The Prince Page 19

  “She’s taking advantage of charity,” he said.

  Wiping her hands dry, Libby reached for her lunch pail, carried it to Mrs. Small’s bed, and opened it.

  “I’ve extra cheese and bread today, Mrs. Small.” She tucked it into the woman’s hand.

  “A heart o’ gold you’ve got, dear lad.”

  Libby didn’t bother looking at her fellow apprentice as she departed. She knew he would be sneering.

  Later at the library Archie whispered, “Cheddar’s up to something.”

  Libby dragged her attention from the chemistry text and blinked to bring him into focus. “Up to?”

  “He’s no’ himself.”

  “It’s the depth of winter and we all have piles of work to do. None of us are ourselves.” Least of all her housemate. The prosthesis suited him perfectly, so well that their conversation when she had given it to him had lasted only minutes. Now she was concerned. Mrs. Coutts had shared her worries too.

  “He’s in pain, lass. He’ll no’ tell a soul, bless him. The master’s a proud man. But I’ve ne’er seen him like this.”

  Libby agreed. At her sittings she had noticed the whiteness about his knuckles and lips, the discomfort he seemed to have sitting and standing, his restlessness. Yet when she asked him about it, he said nothing.

  The prosthesis was precisely designed. Mr. Syme agreed. She had done exceptional work. Her patient should now be walking more comfortably than he had since the amputation. He must have sciatica pain. Or . . . She didn’t know. But he was avoiding her, and she was simply too busy to pursue it. Mr. Bell had sent letters of introduction for her to every medical man of influence in town, telling her that she must win the approval of these men too.

  Someday, Mr. Smart, he had written to her, you will be one of Britain’s greatest surgeons.

  Now her studies consumed every moment. She hardly ever slept. Peevish with her friends, she often studied alone and spent lunchtime at the infirmary observing any physician or surgeon who would allow it.

  “Archie, I don’t have time to concern myself with Chedham’s fits and starts.”

  “Last night he left the pub early, so I followed him. He went straight to Bridges’s house.”

  “His house?” No student would ever call on a surgeon or physician at home late at night, unless invited.

  “Aye.” Archie nodded. “There’s no good in that, lad.”

  “Perhaps he is having trouble with his project.” As she was, damn her subject’s royal pride.

  “Then why didna he wait till tomorrow at the infirmary to ask Bridges?”

  “We’re always quite busy.” But she and Chedham often quizzed Mr. Bridges on their studies as they moved between patients, competing over which of them could bring to their mentor the most knotty problem to solve together.

  Knotty.

  In her mind, a bolt slipped into place.

  Shoving aside the chemistry text, she leaped up and went into the stacks. Running along the bindings printed in gold lettering, her fingers landed on the one she sought. Her eyes ran over the words as she turned pages. There were few diagrams; accurate engravings of human anatomy were too expensive for most printers to commission. But she remembered something she had read . . . There.

  Snapping the volume shut, she threw notebooks into her satchel.

  “Leaving already?” Archie said.

  “I’ve got to.”

  Ziyaeddin was rarely at home—avoiding her, she assumed. Now on a Wednesday, when it was her habit after lecture to study at the library until she and her friends went to the pub for dinner, he would not expect her home. He might be there.

  She understood what he was suffering. She would speak with Mr. Syme about it, and write to Mr. Bell in London too. But she already knew. And she could fix it.

  One last time she would disregard his wish for privacy, and make him listen to her.

  Standing before the easel, Ziyaeddin shifted his weight from foot to false foot. The balance was sublime. But no position relieved the agony. Like knives buried deep in his flesh trying to cut their way toward his skin, the pain made every movement a curse.

  She burst into his studio, flinging the door wide and striding in.

  “You must allow me to—”

  “No,” he said.

  She came directly to him, halting in a scented whorl of mint and lavender. Strong scent was unusual for her, unless it was of the surgery. It filled his head, clearing it abruptly of the muddle.

