The Death of Jane Lawrence(10)

“Who else, indeed,” he said, and crossed the remaining space between them, settling down on the footrest. The apron had spared the majority of his clothing, but there was drying blood spattered across his sleeves. It was nothing compared to what she must look like.

She was just about to beg off, to send him back to his patient where he belonged, when he said, “You were incredible in there.” It stopped her cold. He flushed, rubbed at the back of his neck. “For somebody with no experience, no training, you were able to keep your wits about you. To do what had to be done.”

What could she say to that? She fumbled for some matching compliment. “And you were a virtuoso with a needle,” she said, thinking of how he had handled the flesh. And there it was again, the immediate jump to meat instead of man. She winced.

“Miss Shoringfield?”

“I … that is, I think I was only able to help because I stopped seeing him as a person.”

She watched him for horror. It didn’t come.

“Is that not monstrous?” she pressed.

He offered a gentle, almost patronizing smile. “Hardly. I was the same, in my first year of medical school. It made bearing their pain easier, made inflicting the pain that was needed to save them easier. Many doctors never get past that, but many more grow beyond it. It becomes a tool, rather than a retreat. You recognize what happened—that is a good first step.”

He was being too kind to her. They were not made of the same stuff. She frowned down at her tea.

“I’ve sent for that specialist,” he said. “She may be able to help Mr. Renton’s recovery. No matter what, her work will benefit from our efforts. You should be proud of yourself, Miss Shoringfield.”

His words touched her with a surgeon’s precision, and she did feel pride. She shivered with momentary relief, and in that breath of weakness, she said, “I believe you can call me Jane, now. If you like.”

“I would like to.”

Her heartbeat syncopated. “His recovery,” she said, hurriedly returning to sobering ground, away from the strange intimacy that the heat of the surgery seemed to have created between them. “What will it entail?”

“He will be out of work for several weeks. Months, perhaps.”

Her mind went reflexively to the numbers. Months of not working, of not earning a wage. His house would founder. His bills would go unpaid. Dr. Lawrence’s would be one of them.

“He will not be able to repay you.”

Perhaps she could learn to be better in the surgery, but what of her numbers? They were her constants, her rules. Their logic flowed through her like blood, but they led now to horrible conclusions. Life was worth more than a sum on a page, and yet it was only worth a sum on a page.

“Mrs. Renton will pay as she can,” Dr. Lawrence said, oblivious to the nausea rising up in her. “Currently, that is not much. I don’t lose anything by not charging her more.”

Her fingers tightened around her teacup. “But sums don’t lie. I agree with you, I do, on moral grounds. But you will need to pay for equipment. Rent. Food and clothing. If you don’t, you cannot remain a doctor, can’t continue to save lives.”

The numbers had no room for kindness and humanity.

“There will be donations. There always are, in these cases.”

“Donations cannot be controlled,” she protested. “Cannot be relied upon.” She would see the disparity every day in the ledger. It would be her job to collect when she could.

“I’m sorry, Miss Shoringfield—Jane. I don’t claim to have an answer.”

She grimaced, ducked her head. “And neither do I. But I have a mind for sums. If I were your wife, I feel that it might lead to tension. Anger. Misunderstandings. I apologize, this isn’t something I anticipated when I made my proposal. Work has always been straightforward, and yet this is … not.”

It would not be appropriate for me to marry you. The words were so close, so ready to come out. This was foolishness. They were at odds with one another after only a day. Fondness was too much to hope for, but she needed them to agree with each other. Anything else was less than optimal.

“I will understand if you’ve reconsidered my suit,” she said, too embarrassed and stubborn by half to break the arrangement herself.

“I have not.”

Her heart sped.

“To be clear,” he added, “I am still not sure I wish to marry at all. But if we were to proceed, is it not natural to expect that we would learn over time how to sort all of this?”

Her mouth was dry. Her head ached. She wanted too many things all at once, and couldn’t see any of them clearly. “And what of your other misgivings?” she pressed instead. “The issue of—consummation?”

His gaze dropped, and he blushed. “I am sure that if we decided the marriage must be consummated, we could find a way for it to be consummated on mutually beneficial terms. There is room for me to see you as more than my employee, while still respecting your desire for distance. Don’t you think?”

His patient logic stunned her once more into silence. She searched his face, looking for some explanation. What had changed, over the course of one blood-soaked surgery? How had they transformed from him arguing against the idea, and her for it, to her trying to poke holes in both of their defenses?