Charlotte entered Delaney Hospital’s receiving room and a sense of nostalgia washed over her. The last time she’d been there she’d been a new medical student, full of hopes and apprehension for her future. She was glad now that she’d been unaware how challenging the path would be. She smiled, imagining the ghost of her younger self walking wide-eyed through the halls.
Nurses wore dark dresses with crisp, white aprons and white caps. Their movements were brisk and efficient, as well trained as a military unit. The receiving room contained several rows of benches and a tall desk to one side where a doctor consulted with the matron, who made notes in a ledger. The benches were full of people waiting to be seen—mothers with feverish, listless children and coughing adults of all ages. Down the hallway to her right, she noted three men who seemed to have been in an accident being wheeled away to surgery.
The building was an older structure that had formerly served as a veteran’s hospital after the Crimean War. Florence Nightingale’s revolutionary ideas about basic cleanliness and sanitation had changed hospital procedure decades earlier, and the medical field was now well-versed in the sciences of germs and bacteria as causes of illness as opposed to miasma, or bad air.
Delaney wasn’t much different from the hospital where she’d trained in Philadelphia. It had served the same population for years and was funded by philanthropists who put their millions to good use. Even if their outward claims of compassion and care for the poor and widowed was sometimes nothing more than a pretty façade, their money was very real, and it kept the hospital running. Such financing was crucial to the survival of the institution, and yearly fund drives, much like those conducted at Delaney, were grueling but necessary.
Charlotte noted Matron Halcomb’s expression tensing as the doctor spoke to her; she bore the expression of one who must acquiesce but did not want to. Charlotte made her way across the room, wondering who would have the temerity to question the matron’s good sense or opinion.
The surgeon was new—at least he’d not been at the hospital four years earlier. He looked up in impatience at Charlotte when she reached them, and he then looked at the matron in surprise when she let out an exclamation of delight and moved from behind the desk to clasp Charlotte in a tight embrace.
“My dear girl! You’ve grown up!” Matron Halcomb’s face beamed as though she were Charlotte’s mother. The woman was middle-aged, had never married, but had dedicated her life to the nursing profession. She had dark chestnut hair beneath a small lace headpiece, and her black dress, with its high collar and long sleeves, was impeccably pressed.
She brooked no nonsense and ran as tight a ship as any captain, and her hospital wards were tidy and sterile. She inspected each morning with a white glove, looking under beds and behind curtains.
“I should say, ‘Dr. Duvall,’ though,” the matron continued, placing her hands on Charlotte’s shoulders. “You’re no longer the same young girl I knew.”
“I’ve not changed much.” Charlotte smiled. “I’ve no doubt you could still put me soundly in my place.”
Matron chuckled, but then paused. “But no, you’ve also trained as a surgeon! So, you’re actually ‘Miss Duvall.’”
Charlotte tipped her head. “I only hope for employment in either capacity.”
“Is this our candidate?” the man standing behind the desk asked.
Matron inhaled but barely missed a beat as she looked at him and forced a tight smile. “Miss Duvall, allow me to introduce Mr. Stanley. He has been with Delaney for a year and became head surgeon after Mr. Call retired.”
Mr. Stanley gave Charlotte a curt nod. He was trim in stature, and handsome enough. Something about his eyes, however, suggested he might be the sort of person who bullied his way through life believing his appearance and wit would always carry the day. She would wager her pending inheritance on the fact that he would bristle if referred to as a mere doctor.
Charlotte smiled and extended her hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stanley.”
He took her hand after a pause that was just long enough to imply insult and gripped it a touch too hard to be considered polite, and her eyes narrowed through her smile. Matching his clasp, she gave a good squeeze before dropping her hand. A muscle moved in his jaw, and she knew she’d just made herself a nemesis.
“We ought to make our way upstairs,” Matron Halcomb interjected. “Mr. Stanley will sit in with Mr. Corbin and me for the interview.”
“Delightful,” Charlotte said with a tight smile and a sinking heart.
“I shall be along momentarily,” Mr. Stanley said.
Charlotte fell into step with the matron as they climbed the stairs up two flights.
“Odious as the day is long,” the older woman told Charlotte as they neared the top. “That man is condescending to my nursing staff and has run two doctors right out the front door in the year since his arrival.”
“He must be a good surgeon to justify his employment here,” Charlotte said.
“He is mediocre, at best,” Matron Halcomb scoffed, lowering her voice as they passed a few staff members in the hallway. “Two other surgeons on staff are obliged to pick up anything he drops.”
