“There is baby business,” Mara said, cutting him off, “and then there is woman business. This happens to be the latter.”
“Woman business,” the duke repeated, his gaze darting between his wife and his wife’s doctor. A line appeared between his thick, ebony brows as he raised his arms in the air and began a slow backward retreat. “I... ah... have at it, then. But don’t stay up too late. You need your rest.”
“Of course, my love,” Mara said with the same tender patience a parent might grant a child after being told the same story for the hundredth time. “I’ll be up to bed soon.”
“How is His Grace’s leg?” Abigail asked as she followed the duchess into the parlor. They sat in front of a cozy fireplace inmatching chairs upholstered in stripes of green and white. “Has he been doing the stretches that I recommended?”
While Mara was her patient now, she’d initially treated the duke after a dog attack had resulted in a mangled leg. When the wound became infected, Mara had come to London to fetch Abigail under the recommendation of her most trusted servant, whose friend Abigail had treated the year prior. She’d demanded that Abigail return with her to Southwick Castle, but Abigail hadn’t dared leave the safety of the city. Not when it meant potentially exposing her whereabouts to Stephen. So she’d given Mara a powdered tincture to put on the wound three times a day and had been able to follow up in person when the duke unexpectedly came to London seeking his duchess. Ill-advised travel, given his condition. But it seemed when the heart was involved, people had a way of making decisions that were not always in the best interest of their bodies. Which was, in Abigail’s opinion, laughingly absurd.
Love was... love was mist. It was intangible. Scientifically unproven. Why on earth would someone risk their wellbeing—their verylife—in pursuit of it? Didn’t people realize that they only had one body? And when it was hurt, when it was broken, when it eventually ceased to function, so too would they.
“Ambrose’s leg pains him slightly after a long ride or when it gets very cold. He does his stretches when I remind him and grumbles all the while, but that is to be expected. Would you like tea? I’m going to get us tea.” With a rather un-duchess-like grunt, Mara heaved herself up from her chair, waddled to the buffet table, and poured two cups of tea from a gold-plated tea set embossed with red roses. Giving one of the cups to Abigail, she plopped back into her chair with a grateful smile. “Thank you for not offering to assist me. I cannot lift a quill pen these days without Ambrose sounding the alarm. I am carrying his child, not bedridden with consumption. Now tell me howit is that an American doctor came to be married to a British aristocrat. And did you say... the Earl ofLancaster?”
While Abigail did not regularly imbibe in spirits, she did wish her cup contained something stronger than tea when she brought it to her lips and took a sip. “Yes, that is correct.”
“Lord Stephen Highborn, the Earl of Lancaster.”
“Unless there is a different Earl of Lancaster I am unaware of, yes.”
Mara blinked slowly, then gave her head a tiny shake. “I’m sorry. I must be confused. Kitty was always the one who paid attention to these things, not me. I thought Lord Lancaster was married to a lady of theton. The only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hanover, if memory serves. God rest their souls.”
“Yes,” Abigail repeated.
“But that... that cannot beyou. You’re a doctor.”
“Indeed. However, before I was Dr. Abigail Chadwick, I was Lady Abigail Pratt. When I married Lord Lancaster, I became Lady Abigail Brunswick. Of all three, I prefer Dr. Chadwick the most. It is who I am, and who I intend to remain.” She took another sip of tea. “Is it warm in here, or is it just me? Room temperature is very important, especially for an expectant mother. You do not want to raise your heartrate.”
Mara stared. “Dr. Chadwick... Abigail. I’m going to call you Abigail now, and you’re going to call me Mara, because I think it is safe to assume we’ve gone beyond doctor and patient. Abigail, I need you to tell me how it is you came to be the Countess of Lancaster.”
“It’s a rather boring story, all told.”
The duchess arched a brow. “Somehow, I think I’ll manage to keep my eyes open.”
Chapter Two
Eight Years Ago
Columbia College Medical School
Manhattan, New York
“How much longer?”Abigail queried the middle-aged woman seated behind a small writing desk in the middle of a vast receiving room. Aside from the desk and the terribly uncomfortable chair that she herself was sitting on, the room was empty. But it wasn’t the room and its lack of furniture that concerned her. It was the roombeyondthis room. Specifically, the room beyond the double set of doors marked with a gold placard that readDr. Samuel Bard.
She had written to Dr. Bard no fewer than a dozen times over the past year. The first eleven letters had been ignored. The twelfth had garnered a curt, three sentence response.
Dear Lady Abigail Pratt,
Your persistence in this matter is admirable, but misguided. Columbia College Medical School had never, nor will it ever, accept a female candidate for our medical doctorate program. Should you seek employment in a more suitable field, you may make an appointment with my secretary, Mrs. Fielding.
Respectfully,
Dr. Samuel Bard
Dean of Columbia College Medical School
The woman behind the desk—presumably Mrs. Fielding, although unlike her employer, she did not have a gold placard—looked up from the missive she’d been transcribing onto a blank piece of paper to squint at Abigail. “What are you here for again?”
“I have an appointment.” When Abigail’s fingers threatened to tremble with nerves, she tucked them neatly under the leather satchel she’d brought with her. Not because it carried anything of importance, but because she believed—she hoped—it would make her appear more official. “With Dr. Bard. I’m sure he told you about it.”
