treating burns, she would be expected to host balls.
Instead of tending to dislocated wrists, she would be tasked with learning how to waltz.
And instead of receiving the working class in her cozy, cramped office, she would be entertaining the social elite in a cold, sterile drawing room.
That was not the life she wanted.
But it was the bargain she’d struck.
Seven years to pursue her own goals before submitting to the will of her husband.
A devil’s deal, the more she’s thought about it.
One that had been struck under surprise and duress.
So why should she honor it? Why should she commit herself to a stranger?
Why should she remain in London like a sitting duck, waiting for Stephen with his wolfish cunning to hunt her down?
Because she’d promised that she would after he’d kissed the sense right out of her?
Because . . . because maybe it had seemed like a tempting offer, back when he was standing in front of her with his roguish charm and mesmerizing amber eyes?
But he didn’t just want her as his wife and countess.
He wanted a child.
He wanted an heir.
He wanted what all men of power desired. What both of their fathers had desired.
A legacy.
She was merely the means to an end nearly three decades in the making.
A chorus of demanding meows greeted Abigail when she stepped into the entry hall that doubled as both a receiving parlor for her patients and a place to hang her cloak.
After removing her cloak and hat, freeing a tumble of brown curls that she shoved impatiently behind her ears, she crouched down and began to apologize in earnest to her beloved feline companions.
As a child, she had often yearned for a pet, but her mother had never permitted it.
While she was learning to be a doctor, the hours spent pouring over textbooks and in lecture halls had prohibited it.
But after she graduated (not officially, as Dr. Bard would be the first to point out, but in every other way that mattered), the days had stretched long and been filled with loneliness while she fought to get even a single patient to walk through her door, and then fought again to keep them there when they realized she wasn’t the doctor’s secretary, but the actual doctor.
“But you’re . . . a woman,” a gray-haired man leaning heavily on a wooden cane had said, squinting at her in such a way that she’d instinctively patted her shoulder just to ensure a second head hadn’t suddenly sprouted.
“I am,” she’d told him briskly. “Please, have a seat and tell me why you’ve come in.”
“You’re a woman,” he’d repeated, squinting even harder.
“Not for your eyesight,” she’d mused, opening a drawer and removing her stethoscope.
“That appears to be in sufficient working order. Is your limp from an injury, in relation to your age, or a birth deformity? Is it more painful in the morning or the evening, and is the pain ever accompanied by shortness of breath?”
“My leg is fine! Good day to you, ma’am.
” Driving his cane into the floor, the man had hobbled out in a cloud of indignation.
As had the next seven potential patients.
Just as she’d been about to dim the candles for the day and drown her disappointment in tea and textbooks, a loud knock had sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she’d said tiredly, barely glancing up from her desk. “Yes, I am the doctor. No, there is not a male doctor here. Yes, I am supremely qualified—”
“It’s my cat,” a small voice had warbled tearfully. “I think she’s dying.”
Abigail had closed her book with a snap and looked up to find a child, no more than ten, holding a limp black cat cradled against her chest.
“Oh, no,” she’d began. “I am sorry. I am not an animal doctor, you see, I am—”
“She’s dying,” the child had howled, squeezing the cat with such force that if it hadn’t been dying before, it certainly was now. “Please help me.”
“Put it here, on this table,” she’d instructed with a sigh, and while the child had watched her every movement with bated breath, she’d used all of her years of training, instruction, clinical studies, and final exams to administer medical care to . . . a cat.
“She has a cut, here, in her mouth, that has formed an abscess,” she’d said finally after a thorough examination.
“I am sure it is quite painful, and has prevented your cat from eating or drinking, thus her lethargic behavior. I will lance the abscess and keep her overnight for observation. You may return for her in the morning.”
“Penny isn’t going to die?” the child had sniffled, wiping tears from her cheeks with back of a chubby hand.
“Not today. Although all creatures, both human and animal, do die eventually. It is the natural process of life.”
“She’s going to die tomorrow?” the child had gasped.
“Aside from the abscess, your cat is in excellent health.” Belatedly, it had occurred to Abigail that such philosophical musings on life and death were best saved for adult conversation.
“There is no reason she should not aspire to a long, healthy life. If she ever stops eating or drinking again, you . . .” She’d hesitated, then dropped her shoulders.
“You may bring her right back here and I will treat her to the best of my ability.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you, doctor!” The child’s enthusiastic embrace had caught Abigail off guard before she’d leaned into it, having not realized how alone she felt until she had company.
Without meaning to, she’d thought of Stephen, and she’d wondered where he was and what he was doing in that same exact second of time.
Four months later, on the eve of Abigail packing up her office as she prepared to set out for a small town in Connecticut where she’d been told the people might be a bit more accepting of a female physician, the child had returned with Penny clutched under one arm and a wicker basket swinging from the other.
A woman, slightly older than Abigail with crinkle lines in the corners of her eyes and an exasperated smile shaping her mouth, had followed the girl into the office, now stripped of all Abigail’s belongings, and introduced herself.
“My name is Lydia Chadwick. I know you’ve already met my daughter, Hannah. She told me how you saved our cat, and she would like to express her gratitude with a gift.”
“That’s not necessary,” Abigail had said automatically. “It was very small medical procedure—”
“Please,” Lydia had interrupted, grimacing as she’d nudged Hannah forward. “Please take one, or else we’re going to end up with all six, and our household is already busy enough as it is.”
“All six?” Abigail had asked, perplexed. “Six of what?”
Kittens, as it had turned out.
Six kittens with enormous eyes and tiny paws and triangular ears that twitched.
“No, no,” she’d said, shaking her head even as her heart pulled her hand into the basket and under the chin of a small, fuzzy halo of black and orange fur. “I couldn’t. I am leaving the city tomorrow, and—”
“Why, that’s perfect,” Lydia had declared cheerfully. “You’ll have a traveling companion.”
“Take good care of her,” Hannah had implored, her bottom lip wobbling as her mother picked up the kitten and passed it to Abigail. “That one is my favorite.”
“Oh, then I really couldn’t—”
“They are all her favorite.” Over the top of Hannah’s head, Lydia had rolled her eyes before she tousled her daughter’s hair. “Darling, we’ve five left, plus Penny, and another two at home. That’s enough cats.”
“That is a lot of cats,” Abigail had noted.
“I’m so glad you understand.”
“But—”
“Thank you again, doctor!” Lydia called out over her shoulder before she had steered Hannah, Penny, and the basket of kittens out of the office with expertly timed finesse.