The Prince by Katharine Ashe

Author:Katharine Ashe [Ashe, Katharine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-05-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

The Touch

“She isn’t ill.” Chedham stood beside her at the washing basin.

“Who?”

He glanced toward the cots in the ward. “Mrs. Small. She pretends pain so she can sleep in that bed and eat a hot meal each day.”

“Mr. Bridges removed a tumor from her only six days ago, Chedham.” Though if Mrs. Small were lingering in convalescence to ensure herself bed and food, Libby couldn’t blame her. Ice clung to every rooftop in Edinburgh.

“She’s taking advantage of charity,” he said.

Wiping her hands dry, Libby reached for her lunch pail, carried it to Mrs. Small’s bed, and opened it.

“I’ve extra cheese and bread today, Mrs. Small.” She tucked it into the woman’s hand.

“A heart o’ gold you’ve got, dear lad.”

Libby didn’t bother looking at her fellow apprentice as she departed. She knew he would be sneering.

Later at the library Archie whispered, “Cheddar’s up to something.”

Libby dragged her attention from the chemistry text and blinked to bring him into focus. “Up to?”

“He’s no’ himself.”

“It’s the depth of winter and we all have piles of work to do. None of us are ourselves.” Least of all her housemate. The prosthesis suited him perfectly, so well that their conversation when she had given it to him had lasted only minutes. Now she was concerned. Mrs. Coutts had shared her worries too.

“He’s in pain, lass. He’ll no’ tell a soul, bless him. The master’s a proud man. But I’ve ne’er seen him like this.”

Libby agreed. At her sittings she had noticed the whiteness about his knuckles and lips, the discomfort he seemed to have sitting and standing, his restlessness. Yet when she asked him about it, he said nothing.

The prosthesis was precisely designed. Mr. Syme agreed. She had done exceptional work. Her patient should now be walking more comfortably than he had since the amputation. He must have sciatica pain. Or . . . She didn’t know. But he was avoiding her, and she was simply too busy to pursue it. Mr. Bell had sent letters of introduction for her to every medical man of influence in town, telling her that she must win the approval of these men too.

Someday, Mr. Smart, he had written to her, you will be one of Britain’s greatest surgeons.

Now her studies consumed every moment. She hardly ever slept. Peevish with her friends, she often studied alone and spent lunchtime at the infirmary observing any physician or surgeon who would allow it.

“Archie, I don’t have time to concern myself with Chedham’s fits and starts.”

“Last night he left the pub early, so I followed him. He went straight to Bridges’s house.”

“His house?” No student would ever call on a surgeon or physician at home late at night, unless invited.

“Aye.” Archie nodded. “There’s no good in that, lad.”

“Perhaps he is having trouble with his project.” As she was, damn her subject’s royal pride.

“Then why didna he wait till tomorrow at the infirmary to ask Bridges?”

“We’re always quite busy.” But she and Chedham often quizzed Mr. Bridges on their studies as they

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