Chapter Three
Emily
When the weather allowed, Emily and her father, Phillip, took breakfast out in the garden together. Fresh air was as vital to health as the food they filled their plates with. This morning was chilly, but the early autumn air didn’t daunt Emily, who simply put on an extra pair of woolen underthings and wrapped herself in a heavy shawl before heading outside with this morning’s Farncombe Journal and a hot mug of lemon water.
Three chairs were tucked around the latticed white table in the garden. One for Emily, one for Papa, and one for Noah. While more chairs were sometimes dragged out of the shed for guests, the set-up inevitably returned to this silent, continued assertion that there was always a place for both of Phillip Clarke’s children, and that he’d meant it when he said he would never marry again after trading his beloved wife’s life for theirs. Three chairs. Three Clarkes. For over three decades now. End of story.
Emily swept the first of the season’s fallen leaves off her chair and Papa’s (leaving Noah’s as it was; a bit of foliage certainly wouldn’t hurt him all the way in London), then settled in to wait, reading and sipping until she heard the garden door open behind her.
Betsy, their dear old housekeeper, beckoned her over.
“Everything alright?” Emily asked.
“Your father wants you to join him inside.”
“Whatever for?” Emily glanced at the sunny-enough sky, seeking a hint of the rain that was the only reason they would take breakfast indoors.
“Bit cold, he says.”
“No colder than this time last year,” said Emily. She decided against argument, though, gathering her things back up and joining her father in the parlor. The fire was going merrily about its business, and the small table was covered in coffee cups, porridge bowls, egg pies, and jam-laden toasts.
“So sorry for the change in plans, my dear,” Papa said, gesturing for Betsy to fill Emily’s cup with fresh coffee. “But I took one step outside, and proceeded to shiver my way back inside very promptly.”
“It didn’t strike me as that cold once I was settled in the sun,” she said before sitting, thanking Betsy, and beginning to fill her plate. “But no matter. We’re here now. Did you sleep w—?”
She paused, having caught Betsy’s movements out of the corner of her eye. The housekeeper had procured the post and was glancing at Emily with a letter in hand as if it were headed for her as soon as she stopped talking.
Emily didn’t trust unexpected letters. In her experience, they tended to come from men with unsolicited opinions. Over her time as a practicing physician, she’d learned that there was a near-infinite number of men, with infinite opinions they clearly believed she had infinite interest in hearing. She’d received letters regarding the appropriateness of her occupation, the contents of her research papers, and even—worst of all—lists of reasons why she ought to give a particular fellow a chance to prove that marriage was preferable to her unladylike work.
These irritating pieces of mail had dwindled in the last few years. The novelty of her position had waned, most people having had the opportunity to get their tiresome opinions off their chests several times by now. Her publisher was more careful about attributing her writings to Dr. E. Clarke, rather than Emily. And having passed her thirtieth birthday, only the most determined nonconformists had any interest in her well-aged hand in marriage anymore, and those fellows mostly knew better than to ask.
“Don’t worry yourself. It’s from your brother,” said Betsy, smiling like she knew exactly what was running through Emily’s mind. “Anything else I can get the two of you?”
Papa waved her on. “No, Betsy, go enjoy your own breakfast if you haven’t yet, and an extra cup of coffee if you have.” He turned to Emily as she left. “From your brother? Addressed to you only?”
“How odd,” she said, examining her name on the envelope. When Noah wrote (which was less often than it should have been), he wrote to them both, giving updates on his sartorial successes, interesting sketches he’d done, or newspaper clippings from London that he thought they’d like. She rarely got anything addressed just to her.
“Feel free to wait until later,” Phillip said, trying unsuccessfully not to look too curious. “I suppose there’s probably a reason he wrote it to you.”
But Emily was too curious to wait. She carefully broke the seal and took out the letter.
Dearest Emily,
I am quite certain that, somewhere along the line, I’ve acquired the right to ask a favor of you. Well, today’s the day I’m calling it in.
“A favor.” She took a fortifying sip of coffee to see her through whatever the devil Noah thought she might owe him. “He wants a favor.”
“What sort?” Papa asked.
Emily read on, aloud this time, because if Noah had wanted discretion, he would have mentioned it right off.
