Page 152 of The Summer Country

Despite her protests that she could wait her turn, it seemed everyone suddenly discovered that their ailments could wait. Twisted wrists weren’t that bad after all and the cut wasn’t bleeding so very much. Emily dispensed a bit of commonsense advice, said she wouldn’t be a moment and not to go away, steeled herself, and marched inside.

Nathaniel was in his consulting room, which looked much as it had when she had visited with George. The kettle still whistled on the fire; needles and knives, shining with cleanliness, had been set out on a cloth. Nathaniel was setting a dislocated shoulder. Emily watched with professional appreciation as he heaved the arm back and snapped it into place, then bound the arm close to the chest. She had seen the operation performed far less gracefully, and she found herself very aware of the movement of the muscles beneath the fine cloth of his coat.

Goodness, that sun had been hot out there. She could feel her cheeks burning. Or maybe that was the fire in the little room, burning and burning away, boiling away disease, making everything clean and new.

The man on the table saw Emily and started to try to clamber down, earning a strong rebuke from the doctor. “Keep it bound like this for the next week. I don’t want you lifting anything heavy for the next month. Yes, I know the head driver won’t like it. Ask him if he would prefer to lose your services permanently. You won’t be much use with no right arm, would you?”

It gradually dawned on Nathaniel that the patient was staring. Slowly, he turned, and the expression of annoyance on his face froze into . . . nothing.

She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t nothing.

“Miss Dawson,” he said, and Emily felt her chest twist, painfully. She had been Emily six weeks ago. She had done this. She had demanded he call her Miss Dawson, had wrenched the right to her name from him in a rage.

“Dr. Braithwaite.” He had slept since she had last seen him and had a change of linen. Several, she assumed, given that it had been over a month. His cheeks were smoothly shaved, his mustache recently trimmed, and his cravat was bleached and starched to a nicety. He looked impossibly handsome and very urbane. Urbane and entirely remote. They were, Emily realized, doing a very good job of pretending to be statues, only her statue was wearing an elderly morning gown that hadn’t benefited from its contact with a horse, and she had, she was quite sure, the beginnings of an impressive sunburn on the end of her nose.

She really ought to have stopped for her hat.

“You can go out now,” Dr. Braithwaite told his patient, without looking away from Emily. Recalling himself, he added briskly, “Mind you. No heavy lifting, or don’t blame me if you lose the use of that arm. Tell the next patient . . . Tell the next patient I won’t be a moment.”

Only a moment.

Now that she was here, Emily found herself at a loss for words. The eloquence that had possessed her at Mrs. Davenant’s bedside had deserted her in the face of the reality of Nathaniel, the force of the emotions she felt.

“Dr. Braithwaite.” He stood there, elegant and remote, waiting for her to say something else, to state her purpose. She probably ought to have prepared a speech on the way over, but she had been too busy hanging on, so Emily blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “How did you come by the name of Braithwaite? Everyone here calls you Cooper.”

“Cooper was my slave name. Braithwaite was the name of the family who fostered me in England.” His voice was clipped, inflectionless, but a muscle worked in his cheek. “I was a freeman and an Englishman. I wanted a name that reflected that. I had thought it would make me . . . more free. I thought I could change my nature with my name. But the past is never really past, is it? No matter how hard you try to hide from it. I ran all the way to England, I changed the way I spoke, I changed the way I dressed, I changed my name—and yet, here I am.”

“You might have gone anywhere, but you didn’t.” Emily’s voice was strangely husky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I think it’s rather splendid of you.”

“Anywhere is a relative term,” said Nathaniel drily. He busied himself with cleaning the table, scrubbing it with more effort than necessary. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Do you have a medical question?”

Love wasn’t a disease, he had told her once. “Here, let me,” Emily said, taking the cloth from him. Her hand brushed his. She felt the shock of the contact straight down to her boots. “You—you’re stripping the polish off.”

Nathaniel took a step back. He was, she noticed, holding one hand in the other, absently rubbing the spot where their hands had touched. “You didn’t come to oversee my domestic efforts,” he said gruffly.

Emily paused in her scrubbing, forcing herself to look directly at him. “I’ve decided to sell Peverills,” she began.

Nathaniel didn’t give her time to go on. He moved jerkily toward the fire, his boot heels sharp against the wood floor. “I suppose you mean to go back to Bristol? I’ve been thinking of West Africa. There’s a mission going to the Rio Pongo. They need a surgeon to make one of the party.”

Emily’s hands clenched around the cloth, sending dirty water dripping down the front of her dress. She hastily set it down. “Do you truly mean to go?”

“I’m considering it.”

No, no, no. This was all wrong. This wasn’t at all how this was meant to go. Emily scrubbed her wet hands down the sides of her dress, which really couldn’t get much worse at this point. “I hope you won’t. I mean to sell Peverills and use the money to found a clinic, a clinic for the treatment of infectious diseases.”

Nathaniel had been leaning over the kettle. He paused, his back toward her, saying slowly, “My uncle would tell you that a clinic is hardly a sound investment.”

Emily took a half step forward, her heart in her throat. “I don’t want to be mistress of a plantation or learn how to turn sugarcane to gold. I have no interest in investing in ships or railroads.” It was amazing how eloquent a back could be. From the way he straightened, she could tell he was listening. “You said it yourself, the rules of the hospital don’t allow anyone with an infectious disease. But those people need to be treated too. If there were a special infirmary, one designed for the purpose, one could treat those patients properly and save so many others.”

Nathaniel turned to look at her, as though trying to decide what to make of her. But all he said was “It’s a noble goal.”

“I can’t do it alone. I’m not a physician—or a surgeon. I had hoped you might be willing.” Emily’s voice faltered; she felt, suddenly, very unsure. It had all seemed a grand idea back at Beckles. Some people offered flowers as love tokens; she would give her love a clinic. But Nathaniel wasn’t rushing to take her hands and press her to his heart. Hesitantly, she said, “Just think of it. You could study the course and cause of the diseases, really study them. That is what you wanted to do. Isn’t it?”

Nathaniel made no move toward her. “Is it a salaried position?” he asked.

“I—I had thought of it more as a spousal one.” In a rush, Emily added, “Although it doesn’t have to be. I intend to found the clinic either way. If you don’t want to take the position, I’m sure I can find someone to run it.”

“And the spousal position?”