  “Is there swelling?” she demanded. “Or streaks of red beneath your skin?”

  “No.”

  “I know you are in pain.”

  “Leave here.”

  She glanced at the canvas, then at the deepening dusk without. “How can you paint when—”

  A sound of warning came through his clenched teeth.

  “Was that a snarl?” she said.

  “Leave.”

  “I—”

  “It is not Sunday at ten o’clock. You do not belong here.”

  “In fact I do.”

  The winter evening was rainy and his studio was dim. He had not lit lamps, for that would require moving about and bring the knives afresh. But he could see well enough her partial disarray. Her cheeks were hollow, and dark patches sunk the delicate skin beneath her eyes. She wore a shirt without neck cloth, trousers, and a dressing gown over them both, and boots.

  “Remain to be drawn in that mélange of poor fashion, then,” he said because he could not resist, “or begone until Sunday. But do not speak.”

  She grabbed him, the sleeves of the gown billowing momentarily, then her fingers clutching his back.

  “Don’t move,” she commanded.

  He swiveled to dislodge her, but she jammed her pelvis hard against his hip and her arms were clamps about him.

  “Here,” she said, and her strong fingertips dug into his hips.

  Agony ripped through him.

  “In the name of—”

  “These muscles must be tended to,” she said. “And these.” Her fingertips gouged twin paths of torment down his thigh. “And these.” She kneaded his buttocks and it was like shards of broken glass in his flesh. Stars exploded before his eyes.

  He could hardly unclench his teeth to speak. “Take your hands off of me.”

  “If you do not allow me to relieve the tension in these fascia, it will only grow worse. Then the only solution will be cauterization of the femoral joint and I absolutely do not recommend that.”

  He wished he could enjoy the pleasure of her hips angled against his, her arms about him, and her hands precisely where he had fantasized them. The pain screamed. He struggled to breathe. And still her fingers did not cease the torture. Tears reared up in his eyes.

  No.

  No weakness. Not with her.

  “I beg of you,” he uttered.

  She released him and took a step back.

  “I am sorry for causing you pain,” she said. “There, I can claim that too now, and I can even say it with sincerity. But you must allow me to help. For years those muscles have conditioned themselves to compensate for the missing limb. You must now recondition them. They require daily manipulation to release the knots in the fascia, and retraining. You must allow me to do this.” Her brow compressed. “Unless, that is, you do not wish to be able to walk with ease and that is the reason you never before acquired a prosthesis. I don’t understand how that could be, but I still possess all of my limbs and therefore cannot guess what it is to live without one. If it is obstinate pride that keeps you from comfort, I recommend discarding that at once and doing as I recommend.”

  “Recommend?”

  “Insist.”

  “It is pride,” he admitted. “And no true need for ease of movement before now.”

  “No need for ease of movement before now? You have not allowed this only for the sake of my project?” she said.

  “No, güzel kız. I have not. I am to make a great journey. Soon. I wish only the physica
l strength and stability to do what I must do. You have made it possible.”

  The gold-tipped lashes fanned. “Then we must not delay.”

  She left the room.

  Watching her walk away from him was pain he felt in every part of him now.

  He was still staring at the empty doorway when she appeared again and proffered a scrap of paper.

  “This is the direction of Mr. Murray. He practices the muscle manipulation you require. He learned it decades ago, in service for the East India Company. He is a little old Scot. I have seen him cure a lame horse and cause a chair-bound farmer to walk again, both without medications or surgery. Since you will not allow me to touch you, you must go see him immediately. And these,” she said, handing him a second sheet of paper, “are descriptions of several repetitive movements you must do twice every day while the pain persists. Do them exactly as I have described there, without fail.”

  She reached into a voluminous pocket of the dressing gown and withdrew a bottle.

