Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(20)

“Dewar’s whiskey.” Regarding her with a shrewd but kindly gaze, he raised his beaker in a toast. “Happy Birthday.”

Garrett’s eyes turned round with amazement. Her father hadn’t remembered, and she’d never told the date to anyone. “How did you know?”

“The date was on your employment application. Since my wife keeps the files, she knows everyone’s birthday, and never forgets a one.”

They clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey was strong but very smooth, flavors of malt, honey, and cut hay lingering on Garrett’s tongue. Closing her eyes briefly, she felt the soft fire travel down her esophagus. “Excellent,” she pronounced, and smiled at him. “And much appreciated. Thank you, Dr. Havelock.”

“One more toast: Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.”

They drank again.

“What does that mean?” Garrett asked.

“‘Not even Apollo keeps his bow drawn all the time.’” Havelock regarded her kindly. “You’ve been in a sour mood of late. I don’t know the specifics of your problem, but I have an idea as to the general cause. You’re a dedicated physician who has shouldered many responsibilities in such a capable manner that all of us, including you, tend to forget something: You’re still a young woman.”

“At eight and twenty?” Garrett asked bleakly, and took another swallow. Still holding the beaker, she reached for a box of adhesive plasters and dropped it into her bag.

“A mere babe in the woods,” he said. “And like all young people, you tend to rebel against a harsh taskmaster.”

“I’ve never thought of you that way,” Garrett protested.

Havelock’s mouth twisted. “I’m not the harsh taskmaster, Doctor, you are. The fact is, recreation is a natural necessity. Your work habits have turned you into a wet blanket, and you will continue being a wet blanket until you find some leisure activity outside of this clinic.”

Garrett frowned. “I have no outside interests.”

“If you were a man, I’d advise you to spend a night at the best bawdy house you could afford. However, I have no idea what to recommend to a woman in your position. Look at a list of hobbies and pick one. Have an affair. Go on holiday to a place you’ve never been before.”

Garrett coughed on a sip of whiskey, and regarded him with wide, watering eyes. “Did you just advise me to have an affair?” she asked hoarsely.

Havelock let out a rusty chuckle. “I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? Not as stodgy as you thought. There’s no need to stare at me like a dyspeptic nun. As a physician, you’re well aware that the sexual act can be separated from procreation without descending to prostitution. You work like a man, you’re paid like one, and you might as well take your pleasures like one, so long as you’re discreet about it.”

Garrett had to drain the last of her whiskey before she could reply. “Moral considerations aside, the risk isn’t worth it. Being caught in an affair wouldn’t ruin a man’s career, but it would ruin mine.”

“Then find someone to marry. Love is not something to be missed, Dr. Gibson. Why do you think I, a comfortable widower, made a fool of myself over Mrs. Fernsby until she finally consented to be my wife?”

“Convenience?” she guessed.

“Good God, no. There’s nothing convenient about joining your life to another person’s. Marriage is a sack race: you may find a way to hop together toward the finish line, but you would still reach it more easily without the sack.”

“Then why do it at all?”

“Our existence, even our intellect, hangs upon love—without it, we would be no more than stock and stones.”

Inwardly astonished by such a sentimental speech coming from Havelock, of all men, Garrett protested, “It’s no simple task to find someone to love. You make it sound as easy as shopping for a good melon.”

“Obviously you’ve done neither of those things. Finding someone to love is considerably easier than finding a good melon.”

Garrett smiled wryly. “I’m sure your advice is well-intentioned, but I have no use for melons or grand love affairs.” She handed the empty beaker to him. “However, I’ll try to come up with a hobby.”

“That’s a start.” Havelock went to the doorway and paused to glance over his shoulder. “You’re very good at listening to other people, my young friend. But you’re not nearly as good at listening to yourself.”



Night was falling by the time Garrett had finished her rounds at the Clerkenwell workhouse infirmary. Fatigued and hungry, she removed her white apron and donned her dark brown walking jacket, trimmed with silk braid and cinched with a thin leather belt around the waist. After gathering up her cane and doctor’s bag, she left the workhouse and stopped just beyond the iron gate, on a front walkway mottled with light and shadow.

In the weary hush of the summer evening, she started on the walk back to the main road. The wail of a distant train rode on the dull thunder of churning rods, hissing boilers, and metal wheels. Her steps faltered as she realized that she was reluctant to return home. There was no compelling reason to be there: Her father was playing his weekly game of draw poker with his friends and wouldn’t miss her. But she couldn’t think of where else to go. The clinic and the department store were closed, and it certainly would not do to appear uninvited at someone else’s home. Her stomach growled beneath the confines of her light corset. She realized she’d forgotten to eat lunch.