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Braddock clamped his lips together and stalked toward the doorway into the kitchen. He paused beside Abigail and bowed with elaborate exaggeration. “After you, ma’am.” He waited for her to precede him out of the ward.

She grasped her skirts as daintily as if they were finest silk and gave him the curtsy her mother had made her practice before a mirror when she was a little girl. Rising with gratifying grace, she turned to Dr. Laniere. “I shall meet you in the carriage house in the morning, sir.” She smiled at her unexpected champion. “Thank you, sir.”

Braddock followed her outside into the shadow-dappled courtyard, shutting the door sharply behind him. “What do you think you’re up to?”

She whirled to face him. “Accepting an invitation.”

“You invited yourself. What possible help do you think you’ll be—you’ll only get in the way of those of us who have paid tuition and earned a spot at the professor’s side.”

“What difference does it make to you whether I’m there or not? Do you think my brain will absorb all the information in the room, leaving you without any?” Closing her eyes, she placed her thumbs at her temples in imitation of a French Quarter spiritist. “Ooh, I think you’re right. I definitely sense your intellect dissipating by the second.” She looked at him in mock sympathy. “No wonder you seem so monumentally stupid.”

“Don’t be absurd.” His mouth quirked a little in spite of the heavy frown. “It’s a matter of what’s fair.”

“Fair?” She could feel her fingers curling into her skirt. “How does Dr. Laniere’s generosity remove your benefit? Besides, even if I had the wherewithal to pay tuition, I wouldn’t be allowed to take classes with you. So don’t prate to me of fairness, Mr. Braddock.”

His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to articulate whatever was boiling behind those hot multihued eyes. “It’s just not right,” he finally muttered. “We keep women out of medicine to protect them.”

“Well, I’ve been protected right out of my homeland and my family, thank you very much,” she said. “Now that I’ve landed on my feet here, you’re not going to convince me to go back.”

“Miss Neal—Abigail,” his voice softened, “I wouldn’t send you back to the District. I merely want you to consider carefully before you force your way into a place where you won’t be accepted, much less welcomed. The other fellows will be brutal if you show up tomorrow morning.”

Abigail stared at him, chin raised. “Your warning is well taken. And I shall prepare myself accordingly.” She dipped him another curtsy and turned for the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Braddock.”

She forced herself not to look over her shoulder as she reentered the kitchen, leaving her adversary fuming on the other side of the door. John Braddock had a thing or two to learn about women if he imagined he’d thwarted her desire to follow rounds in the morning.

Chapter Six

“Girard, if you want someone to crack your knuckles, I’ll be happy to do it for you.” John continued his circular route around the Charity Hospital entryway, almost hoping for an excuse to vent some of his pent-up restlessness.

John and Marcus, trailed by Weichmann, had arrived at Charity Hospital thirty minutes earlier than the time appointed for rounds with Dr. Laniere. None of them wanted to be accused of slacking, and John was determined to be the epitome of punctuality and dependability for the rest of his life.

Miss Charlemagne had let them in, her garments pristine as always, though John had noted a streak that looked suspiciously like a pillow crease on the elderly woman’s round cheek. No one had ever seen her so much as yawn. She was the first person he saw in the morning and always seemed to be available for nighttime emergencies. He could only suppose she slept with her eyes open. She was not a nurse, but her genius for administration made her more valuable to the doctors who attended from the medical college than a hundred nurses.

After pocketing the brass key suspended from her belt with a copper chain, she had cautioned the three young men to be quiet, then whisked herself into the chapel to pray. John had considered asking her to pray for him, but the memory of Weichmann’s response to yesterday’s mention of God and burning bushes dissuaded him.

Weichmann, seated beside Marcus on the next-to-lowest step of the central staircase, pulled out an enormous pocket watch that he claimed had been given to him by an uncle descended from German royalty. “Braddock, there’s probably time to send Crutch out for breakfast. I wish you wouldn’t be so stubborn.”