I’ve been made aware of an expectant mother, unmarried and in unusual living circumstances, who may be facing complications but cannot secure the care of a doctor given her situation. As she is the dear friend of my own dear friend, I offered to ask if you would take on such a patient. Since this might give you the opportunity to build your own client list away from the stress of the hospital, I thought it would be mutually beneficial for all involved. (Except me. I get nothing out of this save for the satisfaction of a fellow human being helped.)
Please send word if you can meet with them. They are willing to take the train into Godalming, so as to save you the trouble of coming into London outside your regular visits.
In peace,
Noah
She read it over again, and then handed it to Papa so he could take a look.
“Well, isn’t that a fascinating opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Emily repeated. “Interesting idea perhaps, but not an opportunity. I can’t take such a woman on as a patient.”
Papa’s face grew very grim. “I know that your own upstanding behavior is a matter of great pride to you, Emily, but I’ve taught you better than to cast judgement on the lives of other women like that. You don’t know what circumstances may—”
“That’s not what I mean!” she said quickly, heat rising to her face at such a harsh accusation of ungenerousness. “Of course I’m above such petty judgements. I mean to say, I work at the hospital only. I’m not like you; I don’t keep a roster of patients of my own outside of its structures.”
“Something I have advised you to remedy for years.” Papa said it casually, but she caught the way his eyes left hers for just a moment too long, fingers twitching a little on the way to his coffee cup. “Perhaps this is a sign that you should consider a change.”
“Why is that?” she asked suspiciously.
“I won’t be around forever,” he said. “And the hospital, noble as the work is, is showing no signs of paying you your worth.”
She moodily took up a piece of toast, glaring at it like the jam had inked her pathetic stipend right onto its surface. “If I continue to do my duties, and pray diligently upon the subject, the founders will see my value and change their ways long before you’re not around, Papa. Goodness, I should hope we have plenty of time before we have to start worrying about that.”
“I hope so as well,” he said in that same tight voice. “But you never know how timing might work out, do you?”
He busied himself with the coffee pot, using both hands to steady the thing as if he were feeling a little shaky. There were certainly days when the hospital sent one back heavy-laden with thoughts of how quickly a person’s circumstances could change. She suspected that’s what was troubling him. Poor thing. Probably best to change the subject to its more practical aspect.
“You could try putting in another word for me,” she suggested.
“I share my opinion on the injustice of your meager pay to those men at least monthly. Each time, they promise to ‘take a look at things.’ But my dear, if your generous assumption that they will ever do more than look proves incorrect, then if a time comes when I’m no longer able to work—or, heaven forbid, no longer able to do anything but commune with our Creator at last—”
“Papa, stop that—”
“Then this family will be in a tight spot indeed,” he concluded with an eyebrow raised in implication. “We would not be immediately destitute, but to avoid that eventuality...”
Emily felt her face twist unpleasantly. “We would be reliant on Noah.”
“Reliant on Noah.” Papa nodded. “Whose spiritual gifts lie a bit outside the sphere of domestic security.”
Papa’s generosity severely outstripped Emily’s own. She would not use those words to describe Noah’s complete abandonment of his familial responsibilities. Her most generous interpretation was that he had no tolerance for the ghosts this life came with. He could have been the best tailor in town, so it wasn’t just the medicine. And Farncombe was home to a nice little pocket of nonconformists, so two men living as quietly as he and David had this summer would have attracted little trouble. What Noah had done was bolt. He’d run.
And he’d done it without once stopping to ask what impact that might have on his own sister.
“So,” Papa went on, a bit lightly, like he knew she was thinking ungenerous things about the owner of the third garden chair and hoped to snap her out of it. “It would be a good time, I think, to consider building a patient list of your own.”
“I see what you’re saying, Papa. But...even if you’re right, I don’t think that home-based obstetrics is the specialty that I would choose for myself.”
“Why not?” Papa said, cutting neatly across Emily’s subtext. “Statistically, outcomes are still best in the home with a trained physician, an arrangement a poor woman like Noah’s friend may only be able to manage through your generosity of spirit. What better choice is out there for you?”
Emily stared at him. From her seat, she could see the ratty old shawl of her mother’s that Papa still kept draped over the back of his favorite armchair, not far off from one of her sewing kits, which lounged like an immortal wicker cat beneath an end table. The devastation of another physician’s failure all around them, day in and day out, and all of a sudden, her father wanted to talk statistics?