“Then why—”
“He is the personal physician to the wife of the hospital’s most influential benefactor.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.” Matron Halcomb knocked on the door to Mr. Corbin’s office. “And so, we exercise patience and diplomacy.”
The door opened to reveal a man in his late fifties, with hair a bit grayer than the last time Charlotte had seen him but his broad smile was exactly the same. “Miss Duvall!” He clasped her hand with both of his and led her into the office.
“Mr. Corbin,” Charlotte said, surprised when her eyes suddenly stung with happy tears. “I am so glad to see you again. Your letters during my time away were a welcome boon to my spirits.”
Mr. Corbin had five daughters, each accomplished and headstrong, and his acceptance of Charlotte’s plans as a new medical student had been surprising and more than welcome. She had come up against person after person who’d attempted to dissuade and discourage her efforts that first year in school before leaving for America, so much that she’d nearly decided to quit. Mr. Corbin had encouraged her, and, because he held a position at one of London’s largest hospitals and was a good man of influence and compassion whose opinion she valued, she began to hope her dreams might come to fruition.
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Corbin said and led her to a chair opposite his desk. He patted her hand again, shaking his head. “I can hardly believe the time has passed. Look at you! Miss Duvall, you’ve matured and learned much; I can see it in your face. Tell me about your experiences.”
Matron Halcomb took a seat next to Charlotte, and Mr. Corbin poured a cup of tea for each of them before settling into his chair. Charlotte handed him her packet of references, school marks, and relevant experience. She told him about her classwork and practical studies in the hospital and clinics in Pennsylvania, and about her employment at St. Anne’s clinic in New York just before her return home. He listened, meeting her eyes, asking questions, and taking a few quick notes as he flipped through her portfolio.
They were interrupted by a quick knock at the door, and Mr. Stanley let himself in without bothering to wait for admittance.
“Mr. Stanley, do come in,” Mr. Corbin said needlessly. “I’ve begun Miss Duvall’s interview. Your appearance is well-timed.”
“You did not wait for me to arrive,” Mr. Stanley commented and pulled a chair over to the group.
Mr. Corbin checked his timepiece. “We began at the prearranged time, but I do understand that you may have been delayed. Please, do not feel badly for arriving late.”
Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek.
“We’ve covered Miss Duvall’s formal education, which was quite extensive—her diploma required more rigorous study than some of our own doctors—and her practical experience, which is also very impressive. We were about to discuss her surgical experience.”
“I hardly think that is necessary,” Mr. Stanley said. “We have two surgeons already in addition to my services. Mr. Call, though retired, is also available for emergencies. We are short two doctors, however. If we are to continue down this road—and I’ve already expressed to you my reservations—we hardly need assume Dr. Duvall would be involved in the surgical theater in any capacity.”
Charlotte raised one brow but kept her mouth closed. Maintaining a bland expression was a skill she’d perfected over the last five years. If Matron Halcomb was correct, the reason the hospital was “down two doctors” lay with the good Mr. Stanley himself. She kept her hands folded in her lap—unclenched—and looked at Mr. Corbin.
Mr. Corbin lowered his voice. “You are aware that your inclusion in this interview is a courtesy I am extending at your insistence, Mr. Stanley.” He gestured to Charlotte. “Continue, Miss Duvall. I’d asked about your surgical experience in emergency settings, and you indicated you have worked alongside experienced surgeons performing amputations, childbirth emergencies, and some internal abdominal work treating both knife and gunshot wounds.” He turned over a few sheets of paper and glanced over her recommendations from attending physicians in Philadelphia.
Mr. Stanley extended a hand for the stack of papers. “May I?”
Mr. Corbin glanced at the man in clear irritation but scooped the papers together and handed them over. “Miss Duvall, why is it you seek employment at Delaney, specifically? There are dozens of hospitals and medical clinics in London.” He folded his hands together on his desk and smiled at Charlotte.
“Delaney appeals to me because of the population it serves,” Charlotte said. “I have been blessed with a life of privilege and comfort, and the more experience I gain, the more I recognize the chasm between myself and others. I appreciate the effort Delaney makes to bridge that chasm.” Charlotte swallowed past a lump in her throat.
Mr. Stanley tossed her file back onto the desk and folded his arms. His smile was little more than a smirk. “Impressively altruistic, doctor. Would that all of the medical community cared so for the poor and destitute.”
