discernment than that in choosing a husband,” Isobel said stiffly.
“You are not showing such discernment by presenting such a plan to us in the first place!” Arabella exclaimed.
Isobel turned to her father, knowing her fate lay in his hands. He stared at her sorrowfully for a long moment and then slowly shook his head. “I am sorry, Isobel. I appreciate that the lot God has granted you in this life holds its own tribulations, but I cannot countenance such a plan as this.”
Isobel’s hands clenched into fists in her lap. “I am of an age—” she began, and her father shook his head.
“You are a member of my household,” he stated flatly. “And if you draw me thus, I will have to speak more plainly.” His face settled into a frown. “I tell you, Isobel, I forbid it.”
Ian straightened his frock coat and cravat before knocking on the door of the office of the Chief of Surgery, John Collins Warren. Warren had granted him an audience when Ian had written him a note, asking to discuss “matters of consequence in regards to the new science of anesthesia”, but Ian was under no illusions about his time with the renowned and revered doctor. He would have ten minutes to make his case, maybe less.
“Enter.”
Ian opened the door and slipped inside. Warren sat behind his desk, papers spread out in front of him. He did not rise as Ian came to stand before him.
“Campbell,” he acknowledged, his tone neutral. “You wished to discuss something with me, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. The subject of anesthesia—”
“I assume you are speaking of the use of nitrous oxide to dull pain,” Warren interjected dryly.
“Dr. Holmes himself suggested the word,” Ian countered, trying to keep his voice mild. Oliver Wendell Holmes had coined the term only recently, but Warren would not necessarily applaud a man who was known as a reformer. Holmes had just stared at the Boston Dispensary, the hospital for the city’s poor, and often wrote tracts and pamphlets on subjects that Warren would readily dismiss. Ian had considered trying for a position under Holmes, but the city’s medical community was small, and he did not dare risk offending those above him.
Warren waved his hand in impatient dismissal. “Never mind Holmes. Continue.”
“I have taken an interest in the matter myself,” Ian resumed. “With a certain gentleman, a dentist—”
“I know,” Warren interjected dryly, “of your rather frequent visits to Hartford.”
Ian flushed. Dr. Warren did not sound precisely disapproving, but there was no hint of approbation in his tone either. Ian had not realized the Chief of Surgery was so aware of his movements. “The time I’ve taken has been my own, sir, funded—”
“I am not interested in explanations or excuses,” Warren said shortly. “What is it you wish to suggest to me, Dr. Campbell?”
Ian swallowed. “My colleague, Mr. Wells, would like to demonstrate the use of ether in a formal setting,” he said. His voice, he thought, sounded too loud, almost brash. “Preferably in the Bulfinch operating theatre.”
His words seemed to echo in the sudden frosty stillness of the room. Ian could feel his heart thumping hard under his shirt. Had he just jeopardized his position? Lost it, even? If so, then he would be dependent on his wife’s inheritance... and the fortune of James Riddell.
“You have been a doctor here for how long?” Warren asked after a moment. “Five years?”
“Six.” Ian swallowed. He tried not to fidget like a schoolboy under Warren’s narrowed gaze.
“Not as long as all that, then,” Warren mused. “I have been here, you know, since the doors of this institution opened in 1821. Nearly twenty years.”
“Your accomplishments are well known, sir,” Ian said, hoping he did not sound sycophantic. He spoke the truth; John Collins Warren had helped to found the hospital, established the New England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, and had also served as Dean of
“You are not showing such discernment by presenting such a plan to us in the first place!” Arabella exclaimed.
Isobel turned to her father, knowing her fate lay in his hands. He stared at her sorrowfully for a long moment and then slowly shook his head. “I am sorry, Isobel. I appreciate that the lot God has granted you in this life holds its own tribulations, but I cannot countenance such a plan as this.”
Isobel’s hands clenched into fists in her lap. “I am of an age—” she began, and her father shook his head.
“You are a member of my household,” he stated flatly. “And if you draw me thus, I will have to speak more plainly.” His face settled into a frown. “I tell you, Isobel, I forbid it.”
Ian straightened his frock coat and cravat before knocking on the door of the office of the Chief of Surgery, John Collins Warren. Warren had granted him an audience when Ian had written him a note, asking to discuss “matters of consequence in regards to the new science of anesthesia”, but Ian was under no illusions about his time with the renowned and revered doctor. He would have ten minutes to make his case, maybe less.
“Enter.”
Ian opened the door and slipped inside. Warren sat behind his desk, papers spread out in front of him. He did not rise as Ian came to stand before him.
“Campbell,” he acknowledged, his tone neutral. “You wished to discuss something with me, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. The subject of anesthesia—”
“I assume you are speaking of the use of nitrous oxide to dull pain,” Warren interjected dryly.
“Dr. Holmes himself suggested the word,” Ian countered, trying to keep his voice mild. Oliver Wendell Holmes had coined the term only recently, but Warren would not necessarily applaud a man who was known as a reformer. Holmes had just stared at the Boston Dispensary, the hospital for the city’s poor, and often wrote tracts and pamphlets on subjects that Warren would readily dismiss. Ian had considered trying for a position under Holmes, but the city’s medical community was small, and he did not dare risk offending those above him.
Warren waved his hand in impatient dismissal. “Never mind Holmes. Continue.”
“I have taken an interest in the matter myself,” Ian resumed. “With a certain gentleman, a dentist—”
“I know,” Warren interjected dryly, “of your rather frequent visits to Hartford.”
Ian flushed. Dr. Warren did not sound precisely disapproving, but there was no hint of approbation in his tone either. Ian had not realized the Chief of Surgery was so aware of his movements. “The time I’ve taken has been my own, sir, funded—”
“I am not interested in explanations or excuses,” Warren said shortly. “What is it you wish to suggest to me, Dr. Campbell?”
Ian swallowed. “My colleague, Mr. Wells, would like to demonstrate the use of ether in a formal setting,” he said. His voice, he thought, sounded too loud, almost brash. “Preferably in the Bulfinch operating theatre.”
His words seemed to echo in the sudden frosty stillness of the room. Ian could feel his heart thumping hard under his shirt. Had he just jeopardized his position? Lost it, even? If so, then he would be dependent on his wife’s inheritance... and the fortune of James Riddell.
“You have been a doctor here for how long?” Warren asked after a moment. “Five years?”
“Six.” Ian swallowed. He tried not to fidget like a schoolboy under Warren’s narrowed gaze.
“Not as long as all that, then,” Warren mused. “I have been here, you know, since the doors of this institution opened in 1821. Nearly twenty years.”
“Your accomplishments are well known, sir,” Ian said, hoping he did not sound sycophantic. He spoke the truth; John Collins Warren had helped to found the hospital, established the New England Journal of Medicine and Surgery, and had also served as Dean of
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