  “Apply this twice daily to each place you feel pain. Work it into the skin until it is well saturated. It is a mixture of plant oils and will soothe and loosen the muscles without inflaming them. As you can smell, the scent is very strong and will overpower your usual scent, which is unfortunate, but must be endured temporarily.”

  She walked swiftly away from him again.

  “It will be some time before you are free of all pain. But I think you will be happy with the outcome.” In the doorway she turned. “The device itself is not causing you trouble, is it? Pain in the tendons or knee? Abrasions? Anything of that sort?”

  “None,” he said, wanting her body pressed against his again, her arms around him, more than he had ever wanted anything.

  “Excellent.” She began to turn away again but paused. “You know, I am incredibly busy. I have far too much to do each day. Yet I cannot cease thinking about you. It is exasperating. Is it the same for you?”

  Every day. Every hour. Every minute.

  He wanted to tell her that in seven years he had not allowed another human being to touch him as she had—to touch that which was both his greatest shame as a man and the greatest liability to his family and people. He wanted to tell her that until she had come into his life, into his house, he had been hiding, and that she had given him courage to hide no more.

  But he said nothing, and she left him.

  He went away. Having just completed and delivered three large commissions, Mrs. Coutts reported, the master had departed on holiday to Haiknayes Castle.

  Obviously her confession had driven him away. Or perhaps her uninvited trespassing in his studio had—damn his stupid rules. Or both. Whatever the case, he left her no message and that was message enough.

  The winter term brought an advanced practical anatomy course, with cadavers over which Dr. Jones gave her, Chedham, and Archie directorship, with teams assigned to them for the dissections, as well as considerably more surgical instruction in the infirmary’s surgical theater. Her duties at the infirmary now occupied every day except Sundays.

  When Mr. Bridges invited her to perform an actual surgery under his supervision, she could not believe his words at first. His assurance that the presidents of both the infirmary and the college had approved it hardly convinced her. It was unprecedented, a tremendous honor.

  Preparing for the procedure, she was so anxious that she would be obliged to relieve herself during it, with others nearby, she consumed no food or beverage for twelve hours beforehand. The tactic succeeded and the surgery went splendidly. That such a young man could have such a steady hand, such natural instinct, such thorough command of both anatomy and procedure, and such speed and skill astonished everyone. Afterward, Mr. Bridges allowed her to regularly assist him in the surgery, encouraging her to take the lead again on several occasions.

  She celebrated by commencing reading lessons for Coira.

  “Why would I be needin’ to read?” Coira said, munching on a crust of bread.

  “Every woman should know how to read. The more a woman reads, the more in command of her own destiny she is.”

  “I’d as lief find a pot o’ gold.”

  “That isn’t likely to happen. Now, I’ve never taught another person to read. Usually I just recommend books. But we will begin with recognizing the letters in the alphabet, and hopefully that will go well.”

  Coira smiled. “I reckon you’ll be as fine a teacher, lad, as you be a person.”

  Libby’s own teachers made no secret of their delight with their youngest apprentice. Passing other students in the infirmary or on the street, she often heard whispers, yet fewer greetings than before. It was the same in her anatomy and clinical medicine courses.

  She redoubled her studies. Always she had more questions needing answers, more notes needing organizing, more treatises to beg the librarian to unearth for her. If she made even the tiniest mistake with a patient, all of her work could come to naught.

  Ziyaeddin sent no word. Tempted to write to Amarantha and ask after him, Libby did not. She could not. It would reveal her. It would reveal him.

  Yet she could not cease worrying that if something had happened to him on the long road over snowy hills and icy waterways, if he had fallen afoul of weather or injury, no one would know to tell her.

  The duke would surely send word to Mrs. Coutts—eventually. If anything at all happened to his friend, he would. He must. So Libby returned early to the house each afternoon, eschewing the library and the pub, to learn if Mrs. Coutts had heard from Haiknayes. But no message from Haiknayes came.