“Clearly you must, Mr. Stanley, because you work here among the least of the least. I find it admirable.” She smiled. “Perhaps we are like-minded, despite minor differences.”
His gaze dropped from Charlotte’s face and traveled the length of her body before returning to her eyes. She steeled herself to keep from reacting to the insult. He would only use it against her.
“I would not describe our differences as minor, dear lady. It must be clear to each of us in this room where I stand on the matter. I make no secret of my disapproval of women playing at doctor duties, let alone surgical. I need not confer with you in private, Mr. Corbin, and am informing you directly before this candidate that I cast my vote against hiring her.”
Mr. Corbin assessed his head surgeon with raised eyebrows before stating, “I appreciate your vote, Mr. Stanley, but it was never yours to cast. The hiring of doctors and surgeons falls under my purview, and I accept feedback from Matron Halcomb alone. As a favor to you, I will take your opinion under advisement, but as there are nearly one hundred women doctors practicing medicine in this country—a number that will only increase—you might consider revising your view.”
Charlotte did not look at Mr. Stanley in triumph but kept her attention trained on Mr. Corbin. He turned to her and said, “Miss Duvall, we are desperately short-staffed, and your qualifications are stellar. Matron Halcomb”—he nodded to the woman sitting next to Charlotte—“has given me her opinion already. As the lead administrator of Delaney Hospital, I hereby extend to you an offer of employment as a doctor and substitute surgeon.”
Charlotte released a slow breath of relief, even though she’d suspected the interview would go in her favor. She rose with Mr. Corbin and shook his hand with a smile. “I accept, sir, and will do my best to be an asset to this institution.”
Mr. Stanley stood, then turned on his heel and left the office without saying a word.
“Don’t mind him,” Mr. Corbin said in an undertone. “He’ll come ’round. You do your job well, and he’ll have nothing further to say.”
Charlotte had known men like Mr. Stanley, and their bark was almost always worse than their bite. The only problem with this particular man, though, was his tie to a hospital benefactor. She resolved to treat his ego with care to avoid upsetting the financial boat. Money always dictated the course of things.
Matron Halcomb took Charlotte to the different wards, introducing her to the nurses. Nearly all of them were new to Charlotte, but they welcomed her warmly. Their friendliness went a long way toward making up for Mr. Stanley’s rudeness, and as Charlotte continued her tour with the matron, she was walking on clouds.
She met three other doctors, all of whom were busy with patients but who greeted her professionally enough that she was hopeful for a good working relationship.
Matron Halcomb led Charlotte to her office, which was just beyond the receiving room. She’d just handed Charlotte a satchel of papers and a few supplies one of the other physicians had left behind, when a courier approached with a sealed message.
He gave it to Matron Halcomb and asked, “Do you know who this is?”
The Matron examined it in surprise and then gave it to Charlotte, whose name was scrawled on the front in an unfamiliar hand. Only family and her friends knew she would be at the hospital for her interview—she figured the message must be from one of them.
“Thank you,” she said to the boy, handing him a coin from her reticule.
He tipped his hat with a grin and darted away.
Charlotte gave Matron Halcomb a final hug, then placed her portfolio of papers in her new satchel and left the hospital. She stepped out into the brisk air, feeling satisfaction at having a good plan in place. She would work at the hospital, continue her career, decipher the truth of her father’s veiled secrets, and decide whether she would remain in England or go back to the United States. She had plenty of time.
She looked down at the message in her hand and walked down the street away from the congested hospital receiving doors. She didn’t want to set her satchel down in the muddy street, so she balanced the letter against her leg and fiddled one-handed with the seal. Finally opening it, she squinted at the few words scrawled in a cramped handwriting.
Your father was a madman. Leave well enough alone.
Her heart pounded, and she looked around, suddenly feeling as though she was being watched. She hoped to see the boy who had delivered the message, but he was nowhere in sight. As she scanned the crowded streets, everyone who made eye contact with her was suddenly suspect. One woman finally nudged past her, muttering, “What’re ye lookin’ at, missy?”
Charlotte swallowed and folded the message in half, tucking it into her satchel. She made her way to the train that would take her to Bloomsbury and the stop near Hampton House. As her heartbeat returned to normal, she realized that if someone was concerned enough about the “hornet’s nest” her father said he’d been kicking before he died, then warning her away from it only gave it validity.
But it raised another concerning question: since the note had not come from her family, who else had known she would be at the hospital?