The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings #2)(14)
“Only because I have made appeals to several different boards at several different hospitals and not been granted permission to make my plea.”
“And what plea would that be?”
I resist the urge to glance down at my paper, just for somewhere to look that isn’t into those hawk-black eyes of a man who has never been denied anything in his life. “I would ask the board’s permission to be granted a chance to study medicine at the hospital, with the intention of obtaining a post and license to practice.”
I had expected laughter from the board. Instead, they’re looking back and forth at one another, as though questioning whether the others are also seeing this terrier of a girl who dares to ask them for the moon, or if she’s simply a figment of their pre-luncheon hunger pangs.
“I can show her out, sir,” Higgins says, and I jump—somehow he’s snuck up to my shoulder without my noticing and is already reaching to take me by the arm.
“Not yet,” the chairman replies. My fist closes involuntarily around my notes, crushing them. That yet raises my hackles, as though my being thrown from this room is merely a matter of time. “Miss Montague,” he says, his tone the auditory equivalent of looking down his nose. Which he is also doing, as he’s seated higher than me. “Why do you think you have previously been denied a chance to petition a hospital board on this matter?”
It’s a snare of a question, one that I know I have to walk into or he’ll lead me in circles until I trip it, and I’d rather not be led anywhere. My chin rises—if I raise my head any higher, they’ll be staring up my nose—and I say, “Because I am a woman.”
“Precisely.” He looks down the bench and says, “So, that’s our recess, gentlemen. We’ll reconvene here at two.”
The men begin to stand up, reaching for their cloaks and gathering their cases and papers and all talking at full volume. I feel Higgins behind me, closing in to make good on that yet. He actually gets his bony little fingers around my arm this time, but I shake him off before he can get a good grip. I take a few steps forward and say as loudly as I can without shouting, “You haven’t heard my case.”
The chairman tosses his cloak over his shoulders and gives me a smile that he likely thinks is kind, but is, in fact, the smirk of a man about to explain something to a woman that she already knows. “There’s nothing more to hear. Your case is contained within that single statement. You are a woman, Miss Montague, and women are not permitted to study at the hospital. It’s our policy.”
I take another step toward the bench. “That policy is antiquated and foolish, sir.”
“Antiquated is quite a large word, madam,” he says.
So is patronizing, I think, but bite my tongue.
Most of the board is listening again now. I have a sense that, more than anything, they’re hoping to have a good story to share at the pub, but I’ll take any attention I’m offered.
“Have you previously studied medicine at a hospital or academic institution?” the chairman asks.
“No, sir.”
“Have you had any kind of formal schooling?”
He’s baiting the water again, and the best I can do is sidestep. “I was educated at home. And I’ve read quite a lot of books.”
“That isn’t healthy for you,” one of the other men interrupts. “Reading in excess causes the female brain to shrink.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I burst out, my temper snatching the reins. “You can’t actually believe that.”
The man leans backward, as though I’ve frightened him, but another leans in to add, “If you’ve read so many books, why do you need a hospital education?”
“Because a hospital education is required in order to obtain licensure and establish a practice,” I say. “And because reading Alexander Platt’s treaties on human bones is not adequate preparation for setting a broken leg when the wound is bloody and the bone has splintered under the skin and already starting to fester with gangrene.”
I had hoped Dr. Platt’s name would conjure something closer to adoration among the men, but instead, a low murmur ripples through them. A man on the end with a pointed chin and tufts of coarse blond hair sticking out from under his wig raises his eyebrows.
“Then let a man set that bone and let the woman see the injured has a good meal and a bed,” the chops man murmurs, loud enough for everyone to hear. There’s a smattering of laughter from these men with clean fingernails who hardly know the color of blood.
The chairman flicks his gaze in their direction but does nothing to silence them. “Miss Montague,” he says, his eyes returning to mine, “I have no doubt that you are very bright for a young lady. But even if we were to consider admitting a female to our student ranks, the cost of necessary arrangements for her—”
“What arrangements, sir?” I demand.
“Well, to begin, she would be unable to attend anatomy dissections.”
“Why? Do you think my nerves so weak and fragile that I could not handle the sight? The women on the streets of London witness more death and dying in a single day than you likely have in your lifetime.”
“I have yet to meet a woman with a stomach for the sort of dissections we undertake,” he says, “not to mention the nakedness of the male form, which would be inappropriate for you to see outside the bonds of marriage.”