John took another turn across the tiled foyer. “If you’d seen Prof’s face last night—”

“We did see it, when you didn’t appear yesterday morning.” Marcus grimaced. “If you have a death wish, Braddock, there are less painful ways to go about it. I had more to drink than you did and I still managed to get up on time.”

Weichmann put away his watch. “Are the tests graded yet?”

Marcus avoided John’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

John pounced. “You’ve seen the grades. Did I pass?”

“I told you I don’t—” Marcus tried to pull John’s hands away from his cravat. “Let go, you Neanderthal. I saw mine, but Pa caught me before I got any farther.”

Releasing his friend, who indignantly tried to restore order to his mangled neck cloth, John shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “So what was your score?”

“Let’s just say I won’t be starting my own pharmacy anytime soon. And don’t say you told me so. I studied in my own way, it just didn’t stick. All that Latin. Gads! Why can’t we speak English?”

At that moment the front door opened, admitting Dr. Laniere, followed by a troop of medical students and a beautiful young woman.

John did a double take. He’d never imagined Abigail Neal would have the brass to show up this morning. She wore a different dress than the ugly black one she’d had on yesterday, this one a high-necked affair that quite incidentally duplicated the new-leaf color of her eyes. It was a bit short-waisted, and…his gaze traveled to the hem, which, judging by the deeper hue of the fabric, had been recently let out. He frowned, shaken by this reminder of Abigail’s poverty.

“Mr. Braddock, if your breakfast disagreed with you this morning, I shall be happy to excuse you to return to your bed.”

John looked up to find Dr. Laniere and the other students eyeing him with varying degrees of amusement, sympathy and gleeful malice. Abigail herself gazed over his shoulder, an expression of supreme indifference on her serene face. Except for the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth.

“Gads!” repeated Marcus. “You ain’t bringing a woman into the hospital, are you, Prof?”

“Ah, I neglected to introduce Miss Neal, didn’t I?” Dr. Laniere turned to smile at Abigail, sweeping an ironic hand toward John and his cohorts. “Miss Neal, I present to you Marcus Girard and Tanner Weichmann, both second-year students. Mr. Braddock you’ve already met, of course.”

“Already met her?” blurted Marcus. “Is this your Amazon?”

John sent a scalding look over his shoulder, ignoring the guffaws of his fellow students. He regretted the pink that stained Abigail’s sharp cheekbones.

Her lips tightened, but she looked down at Marcus as if he were a particularly nasty species of cockroach. “And you would be his…” She hesitated. “Harlequin?”

Marcus, red-faced and speechless, tugged the carnelian-and-saffron diamond-patterned waistcoat down over his trim stomach.

Laughter erupted among the other fellows and John struggled not to join them. She’d pegged Girard to the penny. Time to flank his troops and reconnoiter. “Nurse told us a new gall bladder case arrived last night, Professor. Second ward.”

“Excellent,” said Dr. Laniere, “but first I wish to make one thing clear to you gentlemen.” The doctor’s deep-set eyes bored directly into John’s. “Miss Neal is here at my express invitation and I expect her to be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy.” Prof tented his long, elegant fingers beneath his chin and scanned the faces of his students one by one. “Am I understood?”

Silence fell as everyone else looked at John. He swallowed hard. He had nothing against the woman, really. In fact, there had been a moment of connection at the baby’s funeral—a connection he was at a loss to explain. Although she was odd as a three-legged duck, he had no objection to handing off nursing duties to her, as long as she kept her mouth shut and didn’t challenge him at every—

Her lashes lifted; the magnificent green eyes slammed into his and he suddenly realized Abigail Neal’s presence was going to be a very dangerous thing, indeed. This was no off-limits matron with a pillow crease on her cheek. Intelligence and humor and mockery and all sorts of mysterious elements were buried in those eyes. He was going to have to be very careful not to get left behind in his chosen profession—especially if Professor Laniere decided to take Abigail Neal under his wing.

Abigail lifted her chin and John bowed with as much irony as he could muster. “Quite,” he said. Which didn’t really answer the question, but seemed to satisfy Dr. Laniere.