She blinked a few times, but he simply ate his breakfast and waited patiently for her reply.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. It was too heavy to speak.
“Pure obstetrics...” she began, finding another convenient annoyance to blame instead, “is the only field anyone ever wants to see me in!” Yes. That was reason enough on its own, really. “I’m trying to convince my peers that I am fit to minister to any patient, man or woman. If I lean so far into the idea that female doctors should only treat female patients by taking on someone like this, then what good am I to the cause of women at all?”
“While I understand the frustration of your limitations, I would still encourage you to spend a little extra time in contemplation to figure out why you suddenly care more for a nebulous cause than for a fellow human being in need. That’s not like you, Emily.”
Caught in her lackluster excuse-making, Emily took a moment to eat. The conversation had left her stomach churning and her appetite miles away, but without sustenance, she would never get through the day ahead of her. Once she’d choked a few bites down, she said to her plate, “It’s also a lot of responsibility.” Though she tried to keep her eyes on her porridge, they drifted out the window to the three garden chairs that should have been four all along. “A mistake in this specialty...it echoes.”
Papa reached out, hesitating for an odd moment, stretching his fingers, before patting Emily on the hand. When she looked up, she found a softness in his eyes. He finally understood what she was trying to say.
“As does a success,” he said quietly. “Same in any specialty in which life and death hang in the balance. The field has come a long way in thirty years. It could go further still, with the right people leading the charge. What’s more helpful? Waiting around for ignorant men to take notice of your daily grind, or scraping together what you’ve got and being part of something that will outlive all their prejudices?”
“Papa—”
“If the reasons I’ve given aren’t enough, I have one more for you.”
“What’s that?”
He picked the letter up again and smirked at it. “Your brother has gone out of his way for a stranger in need for once. I think that this rare moment of social consideration is something we ought to encourage in him, don’t you? Particularly seeing as we both run the risk of relying on his generosity later?”
“I still don’t think we need to worry about that yet,” said Emily, not liking the way Papa wasn’t meeting her eyes again. “There’s plenty of time for the two of us to save and set ourselves up for the future. Correct?”
“I have always diligently saved, of course, as have you,” he said a bit vaguely.
Emily narrowed her eyes, watching him go on about his breakfast.
“Papa—”
“I hope you do it, Emily,” he said at last, straightforward and without further room for argument. “There are many reasons it would be beneficial for you.” He paused, considering her. “And for this woman. Society at large, as well, if that’s truly the motivation you need right now.”
Emily nodded, knowing she was not going to be able to find a way out of this. Defeated, she stared out the window at three chairs, briefly more jealous than resentful for that streak of selfishness that had allowed Noah to escape the specters that she had accepted.
As promised, the woman in question (an actress by the name of Vanessa Garcia), her consort (a fellow with very little information given and the suspiciously innocuous moniker of Smith), and the female companion they and Noah all had in common agreed to travel to Emily’s own home in Farncombe for the initial meeting.
It was a nice show of respect for Miss Garcia to take on the task of travel herself. It put Emily in a good mood as she prepared the parlor to receive them. Sunshine came through the curtains, making all the houseplants gleam in a smooth and straightforward way. She had her medical bag stocked with far more than she would need today; unlike the physicians she’d trained under, she felt strongly that doctor and patient ought to speak a bit before anyone was overly prodded, but it did make patients feel comfortable to see that she had all the same instruments and medicines that any other physician would. Depending on whom she was meeting, she would sometimes deign to wear a health corset under her clothes so as not to appear sloppy or overly modern, but seeing as that shouldn’t be a problem in this crowd, she was able to swathe herself simply in her favorite gray jacket and skirt set, so slim and structured that a corset was silly so long as a woman kept her posture in mind.
Which Emily, of course, always did.
At the appointed time, Emily was seated in the parlor equipped with ginger biscuits, watercress sandwiches, and boiled lemon water to refresh her guests, ready...
And waiting.
They were late.
She shouldn’t be too irritated. She really shouldn’t. In fact, she wasn’t.
Her foot tap, tap, tapped on the rug and her eyes glued themselves to the old grandfather clock that kept watch over time in the parlor.
It was probably the train’s fault.
She could not fault the visitors for the train’s shortcomings.
(Her foot went on tapping.)
She would not fault them.
(Tap, tap, tap...)
