Marrying Winterborne (10 page)

A frown crossed Rhys's face as he saw tenants being evicted from the building that was next in line to be demolished. Some of them were defiant, others wailing, as they carried their belongings outside and set them in heaps on the pavement. It was a pity for the poor devils to be turned out into the street in the dead of winter.

Following his gaze to the distraught residents, Severin looked momentarily grim. “They were all given a period of notice to vacate,” he said. “The building
would have been condemned in any case. But some people stayed on. It always happens.”

“Where would they go?” Rhys asked rhetorically.

“God only knows. But it's no good, allowing people to live among open cesspools.”

Rhys's gaze rested briefly on a young boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age, sitting alone amid a small heap of belongings, including a chair, a frying pan, and a heap of soiled bedding. The lad appeared to be guarding the pile of possessions while waiting for someone to return. Most likely his mother or father was out looking for accommodations.

“I've had a glimpse of the plans,” Severin said. “The new buildings will be five stories tall, with running water and a water-closet on each floor. As I understand it, the basements will house communal kitchens, washhouses, and drying rooms. At the front, they'll install iron railings to form a protected play area for children. Are you interested in seeing copies of the architectural schemes?”

“Aye. Along with deeds, bills of sale, building agreements, mortgages, and a list of all contractors and subcontractors.”

“I knew you would,” Severin said with satisfaction.

“With the condition,” Rhys continued, “that some of your Hammersmith railway shares are on the table as well.”

Severin's smug expression faded. “Look here, you sticky-fingered bastard, I'm not going to sweeten the deal with bloody railway shares. That's not even my building. I'm just showing it to you!”

Rhys grinned. “But you do want someone to buy it. And you won't find many prospective buyers with all the cheap undeveloped land available in the boroughs.”

“If you think—”

The rest of Severin's words were drowned out by an ominous cracking sound, a deafening rumble, and shouts of alarm. Both men turned to look as the upper portion of one of the condemned buildings began to collapse. Rotting beams and timbers had given way to gravity, slate tiles sliding downward and tumbling over the eaves.

The abandoned boy, perched on his pile of belongings, was directly below the deadly cascade.

Without thinking, Rhys raced toward the child, forgetting the stiffness of his leg in his haste to reach him. He threw himself over the boy, making a shelter of his body, just before he felt a tremendous blow on his shoulder and back. His entire skeleton quivered. Through the burst of white sparks in his head, some distant part of his brain calculated that he'd been struck heavily—there would be considerable damage—and then everything went dark.

“W
INTERBORNE.
W
INTERBORNE.
C
OME NOW,
open your—yes, there's a good fellow. Look at me.”

Rhys blinked, awakening slowly to the bewildered awareness that he was on the ground, in the perishing cold. There was a crowd around him, exclaiming, questioning, shouting advice, and Severin was leaning over him.

Pain. He was submerged in it. Not the worst pain he'd ever experienced, but considerable nonetheless. It was difficult to move. He could tell that something was drastically wrong with his left arm, which had gone numb and motionless.

“The boy—” he said, recalling the roof collapse, the tumble of wood and slate.

“Unharmed. He was trying to pick your pocket before I shooed him away.” Giving him a mocking glance, Severin continued, “if you're going to risk your life for someone, do it for a useful member of society, not a street urchin.” He extended a hand, intending to help Rhys up.

“My arm won't move.”

“Which one? The left? You've probably broken it. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but when a building is falling down, you run
away
from it, not toward it.”

A commanding female voice pierced the cacophony
of voices and steam engines. “Let me through! Move to the side, please. Out of my way.”

A woman dressed in black with a jaunty green necktie at her throat, pushed her way through the crowd with brisk determination, deftly employing a curved-handle walking stick to prod slow-moving bystanders. She looked at Rhys with an assessing gaze and knelt beside him, heedless of the muddy ground.

“Miss,” Severin began with a touch of annoyance, “no doubt you're trying to be of use, but—”

“I'm a physician,” she said curtly.

“You mean a nurse?” Severin asked.

Ignoring him, she asked Rhys, “Where is the worst pain?”

“Shoulder.”

“Move your fingers, please.” She watched as he complied. “Does the arm feel numb? Tingly?”

“Numb.” Clenching his teeth, Rhys looked up at her. A young woman, still in her twenties. Pretty, with brown hair and large green eyes. Despite her slim form and fine features, she conveyed an impression of sturdiness. Very gently, she took hold of his arm and elbow and tested the range of motion. Rhys grunted as a spear of agony went through his shoulder. Carefully the woman settled the arm back against his midriff. “Pardon,” she murmured, reaching beneath his coat to feel his shoulder. An explosion of icy heat sent sparks across his vision.

“Agghh!”

“I don't believe it's fractured.” She withdrew her hand from his coat.

