The Death of Jane Lawrence(5)

Mr. Lowell’s glance dropped down.

She lowered her hands, flushing. She was going to give him cause to spread rumors of alternate causes, and she couldn’t have that. “To tell the truth, last night was the first time we met.”

“Truly?”

How much to tell? He didn’t know about the marriage arrangement, and now he knew she wasn’t with child—at least, not the doctor’s—so she concluded he knew about as much as he needed to. “Yes, strange, isn’t it? I never thought to be a nurse,” she said, then took a few steps down the hall. Best to change the subject. “Does he keep an office on this floor?”

“Aye, first door on the right.”

“Am I allowed in?”

“He made a point of it, said you might look at his books.”

She quashed a small, pleased smile. His cooperation was a good sign, and beyond that, it made her feel welcome. Hopeful. Perhaps Mr. Lowell was only reading too much into that cooperation; in any other case a man being so amenable to a young woman would likely be read as affection.

“Thank you, Mr. Lowell. I think I’ll be fine from here, and I’ve kept you awhile now.”

“Not a problem, miss,” Mr. Lowell said, then inclined his head and went to a set of doors that she guessed led to the operating theater. The acrid smell increased for a moment as he opened one and slipped through it.

Jane looked at the hallway a moment longer. There were no portraits in the whole hall, and only one or two landscapes, right near the door and front sitting area. But there were some framed photographic prints of nebulous things. The daguerreotype closest to her appeared to be of a gnarled piece of wood. She frowned at it, puzzled, then made her way to his office.

The door stood open, and inside was a perfectly ordinary and clean room. Dr. Lawrence had a sizable desk that was in a much worse state than Mr. Cunningham’s, but beyond that, the room was spotless. There were two chairs across from the desk, as well as a large armchair by the far window, with a raised cushion to put one’s feet up onto. The walls were bare save for several bookshelves and cabinets behind the doctor’s desk.

Settling her reading glasses on her nose, Jane peered at the various drifts of paper, finding hastily scribbled notes with names in large script at the top right of each page. The cabinets, when opened, revealed row upon row of small folders, also all labeled with names, as well as a pad of preprinted paper. Ah. A look back at the desk showed a few leaves of that paper, with carefully written notes all in order, and the same name on top as a few of the closest note pages. He was transcribing the important notes into a neater system, she realized.

Quite clever, and helpful for her.

Before she could begin reading, however, some organization was called for. She set about tidying the piles and retrieving sheets that had fallen to the floor. She was reconsidering Mr. Lowell’s offer of tea when Dr. Lawrence cleared his throat from the office doorway.

“Dr. Lawrence.” She stood up from his desk, guilty as if she’d been caught peeping in his washroom. He didn’t look annoyed, however, as he entered the office and surveyed the stacks she’d made. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

“As you can see,” he said, “your skills would be much appreciated. Hypothetically speaking. If you are not too frightened by what you’ve found?”

“Hardly.” She squared her shoulders. “Where is your logbook? Of patient transactions?”

“I don’t have one,” he said.

She frowned at him.

He lifted his hands in defense. “I intend to have one. But as I only bill at the end of the year, I intend to reconstruct based on my notes.”

“That’s a great way to miss out on money that may already be difficult to collect,” she said. “Not only that, but you must need to replenish your supplies regularly—Mr. Cunningham has far fewer expenses, and he bills once every two months. I require that he keep a daily log of his work to make it simpler and more accurate. He balked at doing it by the minute, but a list of documents he creates, or procedures, in your case, is easy enough.”

He looked at her a moment, stunned into silence, then shook his head in wonder. “You really are skilled at this, aren’t you?”

“I have a lot of practice. I’m sure you understand that they’re different things.”

“Different, but often related.”

She flushed with pride, and began to pace to disguise it. “Do you at least keep a list of what medications you’ve prescribed?”

“In patient notes.”

“No, I mean an ordering list. How do you track inventory?”

He tapped his brow. “The age-old skill of eyeballing.”

“That won’t do at all.”

“Without somebody like you assisting, while all that work would be very helpful, it’s not particularly time-effective for me. I aim to survive and help others survive, Miss Shoringfield. That’s the extent of it.”

“Well, and now you have me.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them, and she firmed up her lips and straightened her shoulders to mask the sudden frisson of embarrassment that went through her. Too much.

Dr. Lawrence turned away, briefly tugging at his collar. “You’ve certainly convinced me to employ you,” he said. “But marrying—”