She very actively did not fault them for nearly twenty-three minutes before the front door creaked open. Thank heavens. Emily ensured once more that there was no speck of sawdust or cavy fur on her skirt, then stood with her hands clasped carefully before her, spine like a steel rod and her face fixed into the serious physician look she and the others at the women’s medical college had spent evenings perfecting with one another. You can trust me, the look said. I am capable. I am skilled. I am a doctor.
Betsy came first. She did not have a serious physician look on her face. In fact, she looked a little amused. Flushed, even.
“A Miss Vanessa Garcia,” she said with a nod as a beautiful woman dressed in cheap silks glided into the parlor. Emily assessed her automatically, accustomed to emergency situations at the hospital where she had to understand a patient swiftly: the woman’s condition was not visible yet, hopefully not because she was still corseting; while she’d shamelessly applied cosmetics to her face, the paint could not quite hide her advanced age for a first-time mother, nor her uncommon pallor. She did not look particularly strong, much less prepared for the trials of childbearing than Emily’s own mother had been, if her father’s report could be believed—
Emily’s increasingly dread-filled assessment was cut short as Betsy ushered another person into the parlor.
“And...” Here, the housekeeper’s amusement cracked into an incredulous smile. “And a Mrs. Jo Smith.”
Emily blinked in the sauntering sight of the second guest. It did not take much assessment to ascertain that Mrs. Jo Smith was not the unwed father that Emily had been expecting, though she had not dressed the part of female companion very accurately, either. While Emily fretted about whether she could get away without a corset, Mrs. Smith had not even bothered with a frock. For a moment, Emily questioned whether the woman had taken a bicycle from Godalming station, but no: those trousers were decidedly not a set of the split-leg women’s “rationals” that were popular among Emily’s physically active peers. Mrs. Smith was in full-on gentleman’s attire—reddish-brown trousers and matching jacket, with a darker waistcoat and a blue paisley neckcloth. The coloring of the clothing brought out the dusky tan of her face and made the black of her eyes, her hair, her obscenely long eyelashes, look like coal compared to the pale peaches and living greens of the parlor décor. Lovely and ostentatious as Miss Garcia was, it was Mrs. Smith who suddenly had all of Emily’s attention, everything else in the room fading as if the woman had stepped under the greedy glow of a surgical lamp.
“Dr. Clarke.” Mrs. Smith extended a hand. Emily stared at it, too shaken to shake. Mrs. Smith smiled warmly. “Our introduction having been on paper, I’m doing my best. I tried to make Noah come along to smooth it out, but I lost that bet. Cheating blighter. Though I’m sure you know that as well as anyone.”
Emily found herself without any reasonable script for this introduction. Her brother (who was not so strictly male as most brothers) sending a written introduction to his friend (not so strictly female as her title indicated), who was accompanying an unwed mother-to-be to meet with Emily, a doctor who had learned to equate respect with masculine treatment. And where on earth was the baby’s father? Wasn’t he supposed to be here?
“It’s a hand, Dr. Clarke,” said Mrs. Smith with a little wiggle of her clean, well-kept fingers. “I know we’re here to discuss other parts, but I do hope you’re familiar with this aspect of human anatomy as well?”
Miss Garcia gave a chiding little click of the tongue and a smile. “Goodness, Jo.”
Mrs. Smith shrugged it off, unconcerned, but the chide did rekindle the connection between Emily’s brain and her body. She hurriedly clasped Mrs. Smith’s hand, smooth and warm, with a shake firmer than she was used to getting from people in trousers, who seemed to think a proper greeting might crush her little fingers.
Emily took her hand back quickly, trying to squeeze out the tingle before extending it to Miss Garcia. She kept her gaze firmly on the patient, deciding all at once that the best thing to do with Mrs. Smith would be to ignore her.
“Thank you, Betsy,” Emily said to the housekeeper, her voice sticking. She cleared her throat. “I’ll take it from here.”
Emily set determinedly about getting them all settled in for what she was certain would be a perfectly typical appointment, thank-you-very-much. She put Miss Garcia on the settee, Mrs. Smith in the striped chair, Emily herself on the—
No sooner was Emily smoothing her skirt when Mrs. Smith moved to sit beside Miss Garcia, like she really did intend to play husband. Considering these were Noah and David’s friends, perhaps Mrs. Smith was something of a husband to Miss Garcia. But that didn’t seem quite right. And what would such an arrangement mean about the baby’s father? She had been under the impression that he was part of all this, to the degree of planning to join them today, though perhaps there was more to that than she understood...
