“He did not.”
“Then he must have forgotten.”
“Dr. Bard does not forget things.”
“Then...”Think, she told herself furiously.You did not travel over a hundred miles stuffed into an overfilled stagecoach like a sardine in a jar just to speak with Dr. Bard’s secretary.“It is of the utmost importance that I speak with Dr. Bard. A matter of life and death, really.”
Mrs. Fielding frowned. “Are you ill? You do not appear ill.”
“I’m not ill,” Abigail burst out, half rising from her chair. “I... wait. Yes. I am ill. It is a very new, very rare disease. I should like to give Dr. Bard the first opportunity to study it, but if he is too busy, I can always go to the University of Pennsylvania—”
“Wait right there.” Mrs. Fielding disappeared through the double doors, but only for a moment. There was a muffled shout, and then one of the doors sprang open and she gestured Abigailforward with a short, flustered wave of her hand. “Dr. Bard will see you now.”
Clutching her empty satchel to her pounding heart, Abigail walked past the secretary into an office nearly half the size of the receiving room and made all the smaller by the large, ornate mahogany furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with orderly stacks of medical journals. The air smelled vaguely of cigar smoke, a smell she recognized from her long journey here.
In the middle of the office, centered in front of a window overlooking the gray, gloomy shore of the Hudson River, was a desk piled high with papers, ink pots, and pictures in matching silver frames. Behind the desk sat a man. A man with gray hair cut to his shoulders, creases in the corners of his eyes, and a bulbous nose.
“Dr. Bard.” A combination of excitement and dread rose up in the base of Abigail’s throat as she crossed the room and extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve readA Discourse Upon the Duties of a Physiciantoo many times to count, and your enquiry into the cause and cure of angina suffocative was pure genius.”
Dr. Bard took her hand, but did not shake it. Instead, he pressed his index and middle finger to her pulse. “Heart rate is regular,” he mused, releasing her hand. “If a tad quick. Have you a rash anywhere on your person?”
“A . . . a rash?”
“Discoloration of the skin. Typically found in a cluster on the inside of the arms, chest, or abdomen.”
“Yes, I am aware of what a rash is, but—”
“Any fever? Night sweats? Vomiting? Watery bowel movements?”
Abigail’s cheeks pinkened. “No, Dr. Bard. I am in fine health. I... I only said that I wasn’t in order to gain an audience with you. I realize you must be very busy, but I’ve come all theway from New Haven. I thought if you saw me demonstrate my knowledge of human anatomy and my skills with stitches and a scalpel in person, you would reconsider admitting me into your school despite my gender.”
Dr. Bard leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a hard stare. “You’re Lady Abigail Pratt.”
“I am.”
“You’ve sent me twelve letters over the past year. That’s one every single month.”
“I . . . I have. But that’s only because—”
“If I am not mistaken, I made myself quite clear with my response to your query. Columbia College Medical School is no place for a woman, Lady Abigail. I fear you have wasted your time in coming here. More importantly, you’ve wasted mine. My secretary will escort you out.”
“But if you would just listen—”
“Mrs. Fielding!” he barked. “Come get our guest.”
“Dr. Bard, please—”
“My dear.” The pity in his gaze cut more deeply than the scalpel she’d been practicing with morning, noon, and night. “I can see this is a disappointment. No doubt you have a bright mind, but being a physician requires an intelligence that a woman simply does not possess. If you wish to pursue a career in the medical field, might I suggest becoming a midwife or apprenticing with an herbalist?”
Apprenticingwith an herbalist. Which meant he didn’t even think her capable enough to make remedies and tinctures on her own, something she’d been doing for the past eighteen months after helplessly watching her mother waste away from consumption. A terrible disease that she’d successfully cured in no fewer than a dozen patients since then. People who had come to her out of desperation when the local doctor—a man—turned them away due to their lack of coin. Now anotherman was telling her that her education could not be continued because she had a female’s anatomy. Completely discounting the fact that her brain likely possessed more intelligence in her prefrontal cortex than half his students did in their entire frontal lobe.
“Mullein leaf,” she said even as the door opened behind her and Mrs. Fielding marched up to take her by the elbow. “When the leaves are crushed and soaked in a tea, it has proven to be most effective in clearing a patient’s airways of consumption before it has time to settle in the lungs and turn deadly. The trick is in the steam. The tea must be boiled hot enough and then a damp towel draped over the back of the patient’s head as they lean their face over the kettle to trap in the vapors.”
“That isenough,” Mrs. Fielding hissed, pulling on Abigail’s arm. “Come with me before you embarrass yourself further.”
“Wait.” Dr. Bard held up his left hand and used the right to scribble something down in a leather-bound notebook. “A damp towel, you say?”
“Yes. It acts as a moisture barrier.”
