The Death of Jane Lawrence(12)

She did not want to wait. She kept remembering the strange magnetism between them in those last few minutes in his study, when he had spoken of intoxication. If he had come another step closer, if he had touched her cheek with those skilled hands of his …

With a lurch, she realized that she had wanted him to kiss her.

They had made a mistake, clearly. They had strayed from arguing compatibility to discussing enjoying talking with each other, and rated that an optimistic sign. Quite nice to be around, indeed. And now here she was, desiring. She’d never considered the possibility, and so hadn’t included it in her calculations. Now she was left embarrassed and confused.

It was one thing to reveal herself to be undone by thoughts of financial ethics, but this? This was so far beyond what she had offered him, what she had promised him, that there was no way he could rationalize it with her.

The thought shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Could there not be other options? She had never felt like this before, and though it had not passed in an evening, might it still not dissipate in time? She tried to think instead of her pride in saving Mr. Renton’s life. She had dreamed of it, the night before, of blood on her hands, but also of his even breathing, after the worst was over and the ether had set in. Her hands had let Dr. Lawrence do his work; she had proven herself useful. She would only become more so with time, with practice, with dedication.

It was a stronger drive, her need to work and succeed, than any alien tenderness she felt for her potential husband. It would win out in the end. In fact, if she were to lean into these odd fancies of hers, she would only be left cold in time. Such a strange part of herself, unglimpsed until now, could not be long-lived.

Best to focus on the work. She could master her unruly, unfamiliar longings and be the business partner she had offered to be. She was sure of it. All that she needed was a task. Sitting here wondering was doing her no favors.

Jane was in the hallway before she could second-guess herself, pulling on her oiled wrap. He had not sent for her, perhaps would not even be in, and Ekaterina would be setting out lunch shortly; she should wait, should at least tell the house where she was going.

She donned her hat and slipped out into the late morning.

The sky was gray and Larrenton busier than it had been the previous day, everybody working double-time ahead of the threatening rain. She took a different path this time, a tangle of backstreets that would keep her out of the throng. There was little chance of being recognized, but she could not bear the thought of being seen.

Her feet took her past small houses with kitchen gardens out front, and from there through the half-deserted plaza before the old church, now the magistrate’s offices. The courts were closed for the morning, the curtains drawn. When Jane had first come to Larrenton, when she had been officially signed into the Cunningham’s care, the walls had still been covered in vibrant murals, though they were old, flaking, and only half cared for. Now, everything had been whitewashed. The change had been slow but steady, and when it was done, Mr. Cunningham had said he was glad the old leering figures had at last been covered.

From the plaza, she came out once again onto the main street. The crowds were thinning now, thunder rolling gently on the horizon. But as she approached the doorway, the rattling of wheels drew close behind her. Turning, she watched an elegant black carriage draw to a halt opposite the surgery. Its fineness was distinctly out of place in Larrenton, and it bore a crimson emblem on its side, only partially obscured by the mud of travel:





CROWN UNIVERSITY ROYAL TEACHING HOSPITAL


The driver hopped down from his box and opened the carriage door, and out stepped what could only be Dr. Lawrence’s specialist, come all the way from Camhurst. She was short and spare, with sharp-edged cheekbones and dark hair drawn back severely from her brow. Her skirts spread out around her like an inky cloud. She wore a surgeon’s coat, but it was trimmed incongruously with fur. She carried no doctor’s bag, only a small case hardly larger than a book, and she regarded Jane with a chill focus.

Jane inclined her head in greeting. “Are you the specialist Dr. Lawrence sent for yesterday?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “My name is Dr. Avdotya Semyonovna Nizamiev.”

Ruzkan; her accent was stronger than Ekaterina’s, and Jane was seized by the wild thought that the other woman was currently emphasizing it, perhaps to gauge Jane’s reaction. But no; why would this Dr. Nizamiev test her?

“You must have ridden through the night to get here so quickly.” Camhurst was nearly a full day’s journey by carriage, and that didn’t account for the letter’s transit. The speed with which she had arrived was scarcely believable.

“I left as soon as I received Dr. Lawrence’s summons. Health waits for few, and death for none.”

“Are you a surgeon, then?”

“No. Neither surgeon nor generalist. I administer the asylum run by the Royal.”

“The asylum,” Jane repeated, doing her best not to frown. What need would Dr. Lawrence have of her services?

But then she remembered chalk and salt. Superstitious madness. Except he had decided on sending for Dr. Nizamiev while still in the operating theater, before he knew.

Ah. A man cutting himself open for no reason except, perhaps, pain—the much simpler explanation.

“I expect,” Dr. Nizamiev said, voice cool and dry, “that I am needed inside. Not explaining myself to … a nurse?” The woman looked Jane up and down again, measuring. She couldn’t be much older than Dr. Lawrence, but in her sharp appraisal, she seemed ageless. Unyielding.