And good heavens, if Mrs. Smith was going to take the role on, she could have done it all the way. One did not graduate from the women’s medical college without coming to understand the myriad reasons that someone who’d started life in one sphere might switch to the other later on. Emily could have been happily discreet and polite had she encountered a Mr. Smith who might have at least attempted to tame a bosom that was stressing a wayward waistcoat button in a manner that was currently quite distracting.
She cleared her throat again, pouring a little lemon water for each of them and taking a warm, acidic sip before going on.
“So, Miss Garcia,” she said, hitching her gaze to the likely-fake beauty mark on the side of the woman’s face so as to avoid looking at Mrs. Smith. “I want to thank you again for your willingness to come all the way out here. I understand that you’re facing significant discomforts.”
“Indeed.” Miss Garcia smiled her way through the admission, though the expression could not hide her exhaustion.
“I could have come to you, you know. I make the trip to London frequently; it’s no trouble for me.”
Mrs. Smith sighed and crossed her arms, taxing her loose button to a dangerous degree. “That’s what I told her, but then she never could have witnessed the living space of such a fascinating human being.”
Miss Garcia laughed and nudged her companion, leaning in toward Emily to say, “We’re getting to know each other so very well these days, she and I.” She laced her arm through Mrs. Smith’s in a casual, girlish way that seemed to remove the possibility that they were lovers. “And she’s absolutely correct. It is my life’s work to observe how people move through the world, Dr. Clarke. I couldn’t resist the pull of novelty in coming into your space. A doctor. A bluestocking. A respectable dissenter.” She waved her spare arm here and there like Emily’s roles were balloons she was releasing into the air. “No woman like that ever lets me near her, much less into her home. The trip was uncomfortable to be sure, but I have already been well-rewarded for the effort.”
Emily wasn’t sure how to respond to that. In her bewilderment, she made the mistake of locking eyes with the mysterious Mrs. Smith.
Mrs. Smith shrugged, looking like she’d been subjected to a lot of this sort of talk all the way here. “Did Noah mention she’s an actress?” said Mrs. Smith. “Because she’s absolutely an actress.”
“An actress. Of course. Well, that’s...understandable,” said Emily, the somewhat inappropriate word falling from her lips before she could catch it. “Actresses, I suppose, do...find themselves in this sort of situation from time to time. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Have you?” said Miss Garcia, one of her darkly lined brows cresting upward with interest.
“Yes.” Emily settled her notepad carefully in the center of her lap. “And I must admit—”
“Here it comes,” Miss Garcia muttered to her companion.
“I find it very admirable that you are approaching the situation with gravity and responsibility,” said Emily, catching the look of surprise that crossed their faces. “Your presence here shows that your health and the health of your child is of greater consequence than your reputation. Many a woman in your situation would not even show her face before a doctor until the wedding vows were completed. That you’ve come when it was necessary, rather than when it was proper, gives an impression of very good character on your part.”
Miss Garcia and Mrs. Smith stared at each other for a moment longer than was natural.
“What—ah—what wedding vows are you referring to?” said Mrs. Smith at last.
“Has the father abandoned you?” said Emily, directing the question to Miss Garcia. “I was under the impression he had made the decision to step up.”
“He has,” said Miss Garcia defensively. “He will. In fact, one might say he’s loyal to a fault.”
Though Emily was trying very hard to keep her focus off Mrs. Smith and her wayward waistcoat buttons, she could not help but notice how the words made the odd woman stiffen unhappily.
“They’re not marrying,” Mrs. Smith said very carefully, hastily, like she wanted to get her answer out before Miss Garcia could, “because they do not believe in the institution. Isn’t that right, Vanessa? They’re free thinkers.”
Free thinkers. Free thinkers, actresses, and women in trousers. Noah’s friends indeed.
“I consider myself a free thinker as well,” said Emily tightly. “But it is one thing to think freely, and another to act foolishly. Miss Garcia, you really ought to reconsider—”
“Look, Doctor. They’re a bit...freer,” Mrs. Smith went on, eyeing Emily’s gray skirt and jacket set with distinct disdain, “than you’ll ever understand. They’re arranging their lives in accordance with their principles, though. That’s admirable as well, innit? If they believe the institution is oppressive, and their lives aren’t the sort to be upended by lack of conformity, then why should they marry?”
