11. Light Touch #3
The full weight of her foolishness crashed over her. She had let him into her home, her practice, her heart, all while he systematically gathered evidence against her. Every intimate moment, every shared confidence, had been calculated to lower her guard.
“Stupid, stupid woman,” she berated herself, pacing the study.
Her medical training had taught her to observe, to question, to verify. Yet she had ignored every warning sign because he had made her feel understood in a way no one else had.
She collapsed back into her chair, mind racing. Without that data, she couldn’t prove her theory about the water supply. More people would die while she reconstructed her research. Weeks of careful observation and calculations, all gone.
But worse than the loss of data was the hollowness in her chest. She’d allowed herself to believe in something magical, a man who saw her intelligence as an asset rather than a liability, who matched her passion for medicine with his own.
Instead, he had used that connection to betray her more thoroughly.
“It was all an act,” she said aloud, needing to hear the harsh truth.
Each gentle touch, each heated glance, each shared moment of discovery, all carefully orchestrated to distract her while he completed his mission.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. Crying was for romantic fools who believed in fairy tales. She was a woman of science, and she had been played for one. At a moment like this, she desperately wanted her friend, Helen, to comfort her.
17 December 1840
My dearest Helen,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter, for my hands tremble even as I write these words.
Everett has betrayed me in ways I could never have imagined.
The man I thought understood me, cherished me, saw me as an equal…
It was all an elaborate deception. While I opened my heart and my secret to him, he was methodically gathering evidence against me.
Every confidence shared, every intimate moment, every late night discussing our past and present; he was simply biding his time, waiting to strike.
He has stolen my research, Helen. Months of careful observations and data about the water supply—gone.
But the theft of my work, devastating as it is, pales in comparison to the hollow ache in my chest. I gave him something far more precious than my research.
I gave him my trust. For the first time in my life, I believed I had found a man who valued my mind as much as my heart, who saw my dedication to medicine as a virtue rather than a flaw.
What a fool I’ve been! I’ve been trained to observe and analyse, yet I missed every sign. Or perhaps I chose to ignore them, so desperate was I to believe that someone could truly accept me as I am.
I vacillate between rage and despair. One moment I want to scream at the injustice; the next I can barely breathe for the pain. How could I have been so blind? The worst part is that I cannot even hate him properly, for my traitorous heart still longs for him.
I fear for my future now. Will he report me to the Royal College?
Everything I have worked for, every sacrifice made to practice medicine, could all be undone by his betrayal.
Yet I refuse to let him destroy me. I am still Dr Emma Brown, even if the world denies me that title.
I will rebuild my research. I will find new evidence. I will continue my work.
But, oh Helen, how does one recover from such a profound betrayal? How does one learn to trust again when the very act of opening one’s heart feels like madness? I have always prided myself on my rationality, on keeping my emotions properly contained. This pain is almost unbearable.
Forgive my rambling words. I know I must pull myself together, for there are patients who need me. I cannot afford the luxury of self-pity. Yet I needed to unburden my heart to someone, and you have always been my truest friend.
Please write soon. Your words of wisdom, even your gentle “I told you so,” would be a comfort right now.
With a broken but resolving heart,
Emma
P.S. I promise you this: never again will I let a man’s pretty words override my better judgment. Science and medicine are to be my only loves from now on.
Emma began gathering the scattered papers, her movements becoming more purposeful. She would start over. Rebuild her research. Find new evidence. And this time, she’d trust only Kincaid and herself.
But even as she made plans to reconstruct her research, her mind betrayed her. Her hands remembered the texture of his skin. Her ears echoed with the smooth tones of his voice. Her body recalled the exquisite torture of his touch. Each memory was now tainted by knowledge of his true purpose.
The morning light strengthened, reminding her that she needed to check on Mr Thorpe and head to the hospital to attend the round.
She had work to do, lives to save. She couldn’t afford to wallow in self-pity.
It was time to return to what she did best: healing others while keeping her own heart safely locked away.