Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(44)

To Garrett’s pleased surprise, the coiffure was lovely. The front had been left in gentle waves, with a few loose tendrils at the hairline. The rest had been formed into a soft coronet of loops and curls at the top of her head, leaving her neck and ears exposed. As a finishing touch, Pauline had inserted a few hairpins tipped with clear glass beads that glittered among the upswept locks.

“Not Marie Antoinette?” Pauline asked, looking smug.

“No, indeed,” Garrett said with an abashed grin. “Merci, Pauline. You’ve done a magnificent job. Tu es artiste.”

With great care, the lady’s maid helped Garrett into an elegant dress of pale blue-green silk with a transparent shimmering overlay. The gown needed little ornamentation other than a “fraise” trim, a thin froth of ruffle at the neckline. The skirts were drawn back to reveal the shape of her waist and hips, with the excess folds and draperies flowing gracefully to the floor. It concerned Garrett that the bodice was cut so low, although both Helen and Pauline assured her that it was by no means improper. The sleeves were little more than gauzy puffs through which her shoulders and arms could easily be seen. Carefully lifting the hem of the skirts, she stepped into heeled evening slippers covered in blue silk and sewn with glittering crystal beads.

Garrett went to the full-length looking glass, and her eyes widened as she beheld this new version of herself. How odd it felt to be dressed in something light, glimmering, and luxurious, the skin of her throat and chest and arms exposed. Was she making a mistake, going out like this?

“Do I look foolish?” she asked uncertainly. “Is this unseemly?”

“My goodness, no,” Helen said earnestly. “I’ve never seen you look so beautiful. You’re . . . prose that’s turned into poetry. Why would you worry about appearing foolish?”

“When I’m dressed like this, people will say I don’t look like a doctor.” Garrett paused before continuing wryly. “On the other hand, they already say that, even when I’m wearing a surgeon’s cap and gown.”

Carys, who was playing with the left-over glass beads on the vanity table, volunteered innocently, “You’ve always looked like a doctor to me.”

Helen smiled at her little sister. “Did you know, Carys, that Dr. Gibson is the only lady doctor in England?”

Carys shook her head, regarding Garrett with round-eyed interest. “Why aren’t there others?”

Garrett smiled. “Many people believe women aren’t suited to work in the medical profession.”

“But women can be nurses,” Carys said with a child’s clear-eyed logic. “Why can’t they be doctors?”

“They are many female doctors, as a matter of fact, in countries such as America and France. Unfortunately, women aren’t allowed to earn a medical degree here. Yet.”

“But that’s not fair.”

Garrett smiled down into the girl’s upturned face. “There will always be people who say your dreams are impossible. But they can’t stop you, unless you agree with them.”



After arriving at the Winterborne residence, Dr. Havelock looked her over with approval, pronounced her “quite presentable,” and collected her in his private carriage. Their destination was the Home Secretary’s private residence on Grafton Street, at the northern end of Albemarle. Many of the neighborhood’s grand homes were inhabited by government officials who insisted it was essential for them to live as men of high social position at taxpayers’ expense. “The drawing-room work,” it was claimed, “is but a part of the office work,” and therefore lavish social entertainments such as this were ultimately for the public benefit. Perhaps that was true, Garrett thought, but it had all the appearance of indulging in the sweets of high office.

They were welcomed into the opulently decorated house, its rooms filled with fine art and massive swags of flowers, the walls covered in silk or hand-painted paper. It immediately became apparent that at least four hundred guests had been invited to an event that could only have comfortably accommodated half that number. The crush of bodies made the atmosphere stifling and hot, causing ladies to perspire in their silks and satins, and gentlemen to stew in their black evening coats. Servants moved through the gauntlet of shoulders and elbows with trays of iced champagne and chilled sherbet.

The Home Secretary’s wife, Lady Tatham, insisted on taking Garrett under her wing. The silver-haired, heavily bejeweled woman steered her expertly through the crowd, introducing her to a large number of guests in rapid succession. Eventually they reached a group of a half dozen dignified older gentlemen, all looking serious and vaguely perturbed, as if they were standing around a well into which someone had just tumbled.

“Dr. Salter,” Lady Tatham exclaimed, and a gray-whiskered gentleman turned toward them. He was a short man of sturdy build, his face kind and jowly beneath a neatly trimmed beard.

“This fetching creature,” Lady Tatham told him, “is Dr. Garrett Gibson.”

Salter hesitated as if uncertain how to greet Garrett, then seemed to come to a decision. Reaching out, he shook her hand firmly in a man-to-man fashion. A gesture of equals.

Garrett adored him instantly.

“One of Lister’s protégées, eh?” Salter remarked, his eyes twinkling from behind a pair of octagonal spectacles. “I read an account in the Lancet about the surgery you performed last month. A double ligature of the subclavian artery—the first time it’s been done successfully. Your skill is to be commended, Doctor.”