“That's enough,” Severin said in exasperation. “You're going to make his injuries worse. He needs a doctor, not some—”

“I have a medical degree. And your friend has a dislocated shoulder.” She untied the green bow at her throat and pulled the scarf free. “Give me your necktie. We have to secure his arm before we move him.”

“Move him where?” Severin asked.

“My practice is two streets away. Your necktie, please.”

“But—”

“Give it to her,” Rhys snapped, his collapsed shoulder on fire.

Grumbling, Severin complied.

Deftly the woman improvised a sling with the green scarf, knotted it at the level of Rhys's collarbone, and adjusted the edge around his elbow. With Severin's help, she slid the necktie around Rhys's midriff and over the numb arm, securing it close to his body.

“We'll help you to your feet,” she told Rhys. “You won't have to walk far. I have the proper facilities and supplies to treat your shoulder.”

Severin scowled. “Miss, I have to object—”

“Dr. Gibson,” she said crisply.

“Dr. Gibson,” he said, with an emphasis on the “Dr.” that sounded distinctly insulting. “This is Mr. Winterborne. The one with the department store. He needs to be treated by a real physician with experience and proper training, not to mention—”

“A penis?” she suggested acidly. “I'm afraid I don't have one of those. Nor is it a requirement for a medical degree. I am a real physician, and the sooner I treat Mr. Winterborne's shoulder, the better it will go for him.” At Severin's continued hesitation, she said, “The limited external rotation of the shoulder, impaired elevation of the arm, and the prominence of the coracoid process all indicate posterior dislocation. Therefore,
the joint must be relocated without delay if we are to prevent further damage to the neurovascular status of the upper extremity.”

Had Rhys not been in such acute discomfort, he would have relished Severin's stunned expression.

“I'll help you move him,” Severin muttered.

During the short but torturous walk, Severin persisted in questioning the woman, who answered with admirable patience. Her name was Garrett Gibson, and she had been born in East London. After enrolling at a local hospital as a nursing student, she had begun to take classes intended for doctors. Three years ago, she had earned a medical degree at the University of Sorbonne in Paris, and subsequently returned to London. As was common, she had established her practice out of a private home, which in this case happened to be her widowed father's residence.

They reached the three-story house, tucked in a row of comfortably middle-class Georgian-style terraces built with crimson cutting bricks. Such buildings were invariably designed with one room in the front and one in the back on each story, with a passageway and a staircase on one side.

A maid opened the door and welcomed them inside. Dr. Gibson ushered them into the back room, a scrupulously clean surgery that had been furnished with an examination table, a bench, a desk, and a wall of mahogany cabinets. She directed Rhys to sit on the examination table, constructed with a padded leather top over a cabinet base. The top was divided into hinged sections that could be adjusted to raise the head, upper torso, or feet.

After quickly shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her hat, Dr. Gibson handed them to the maid. She
approached Rhys and gently removed the makeshift sling. “Before you lie down, Mr. Winterborne,” she said, “we'll need to remove your coat.”

He nodded, cold sweat trickling down his face.

“How can I help?” Severin asked.

“Begin with the sleeve on the uninjured side. I'll take the other. Pray do not jostle the arm any more than necessary.”

Despite their extreme care during the process, Rhys winced and groaned as he was divested of the coat. Closing his eyes, he felt himself sway in his seated position.

Severin immediately steadied him with a hand on his good shoulder. “I think we should cut off the shirt and waistcoat,” he suggested.

“I agree,” Dr. Gibson said. “Keep him steady while I attend to it.”

Rhys blinked his eyes open as he felt his upper garments being removed with a few strokes of a wickedly sharp blade. One thing was certain—the woman knew how to wield a knife. Glancing at her small, dispassionate face, he wondered about what it must have taken for her to earn a place for herself in a man's profession.

“Holy hell,” Severin murmured, as the bruised flesh of Rhys's back and shoulder became visible. “I hope saving that ragamuffin was worth it, Winterborne.”

“Of course it was,” Dr. Gibson said, having turned to rummage through a cabinet. “He saved the boy's life. One never knows what a child might become someday.”

“In this case, definitely a criminal,” Severin said.

“Possibly,” the woman said, returning with a small glass filled with amber liquid. “But not definitely.” She
handed the glass to Rhys. “Here you are, Mr. Winterborne.”

“What is it?” he asked warily, taking it in his good hand.

“Something to help you relax.”

Rhys took an experimental taste. “Whisky,” he said, surprised and grateful. A decent vintage at that. He downed it in a couple of swallows, and extended the glass for more. “It takes more than one to relax me,” he told her. At her skeptical glance, he explained, “Welsh.”

Dr. Gibson smiled reluctantly, her green eyes sparkling, and she went to pour another.

“I need to relax as well,” Severin told her.

