The Death of Jane Lawrence(4)

“Oh, I had not planned to go in with you,” Ekaterina said cheerfully. “I’ll get the shopping in, then perhaps walk you home after?”

“That sounds appropriate,” Jane said. A younger, richer woman might have needed a chaperone, but the rest of the world had changed greatly over the last few decades. And besides—this was a business arrangement, not a courtship.

They walked the last few streets together. Between the Cunninghams’ home and the surgery were mainly private residences with a few shops on the ground floor. Almost all had been built at least a century before, though a few were newer, made of smooth concrete instead of old brick or stone, and lacking the worn sculptures on their lintels that people had once carved to protect their homes. The Cunninghams had one such figure, a face surrounded by wings that roosted just above the front door, and as a child, Jane had been fascinated with it. It was so similar to the carved downspouts that had loomed above her in Camhurst, but the ones she’d grown up with had been painted. Theirs was varnished wood.

She and Ekaterina turned the last corner toward the surgery, which put them once more on one of Larrenton’s main thoroughfares, alive with business in the clear weather. The street bustled with a mix of farmworkers, shoppers and shopkeeps, and visitors from farther afield. Larrenton was small enough to have only one doctor, but it was still a thriving town. Across the way, a small cluster of black-clad undertakers alighted from a retrofitted convent carriage and filed into a boardinghouse foyer.

Jane watched them a moment, their confident movements and swinging skirts. If the Cunninghams hadn’t taken her in, she might well have been one of their number. They were no longer dedicated to faith and ritual, but such women had always taken care of the dead, and many orphans had found sanctuary in their order.

She might have enjoyed that life.

But Ekaterina had not stopped to watch, and Jane had to hurry to catch up. They passed only a few more buildings before they reached the surgery. She slowed to a bare crawl as she approached the door, then turned and looked at Ekaterina. “Come by in a few hours? The work will be done by then, I suspect.” Her untrained part, at least.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ekaterina inclined her head and strolled off back to the main streets. Jane watched her go, then turned back to the surgery.

There were no steps up to the front door, the better to allow the injured and infirm to reach the doctor. The door itself was wide and a deep red, set into two stories of brick wall. The lintel here was similarly carved to the Cunninghams’, though this winged face was wreathed in incised laurels, and worn, nearly unreadable script down the sides of the doorframe. The building was old, built to house a previous physician of a previous era, with all the attendant faith behind it.

But Dr. Lawrence was a young, Camhurst-educated doctor; he likely held no truck with such superstitions. She wondered if he would have it all planed down or painted over.

She checked to make sure that her hair was still carefully pinned up beneath her black, broad-brimmed hat, then reached out and knocked.

The porter opened the door a moment later. He was an older man, perhaps once a laborer or even a prizefighter. He was stocky and muscular, and there was a faded scar across one side of his face, distorting the lay of his faint growth of stubble. He smiled at her, his cheeks a bit rosy from the day’s chill. Jane suspected her own nose was bright red.

“Miss Shoringfield?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, surprised and pleased at being awaited by name. “The doctor asked me to assist today.”

He stepped back, motioning her in. “He’s just finishing up something upstairs. He said to tell you to feel free to explore, though not to touch anything in the operating theater. I’ve got some tea on, if you don’t want to get into the nasty business right away. The butcher’s boy brought over some sausages, too. Can I take your hat and coat?”

Jane felt herself smiling back, infected by his good cheer. Dr. Lawrence was widely known to be quiet, reserved, hard to read and unsociable, but generally kind and likable. His porter appeared much the same, which spoke to good judgment on the doctor’s part.

“Oh, thank you, but I think I shouldn’t give my stomach any ammunition for the day,” Jane replied, stepping into the house. She looked around as she unbuttoned her burgundy coat and handed it to the man along with her hat. The hallway was filled with a stale, acrid stench that she tried to ignore, but her stomach flinched in warning. Books. She was best with books, not blood. At least chances seemed good that once she was working here properly, most coming to the surgery would be here from indigestion, or something else that could be solved by a small sit-down and a check of their files. The most ill would be bound to their homes.

She assumed.

“What’s your name?” she asked, turning back to the porter.

“Mr. Lowell,” he said, inclining his head.

“And you fetch him when he’s out of town, yes?”

“That, and help him move heavier patients, keep the kitchen stocked, that sort of thing. Though I suppose you’ll be helping with the kitchen more in the future, eh?”

Jane flushed. “He said that?”

Mr. Lowell chuckled. “In a fashion. Never expected him to take a shine to somebody, to tell the truth.”

A shine? Oh, no. Her stomach leapt in an altogether different manner at that, and she absently curled her hands over her belly to still it.