Prof led the way up the stairs to ward two, John on his heels, with Weichmann and Marcus and the other students trailing.

John was acutely aware of Abigail Neal’s quiet presence just to his left. She glided along, turning to look into the open door of the first ward as they passed. The moans of the patients within drifted toward them, creating a music John found soothing in a bizarre kind of way.

He was looking forward to the gall bladder examination. Taking tests on medicines was all well and good, but a fellow learned best by doing.

Professor Laniere breezed into the ward, a broad open room smelling of carbolic acid. Through a bank of four uncurtained windows, evenly spaced along the west wall, weak sunlight splashed across the bare plank floor and six white-painted iron beds.

A nurse was feeding something soupy to a patient in the middle bed. She looked up and smiled at the professor. “Dr. Laniere, you’ll be happy to know Mrs. Catchot is feeling like eating her grits this morning.”

“Capital.” The professor approached the bed, inserting the earpieces of his binaural stethoscope into his ears.

Some time ago, John and the other students had been allowed to examine the auscultation instrument. He’d found it much more efficient and precise for diagnosing lung aberrations than those favored by older physicians. Dr. Girard, for example, still carried a short, tubular monaural steth carved out of ivory. The instrument had no earpiece at all, just a flat plate that allowed sound to dissipate into the air. John had been angling for his father to cave in and buy him a stethoscope like Professor Laniere’s for his birthday.

Prof moved the bodice of the woman’s gown aside and set the stainless steel listening bell against her chest.

She gasped. “That’s cold!”

The doctor spared her a sympathetic glance, but held the trumpet of the stethoscope firmly in place. After a moment, he gestured for Abigail to approach. “What do you hear?”

She hesitated, then accepted the instrument from his hand. Brushing back wisps of hair escaped from the knot at the back of her head, she inserted the two rubber earpieces into her dainty ears. Ignoring the patient’s objection, Abigail listened, eyes widening. She looked up at the professor with a grin. “That’s amazing!”

He nodded. “Indeed. Now what do you hear?”

Abigail sobered, concentrating her gaze inward. “It’s…off,” she said slowly. “There’s a sort of…bump, I don’t know how to say it.”

“Yes. Arrhythmia.” Dr. Laniere gave her an approving glance. “We can tell a lot about a patient’s body by listening. Remind me to loan you my extra stethoscope. You may get a sense of what a healthy body should sound like by practicing on any willing party.” He looked down at the woman on the bed. “But I believe you came in complaining of abdominal pain?”

“No, sir.” The patient’s voice trembled. “My belly hurts. Especially right after I eat.”

The professor nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. “I beg your pardon. Your belly, of course.” He chose Weichmann to quiz. “Diagnosis and scientific name?”

“Cholecystitis, sir. Inflammation of the gallbladder.”

“Correct.” Another approving nod. “Show Miss Neal the correct procedure for palpation, Weichmann.”

Weichmann’s lips tightened. John knew the young Jew desperately wanted to be a doctor, though he was perhaps the least gifted in the class. The small Orthodox community from which he’d come provided little in the way of modern medical care and his mother’s slow, painful death from a corrosive brain disease was a powerful impetus for Weichmann’s educational pursuit.

He also detested being the center of attention.

But he straightened his shoulders and drew the sheet down, exposing the body with relative modesty from lower sternum to groin. He bent to observe the contour of the abdomen at eye level. “Breathe normally,” he instructed the patient. After a moment he straightened. “Please cough.”

John felt a light hand on his arm. He looked down to find Abigail intently watching the examination. “What’s he looking for?” she whispered.

“He’s observing the movement along the inguinal canal.” John couldn’t help feeling superior. She wouldn’t know what the inguinal canal was.

“Ah. The Latin is inguinalis, which is the groin.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “So we want to see if there are abnormalities there?”

John stared at her. “That’s right.”

Weichmann laid his flattened palm against the patient’s abdomen. The woman craned her head to see the professor. “Does everybody have to stare at me?”

Dr. Laniere’s smile was kind. “Mrs. Catchot, this is a teaching hospital. My students can’t learn if they don’t watch.”