She looked amused. “I'm afraid you'll have to remain sober,” she replied, “as I shall require your assistance.” After retrieving the glass from Rhys and setting it aside, she slid a strong arm behind his back. “Mr. Winterborne, we'll help you to lie down. Slowly, now. Mr. Severin, if you will lift his feet . . .”

Rhys eased to the leather surface, letting out a few curses in Welsh as his back settled on the table. Agony radiated through him in continuous spikes.

Dr. Gibson used her foot to depress a pedal several times in succession, raising the level of the table. She moved to his injured side. “Mr. Severin, please take a position on his other side. I will need you to reach an arm across him, and place your hand on the side of the ribcage to stabilize him. Yes, there.”

Severin grinned down at Rhys as he followed the doctor's directions. “How do you feel about those Hammersmith shares now that you're at my mercy?” he asked.

“Still want them,” Rhys managed to say.

“I doubt you'll need this, Mr. Winterborne,” Dr. Gibson said, bringing a section of leather strap to his mouth, “but I'd advise it as a precaution.” Seeing Rhys's hesitation, she said, “It's clean. I never re-use supplies.”

Rhys took it between his teeth.

“Are you physically strong enough for this?” Severin asked Gibson doubtfully.

“Would you like to arm-wrestle?” she offered with such cool aplomb that Rhys let out a huff of amusement.

“No,” Severin said at once. “I can't take the chance that you might win.”

The doctor smiled at him. “I doubt I would win, Mr. Severin. But I would at least make it difficult for you.” She took Rhys's wrist in her right hand. With her other hand, she gripped beneath his upper arm. “Keep him steady,” she warned Severin. Slowly, smoothly, she exerted traction while pushing the arm upward and rotating it until the joint popped back into place.

Rhys made a sound of relief as the stabbing misery eased. Turning his head, he spat out the leather and drew in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

“Right as rain,” the woman said in satisfaction, feeling the shoulder to make certain everything was in place.

“Well done,” Severin said. “You're very clever, Dr. Gibson.”

“I prefer the word ‘competent,'” she said. “But thank you all the same.” Using the table's foot pedal mechanism, she lowered the level of the table. “I apologize for the loss of your shirt and waistcoat,” she commented, reaching into a lower cabinet for a length of white cloth.

Rhys shook his head to indicate that it was of no importance.

“The shoulder will become increasingly sore and swollen over the next few days,” she continued, “but you must try to use your arm naturally in spite of the discomfort. Otherwise the muscles will weaken from disuse. For the rest of today, keep it supported in a sling and refrain from exertion.” After she helped him to sit upright, she expertly tied a sling around his neck and arm. “You may have difficulty sleeping for the next few nights: I'll prescribe a tonic that will help. Take one spoonful at bedtime, no more.” She retrieved his coat and carefully draped it over his shoulders.

“I'll step outside and wave down a hackney,” Severin said. “We can't have Winterborne walking outside in all his bare-chested glory or the pavement will be cluttered with swooning females.”

As Severin left the room, Rhys awkwardly reached for his wallet, tucked in an inside pocket of his coat. “What is your fee?” he asked.

“A florin will be sufficient.”

The sum was half of the four shillings that Dr. Havelock, the staff physician at Winterborne's, would have charged. Rhys fished out the coin and gave it to her. “You're very competent, Dr. Gibson,” he said gravely.

She smiled, neither blushing nor denying the praise. He liked her, this proficient and unusual woman. Despite the obvious odds against her, he hoped she would succeed in her profession.

“I won't hesitate to recommend your services,” Rhys continued.

“That is very kind, Mr. Winterborne. However, I'm afraid my practice will close by the end of the month.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes became shadowed.

“May I ask why?”

“Patients are few and far between. People fear that a woman has neither the physical stamina nor mental acuity to practice medicine.” A mirthless smile curled her lips. “I have even been told that women are unable to hold their tongues, and therefore a lady doctor would constantly violate her patients' privacy.”

“I understand all about prejudice,” Rhys said quietly. “The only way to fight it is to prove them wrong.”

“Yes.” But her gaze became absent, and she went to busy herself with rearranging a tray of supplies.

“How good are you?” Rhys asked.

She stiffened and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

“Recommend yourself to me,” he said simply.

Gibson turned to face him with a thoughtful frown. “While I worked as a surgery nurse at St. Thomas's, I undertook private tuition to obtain certificates in anatomy, physiology, and chemistry. At the Sorbonne, I took honors in anatomy for two years, and the top prize in midwifery for three. I also studied for a brief time with Sir Joseph Lister, who instructed me in his techniques of antiseptic surgery. In short, I'm very good. And I could have helped a great many people, given the . . .” Her voice faded as she saw Rhys withdraw a card from his wallet.

He extended it to her. “Bring this to Winterborne's on Monday morning at nine o'clock sharp. Ask for Mrs. Fernsby.”

“May I ask for what purpose?” The doctor's eyes had widened.