The argument had gone to surprising detail and depth more quickly than was appropriate. Emily was missing something. Something important.
“Not that I’m sure it’s your business, Mrs. Smith,” Emily said sternly. “But even free thinkers ought to consider marrying for the child’s benefit. To be born out of wedlock is—”
“A technicality,” said Mrs. Smith, very pointed, sharpened by something Emily still didn’t understand as she reached for one of the ginger biscuits and passed it over to Miss Garcia. “Nothing more or less than that in our corner of London. Now, Vanessa, dear, do eat something, would you? It’s been a long trip; you’re looking pale.”
“Thank you, Jo.” Miss Garcia sighed and stretched like her back was giving her trouble. “A technicality indeed. We’re just full to bursting with them, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean by that?” Emily asked.
“Well, the reason he couldn’t marry me even if we wanted to is a technical one.” She nibbled carefully on the biscuit before going on, much to the obvious chagrin of Mrs. Smith. “You are a sharp woman, Dr. Clarke. I can feel the vibrations of your intelligence from all the way over here. You will figure us out in due time, so I am going to head it off at the pass: he cannot marry me, because he is already married.”
Mrs. Smith tipped her head back in annoyance that bordered on horror. “We weren’t going to mention that.”
“Well, of course we weren’t, for fear you would think it a scandal,” she said to Emily. “But I can see now that we will never get away with fooling someone like you. I can assure you, however, that the scandal is no more or less than you originally understood. You see, he would marry me if he could, but the wife is, as we have just discussed, a technicality.”
“How is an entire wife a technicality?” A righteous rage bubbled up within Emily, one she’d have preferred to release all at once with a shout, but settled for allowing it to gently hiss. “And if he sees his current wife as a technicality, what might that say about how he sees you?”
“Oh!” Miss Garcia said with a sly little nudge to her companion. “She doesn’t mind being technical, don’t worry.”
“She...what?”
“Why should she mind?” muttered Mrs. Smith, looking a little defeated. “A technical wife is the best sort to be, ain’t it?”
Mrs. Smith.
Mrs.
Smith.
All semblance of a serious doctor’s expression was lost as Emily’s jaw dropped nearly to the floor.
“I...” she stammered as everything clicked together. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain it real simple,” said Mrs. Smith, leaning her elbows on her knees and flashing those devious dark eyes up at Emily. “I wasn’t getting any use out of him, so I popped a bow on his head and gave him to Miss Garcia as a present one Christmas. Very thrifty, if I do say so myself. Especially now that he’s proven to be the gift that keeps on giving.” She looked pointedly at Miss Garcia’s abdomen.
“And...and you didn’t bring him because—”
“Other matters called him off last minute.” Every angle of her heart-shaped face was set into an unmistakable challenge. “But in the meantime, I have been tending to Miss Garcia’s discomforts to the best of my ability. I arranged this meeting, and I know more about what she needs to take care of herself in this condition than he does. So I came instead, as the person best equipped to judge your qualifications.”
Emily bristled at the waspish tone. “And just what makes you so equipped?”
“Try asking again later,” said Mrs. Smith. “Once you’ve shown us you can do something other than nose around into the non-medical details of our lives. Nosiness is bad for your humors, and so your devotion to it isn’t inspiring a lot of confidence in me just yet.”
A dreadful heat rose to Emily’s face. “I’m not...and even if I was, when you say humors, you don’t mean—?”
A dark brow drifted upward. “The regular bodily humors, Dr. Clarke. I should hope I don’t have to list them for a physician.”
Humors?Who in their right mind would march in here, dressed a scandal, refusing to answer basic questions, and then start talking to a real, qualified physician about humors? Did Mrs. Smith really have that low an opinion of a female doctor?
Or, even worse, did this strange, fascinating woman actually believe in the influence of humors?
She tried to go back to ignoring her, but it was difficult. Not only was the uncommon beauty of hers a terrible distraction, but the sight of Miss Garcia didn’t help Emily’s nerves much either, weak and tired as the actress was. Trying to imagine this wisp of an actress making it through a first labor set all manner of dark predictions swirling through Emily’s mind.
Set so firmly between doom and desire, she took out her record book and tried her very best to convince herself that she was remotely the doctor they thought she was.