“I know, but what is that girl doing here?” The woman’s voice was petulant.

“Miss Neal is studying nursing. She may be the one to care for you later. The more she knows, the better she’ll be able to attend you.” Dr. Laniere gestured for Weichmann to continue the examination. “You should start light palpation farther away from the most tender point.”

“She could flex her knees a bit to make that easier,” Abigail murmured.

John glanced at her, annoyed at the distraction.

Dr. Laniere cleared his throat. “Weichmann. You’re forgetting something else.”

Weichmann reddened. “Mrs. Catchot, let’s pull your knees up slightly to relax your abdominal muscles.”

Groaning, the patient complied as John intercepted a triumphant look from Abigail. “How did you know that?” he demanded in an undertone.

She smiled. “Simple physics.”

Dr. Laniere snapped his fingers. “Braddock, pay attention. You’ll be next.”

“Yes, sir.” He scowled at Abigail, then turned his focus back to the examination.

Again laying his hand on the woman’s belly, Weichmann gently flexed his fingers, progressing toward the spot where she’d reacted earlier. She began to whimper in pain and poor Weichmann looked like he wanted to run from the room. “Mrs. Catchot, I need you to relax. Can you take some deep breaths?”

The patient lifted her head. “It hurts. I’m going to die.”

“I don’t think so,” said Weichmann. “It’s just a—”

“You’re doing a fine job,” interrupted the professor, laying a hand on Weichmann’s shoulder, “but I’ll take over from here.” He moved to the patient’s right side and slid one hand behind her ribs, then placed the other flat on her anterior abdominal wall. “A deep breath through your mouth, please.”

As John watched the firm, sure pressure of Dr. Laniere’s hands, the woman’s inspiration turned into a gasp of agony. “Students, note that when Weichmann released the pressure of his fingers, the pain increased. Rebound tenderness is an indication of organ infection. Deep palpation confirms the diagnosis. I want each of you to copy my movements and see if you can feel the sharp, smooth, flexible edge of the liver—which is normal—and the enlarged gallbladder. Mrs. Catchot, please bear with us. We are going to make you feel better soon.”

One at a time the six students placed their hands on the patient’s midsection. When John’s turn came and the shape of the organs slid under his hand, the power of knowledge rushed through his entire body. The woman gasped as he pressed the infected gallbladder and he resisted the urge to flinch in sympathy. A physician must remain in control.

“My turn,” said Abigail boldly.

John looked up frowning, but she stared him down. He grudgingly moved aside, giving her room. She had been standing with her arms crossed, fingers tucked under her armpits. Dropping them, she leaned over the patient, placing her hands in the correct position.

“Your hands are warm,” mumbled Mrs. Catchot, visibly relaxing.

Abigail began the examination, her movements becoming more deft until she found the tender spot. “Hold on. Oh, I feel it.” She looked down into the patient’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. You must be in a lot of pain.” She glanced at the professor. “Will you remove the infected organ?”

He’d been observing the procedure with a finger to his lips. “What do you know about surgery?”

She looked frightened. “Nothing.” She backed toward the wall, head tucked against her chest.

“Humph.” Professor Laniere, frowning, returned to the patient’s side and replaced the woman’s gown and bedclothes.

John took his life in his hands and stepped close. “Will you, sir? May we watch you take it out?”

The professor glanced at him, but addressed his patient. “Mrs. Catchot, your pain is caused by an inflammation of a tiny sac attached to your small intestine and liver. If we remove it, you’ll have a good chance of recovering with no residual effects.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Remove it? You’re going to cut out part of my stomach?”

“Mr. Braddock, please give Mrs. Catchot a brief summary of what is involved in cholecystostomy.” The professor’s black eyes narrowed. “Gently.”

John blinked, snatching for last week’s lecture during dissection laboratory. “The surgeon—Dr. Laniere—will administer ether anesthesia. Then he’ll make a small incision in your lower abdomen. The gallbladder will be removed with a quick cut and the intestine tightly sutured back together. A few stitches will repair the abdominal incision.”

