a few minutes.” James pressed her hand, the only reassurance he could offer, and stood, setting the stethoscope box inside his medical bag. “No more leeches, Mr. Bolton. If you agree, Dr. Hathaway.”
“Whatever you say,” Hathaway concurred.
“What?” The surgeon scoffed, drawing himself up to his not-insignificant height. “What am I doing here if you two are not going to listen to me?”
James snapped the medical bag closed and leveled an even gaze at the man. “I am sure I don’t know, Mr. Bolton.”
Nodding a good-bye, he left the bedchamber before the surgeon could compose a retort. Hathaway strode out behind James and shut the door.
“So the situation is bad,” said Hathaway.
“Let’s walk over there, away from the door.” James inclined his head toward the far end of the hall, steeped in dark and a quiet so profound it was as if the entire house held its breath in anticipation of James’s verdict. “It’s definitely advanced pneumonia. She might only have another day.”
“Dash . . . But I did everything I could think of.” Hathaway scrubbed his tired hands through his hair. “She has two small children, you know, and she’s only four-and-twenty. My age.”
Cold tension spasmed along James’s neck. Four-and-twenty had been Mariah’s age as well. He pushed the memories back before they could rise, ugly like distorted fungi in a damp, dark corner. The memories of his ultimate failure.
“Edmunds, you all right?” Hathaway asked. “You’ve turned a funny shade.”
“I’m fine.” James waved away the query, letting the cool hush of the hallway still the tumult in his soul. Hard to believe more than three years had passed and the shock—and guilt—could still strangle. “No need to worry about me. Concentrate on your patient. She needs your full attention.”
“I don’t like to admit this, but I’m at a loss what to do next. Nothing, I suppose.”
“All you can do is provide some comfort. A scruple of niter for the fever, keep her cool and quiet, laudanum for the pain.” He glanced over at the door. “And get Bolton out of there. She can’t handle any more blood loss.”
Hathaway nodded briskly. “I just wish I had your fortitude, Edmunds. I’ve never lost a patient before, you know? I don’t know what to do.”
James felt his gut clench. He had precious little advice to offer. Show a bold front, lad. His father’s favorite words. “Pray.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not really” James started down the carpeted stairs, his coattails slapping against his medical bag in his haste to depart. “Do you have an attendant to sit with her? That might provide you some relief and let you clear your thoughts.”
“I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had the time to hire one.”
James glanced over his shoulder at his colleague. He remembered when he’d been like Hathaway—young, fresh, throwing life aside to plunge into medicine headlong and heedless. After eight years, though, that eagerness was already burned out of him. “I would stay to help you, but I’ve a woman coming from Ireland any minute now, and I have to get back home and see her settled.”
“You’ve decided to hire a replacement attendant?” They rounded the landing, Hathaway hurrying to keep up. “I thought you were quitting your practice and leaving London, heading at last for your little farm in Essex.”
“I am looking for someone to fill in for Miss Guimond for the next month, but this Irish woman isn’t a nurse. I’ve hired her for what is only a temporary situation. A favor for a family friend.” James descended the final steps. “It doesn’t mean I have changed my mind about giving up medicine.”
Hathaway uttered a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Which I still cannot believe.”
At times, neither could James.
They reached the entry hall, and Hathaway shook James’s hand. “Thanks for helping me here and good luck to you. You’re a good man and will be hard to replace.”
A good man. Am I? “You think too highly of me, Hathaway.”
James bade the other man farewell, and Hathaway headed back upstairs to deliver his bad news. The maid, waiting by the open front door, held out James’s hat and gloves along with his discreetly bundled fee. A young child hid behind her skirts; James could see a tiny hand clutching the edge of the maid’s apron.
“Here you are, sir,” she said to James. She twisted to pat the child on the head. “Come now, little miss. Stop hiding behind my skirts there. The doctor here’s been to see your mum. She’ll