Page 52 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Stephen shook his head. Mr. Douglas wasn’t the first patient to suggest he lacked in mental acuity, and he wouldn’t be the last. He released his grip and rummaged in his bag, then unscrewed and assembled his brass and wooden stethoscope.

“Ah, brought the torture device back out, have you?”

“We both know it causes no pain.”

“It’s damned cold, is what it is.”

Stephen resisted the urge to roll his eyes and chafed the edge against his hand until it warmed. Still, the old man gave a grumble of displeasure when Stephen set one end upon his bare chest and lowered his head to listen.

“Take a deep breath.”

“They’re as deep as I can manage,” he argued, before taking a substantially deeper one than the last.

A distinct wet crackling sound met Stephen’s ears. He didn’t react, though the man’s lungs still sounded too full for his liking.

“I’ll prepare a steam bath,” he said, rising to his feet. “Stay put.”

When he went through to the kitchen, he brought his stethoscope. The maid was in the backyard, taking laundry from the line. Mr. Douglas was too ill to keep up with his housework.

Vera had put the kettle on, though it was not yet whistling. She held Anne on her lap, smiling down at her. The little girl had freshly washed face and hands, and Vera was brushing her hair with the set she’d purchased in town only days ago.

“How is he?” Vera asked.

“I want to prepare a steam bath for his lungs. Is there more water?”

She shook her head. “I used the last for the tea.”

He nodded and went through to the well. By the time he’d retrieved a bucket, the teapot was singing its shrill aria. Vera pulled it, poured two cups, and set one far back from the counter’s edge to cool.

“Will you mind her while I bring Mr. Douglas his tea?” Vera asked in a tone that insinuated he might not be equal to the task.

Stephen smirked—if only this lady knew he’d once overseen a ward of thirty sick children in the height of fever season, with only a single, elderly nurse to help him!

He wanted to tell her the story, or to point out that there was no possible way Mr. Douglas was minding Anne in his current state, but all he said was, “Of course.”

He arranged the steam treatment—setting water in the pot over the fire, checking his stock of camphor and dried eucalyptus in his bag. Then he dug in the basket for the paper parcel he knew Mrs. Portence had packed before they left the house.

“Miss Anne, would you like a biscuit?”

Her eyes grew wide and bright. She outstretched her hand.

“Ah,” he said, withdrawing the treat. “I am going to listen to your lungs first, and then you may have one.”

Her chin jutted. “Hurts?”

“Not at all. Would you like to try it? Watch.” He knelt beside her, put the large end to his own chest, and pointed. “You put your ear up to there.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then bent her head, bringing her ear no closer than half a foot from the stethoscope. Then she raised her head and grinned.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

She nodded, still smiling.

“All right, now your turn.”

He slowly placed the flange upon the thin fabric covering her chest, waited a moment to allow her to get used to it, then bent his head and listened. It took mere moments for him to ascertain that she sounded perfectly healthy—her heart and lungs, both.

“Wonderful!” He grinned at her, more out of relief for her condition than anything. “When you grow up, I think you could be a physician, you did so well.”