“But—if you cut it out, won’t I die? The Good Lord put it in there for a reason!”

“This surgery has been successfully performed for about ten years now,” John assured her. “You’ll recover in about six weeks and never miss that little piece of flesh.”

“Thank you, Mr. Braddock, that’s quite enough,” said Dr. Laniere drily. “I assure you, Mrs. Catchot, that if you don’t have the surgery, you’ll continue to experience excruciating pain, and the infection could poison your entire system, leading to an early demise.” He patted the woman’s rigid shoulder. “Try to rest. I’ll send someone in to prepare you for surgery. Come with me, gentlemen.”

The whole troupe hustled to keep up as the professor exited the room. John, the tallest, managed to edge out everyone except Abigail.

Dr. Laniere spoke without looking over his shoulder. “Girard, you will give Miss Neal the history of the cholecystostomy.”

“Yes, sir!” Marcus all but ran to catch up with Abigail’s long, gliding steps. “Dr. John Stough Bobbs from Indianapolis, Indiana, was operating on what he thought was an ovarian cyst and rather accidentally found some stones in an inflamed gallbladder. He took them out, stitched up the gallbladder and left it in the abdomen. But here’s the funny part—” Marcus burst out laughing. “The patient recovered and outlived Dr. Bobbs!”

A wicked glint of humor lit Abigail’s eyes. She looked at Marcus, eyebrows up. “Just think how many of your patients will outlive you and your drinking partners.” She slid a glance at John.

The woman had a tongue sharper than any scalpel. “Alcohol is a fine preservative,” he said, annoyed. “Girard didn’t finish. Just last year, Marion Simms designed and performed the first cholecystostomy on a forty-five-year-old woman with obstructive jaundice. Unfortunately, she lasted only a few days because of internal hemorrhaging. But Dr. Laniere has been to Berlin to observe Carl Langenbuch, who perfected the procedure.” He looked at his teacher. “Langenbuch is only twenty-seven years old and he’s already director of Lazarus Hospital. Prof says we’ll see astonishing things in our lifetime.”

Abigail looked away. “I’m sure you will.”

The history lesson was aborted as the class approached another ward. As they examined a young man whose foot had been amputated at Antietam, John made a deliberate effort to ignore Abigail’s distracting presence. Before he knew it, they’d finished rounds and were given half an hour to themselves before afternoon lectures.

John met Marcus and Weichmann in front of the hospital for their daily run to the French Quarter for gumbo. He didn’t care what happened to Abigail Neal. Weichmann caught him looking over his shoulder as the three of them dodged through the midday traffic on Rue Baronne.

“She stayed to talk to Professor.” Weichmann grinned.

“Who?” John quickened his pace.

“The girl. The pretty girl. You’d better guard your spot as the favorite.”

Marcus snorted. “Prof ain’t the susceptible sort.” He dug his elbow into John’s ribs. “Unlike some people.”

“Shut up, Girard,” John muttered automatically. He glanced at Weichmann. “I’ve got more important things to worry about than a street tart with a penchant for voyeurism.”

Weichmann shook his head. “Smartest street tart I’ve ever run across.”

“Citing your broad experience,” John said with a quelling frown. “Let’s talk about something more interesting—ingrown toenails, for example.”

Girard exchanged delighted glances with Weichmann. “Braddock’s got his drawers in a twist because the lady’s got better hands than he has. Fifty says she’ll give him a private lesson in deep palpation before the end of the term.”

John grabbed Marcus by the shoulder and whirled him around, heedless of the milling crowd on the street corner. “If I hear you speak of her that way again,” he said through his teeth, “I’ll take your head off.”

Girard’s mouth fell open. “You called her a street tart!”

“I was mistaken.”

Girard swallowed. “Weichmann, Braddock just admitted he was wrong. Look for the four horses of the Apocalypse.”

Suddenly aware of just how foolish he had made himself, John laughed and let go of Girard’s shoulder. “Best hope not. By all accounts, I doubt any of the three of us are ready.”