  “Missed you at the pub again last night,” Archie whispered to her over the library table strewn with books. “George was in his cups, railin’ about Plath givin’ him that bloody lung right there in front o’ everybody. Pincushion laughed so hard he nearly split a seam.”

  Libby flipped through pages to find a detail about cartilage.

  “Woulda done you some good, Joe,” Archie said. “Laughin’ a wee bit.”

  “I’ve a list of questions here that need answers, and only two hours to accomplish it.” Archie did not understand. “Pass me that book.”

  He pushed it toward her and she found what she needed. As she struck the tip of her pencil across the question in her notebook, instant relief coursed through her like water down her throat on a hot day. Half of the questions were now struck through, another two dozen still to answer.

  The words shifted, then swung left and looped back into place. She blinked, but now her vision was blurry too. She hardly knew what she should read next, Diderot’s Eléments de physiologie, or perhaps Bichat’s Physiological Researches upon Life and Death. Then there was Argellata’s Latin translation of Al-Zahrawi’s Kitab al-Tasrif to be read in full. Studying those illustrations alone would require days. There was so much to learn. If only she could sleep.

  Exhaustion lapped at her.

  She hadn’t time to sleep. The months until her father’s return were dwindling. If she maintained these successes, he would allow her to continue as Joseph.

  She must not fail.

  The next question on the list beckoned.

  A quarter of an hour later she was packing her notebooks into her satchel.

  “Where’re you goin’?” Archie said.

  “To the infirmary.”

  He tucked in his chin. “Is Bridges expectin’ you back now?”

  “No.” She closed the overstuffed bag. “I’ve got to examine Mrs. Small’s splint again.”

  “Small? I thought she’d gone weeks ago.”

  “She fell and broke her femur.” The cancer had weakened her.

  “Peter’ll do it. He’s on rotation tonight. We’ve got to get this report written.”

  “No. I must look in on her.” First Mrs. Small’s splint. Then Mr. Portman’s sutures. Then the surgical instruments cabinet. The nurses and surgeons were forever storing the forceps beside the bone saws, and they often got stored soiled. If they were tonight, she would was
h them. The cauteries would probably need to be put in order too. The surgical servants, who had very little knowledge, did not know how to arrange them sensibly from those used on the head to those used on the foot. “I’ll write the report tonight and you can put your name to it.”

  “Now listen here, Smart, I’ll no’ be lettin’ anybody do my work, especially no’ if you’ll be writin’ it in that new chicken scratch o’ yours. The letters were so pressed together in the last report I could hardly read it. An’ they were all capitals. What’s that about?”

  “Our professor could read it. Listen, Archie—”

  “All right!” Archie said, scraping his fingers through his gingery locks. “I’ll do the diagram.”

  “Fine.” She would draw the diagram anyway. It must be perfect.

  Icy rain dribbled from the darkness above as she walked to the infirmary. Leaving her coat and bag with the porter, she went straight to the women’s ward.

  Mrs. Small’s splint was perfect, just it had had been five hours earlier. After checking on Mr. Portman, Libby went to the surgical case and, finding the clamp on the left hook, she placed it back where it belonged on the right hook. She knew she should not. It was as well on the left hook as the right. No one would care.

  But now it was fine. Better. Right.

  Walking home, the bag full of books was lead on her shoulder. Archie had commented that she needn’t carry her entire collection of Charles Bell’s works with her every day. But he did not understand. She did not want to carry them everywhere. But she must.

  Locking the front door, she hung up her overcoat and hat and removed her boots. Mrs. Coutts had left dinner for her on the dining table. Even the thought of eating nauseated her.

  In the parlor she unloaded her bag and piled the contents carefully on the desk, keeping the stacks neat. It left no place to set the text she must read.

  She could read it in her bedchamber. Later, perhaps she would write the report at the kitchen table.

  Entering her bedchamber, she touched the feet of the boys in the marketplace painting, and then again, and got a moment’s relief. The end of her bed was stacked three deep in books and papers. The dressing table too.