Page 1 of The Gentleman Physician

Chapter One

January 10th, 1812

Nathaniel Hastings bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing while his patient, Lady Huntington, continued to spout nonsense about the reasons behind her various ailments. He knew very well nothing troubled her that a good conversation could not cure.

“You are not at all sympathetic enough to be a doctor,” the septuagenarian accused, wagging a bejeweled finger at him. “Look at you. As I give you a list of my rheumatisms and poor spirits, you are laughing at me.” Though her words were said with affront, her old gray eyes sparkled with mirth. “What is to become of us when young doctors like you sit and chuckle at their patients? Hardly a way to run a medical practice, if you ask me.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” He stopped trying to hide his smile. “I find it hard to believe that your aches are so dreadful when I have it on very good authority you spent last evening at a ball, dancing nearly as often as that granddaughter of yours. Rumor also has it that you turned many a head with your new turban.”

Her eyes glittered playfully. She leaned forward, the scent of lavender and face powder wafting toward him as she moved, to give his hand a grandmotherly pat where it rested on the arm of the chair.

“It is not a rumor at all, dear boy. And I will show you the magnificent headpiece.” She signaled her maid who disappeared briefly and returned carrying a very tall, very bright yellow turban of silk, bedecked with green and blue feathers.

“You see,” the old woman said triumphantly, taking in his surprised expression with glee. “Positively everyone noticed and commented upon it. They cannot decide if I am senile or too out of the world to even care about fashion. Bah.” She took the hideous thing and put it on her head, the maid fluttering about to help adjust it.

Nathaniel covered his mouth with his fist, overcome with amusement and horror in equal parts. “Is that a stuffed bird at the top?”

“Indeed, it is.” The dowager affected a dramatic pose, lifting her aristocratic nose in the air. “I can tell you are absolutely agog, as were all at the assembly last evening.” But when she twisted her neck to allow her profile to show, she winced and raised a hand to the back of her head.

He shook his head. “I can see. I also think, my lady, that I will leave you with a tincture after all. Such a glorious head piece likely caused you some strain due to its weight. I doubt the whole turban is as light as the feathers festooned upon it?”

“It is a taxing load,” she consented, waving for her maid to remove the silk and feathered monstrosity. “What do you recommend I take to cure my suffering?”

He gave her instructions for herbal tea to ease her headache and relax her muscles, advised she rest and not wear the turban for a few days at least, and then took his leave of her. Lady Huntington always saw to it that his visits were well compensated, though he never asked a thing from her. That was the way with the wealthy. They would never stoop to paying a doctor but would give him gifts instead.

The poor insisted on paying, however meager the amount, and Nathaniel had long since decided it all evened out. He earned a respectable living, for an independent man, and he enjoyed the work.

He put his beaver atop his head, covering his dark blond hair. He would need to visit a barber soon to keep it from covering his eyes. He inhaled deeply of the afternoon air and strode down the walk, taking in the clear blue sky, half smiling. Winter usually meant gray skies and dreadful weather, but today the world remained bright.

Nathaniel liked Bath. The city, ancient and modern at the same time, appealed to him. He could visit Roman ruins or listen to the old gossips discuss the latest London scandals in the Pump Room. With the season well under way in London, Bath emptied of many of its usual citizens, to fill again with families taking leases. These families were generally not high enough in society to thrive in London, but they could command great respect in Bath.

Deciding to walk to his next appointment, Nathaniel enjoyed the brisk winter breezes. Cities were always more pleasant in the winter, the air scented by coal and wood smoke instead of animals. He missed the green trees and gardens, but the bare branches in the parks made him more restful. People stayed indoors, softening the sounds in the streets.

In spring, life returned to the parks and the noise of all the citizenry bursting out of doors bringing vibrancy back to the town. But for now, he enjoyed the peacefulness of the season.

Nathaniel turned his mind to his next patient, hoping the cold dry air would make the man’s day a little easier. The Baron of Heatherton, Charles Macon, was next on his list. It would not be a light-hearted visit, as his lordship was failing with consumption. The disease had taken the man’s lungs. All Nathaniel could do was alleviate the man’s pain and treat the symptoms to make what time he had left meaningful.

He had tried every remedy he could find, but Lord Heatherton’s case had already advanced to a point there was nothing more a doctor could do.

He arrived at the house at half past two, and Lady Heatherton greeted him. She met him at the top of the stairs, her fair hair piled upon her head in a regal manner, her dress impeccable, her countenance stoic. She bore herself like a duchess, and he nearly forgot she was younger than his own twenty-seven years.

“Doctor Hastings, welcome.” She offered him her hand which he bowed over. “Your visits are most appreciated.”

He smiled, having found that this family preferred a pleasant disposition over a somber one. “Thank you, my lady. I hope, with the weather drier than normal, that your husband is faring well today?”

A flicker of worry appeared in her eyes and she glanced downward. “I am afraid not. I had hoped, with the lack of rain, his cough would ease. But…” When she looked up again there were tears in her eyes. “The solicitor came earlier to go over the details of the will. His lordship does not think he has much time left.”

Nathaniel frowned. “This disease is cruel in its kindness.”

“Indeed. It gives us plenty of time to prepare, yet we must watch the slow progression of it take away our loved ones.” She blinked away her tears and lifted her eyes, the bravery reappearing. “Thank you for coming. Please, let us see to my husband.”

Lord Heatherton reclined on the fainting couch in his bedroom, sitting before a large fire. The pallor of his skin testified of his illness, and his coat hung loosely about his shoulders. The gentleman had lost a great deal of weight. He turned to the door when Nathaniel entered, the motion jarring a coughing fit. His wife hurried to his side, handing him a handkerchief and putting her hand to his shoulder in support. She offered him water when the coughing had passed but he waved it away.

The baroness gave care rivaling professional nurses and Nathaniel admired her for it.

“Perhaps he ought to have tea instead,” Nathaniel suggested as he came further into the room. He always instructed soap and a basin of water be available to him, to wash his hands, before and after encountering all of his patients.

While some scoffed at what they deemed fastidious behavior, Nathaniel had seen its benefits. Having studied medicine in Scotland, Nathaniel was well read in Doctor Alexander Gordon’s treatment of puerperal fever. Doctor Gordon’s treatise on his findings that washing one’s hands, and instruments, and airing out clothing when visiting women with child-bed fever, remained one of the most controversial topics among doctors.