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Authors: Jillian Kent
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today. Langford would just have to find someone else to criticize this morning.
Devlin lit the lamp, which cast a weak glow through the cold room, and traded his nightshirt for more suitable garments. He hurried to the small dining room where Mrs. Hogarth placed a platter of ham, poached eggs, and tomatoes on the table. His stomach rumbled.
“Good mornin’, Lord Ravensmoore.” Edna smiled, wiping her gnarled hands on the clean blue apron tied around her ample waist, and offered him a quick curtsy.
“Ah, heat. A wonderful commodity,” he said, sitting down at the place set for him in front of a burning fire. “Mmmm, what a delicious smell. I’m ravenous.”
“Ye say that every mornin’ ye have time to eat, sir.”
“I think it every morning, whether I have time to eat or not. And when I don’t have time to eat, I dream about your cooking on the way to the hospital.”
“Such a charmer ye are, sir. I’ll get yer coffee.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Devlin devoured his food and washed it down with the coffee Mrs. Hogarth served him. “You’re too good to me. I should marry you,” he teased, “but I don’t think your husband would approve the match.” He enjoyed watching her round face flush with delight.
“Yer right about that, sir. Besides, I’m a bit too old for ye.” She grinned. “But I do appreciate a man with a sense of humor. Now run along, or ye’ll be late and that mean old doctor will be after ye again.”
“How did you know about that?” Devlin asked, both surprised and annoyed.
“Yer friend, a Mr. Melton, stopped by to cheer ye up. Said Dr. Langford had growled at ye for bein’ late.”
Devlin didn’t approve of Melton’s gossiping with the innkeeper’s wife. He concealed his irritation and laughed good-naturedly, then gulped the last of the coffee. “You’re right. I’d better go before Langford has reason to make an example of me again.”
He plucked his black wool cloak off the hook in the hallway and darted out into the rain. So Melton had dropped by to cheer him. Very kind of him.
The April sky finally unleashed its fury that had threatened for several days. The rain beat him, stinging like tiny daggers. He thought it the perfect day to stay abed. The doors to the small, candlelit, parish church stood open and inviting against the elements, a sharp contrast to the great, stone building looming before him. Guardian Gate Hospital.
A streak of lightning illuminated the heavens. Devlin hurried past the archway of the hospital as a deafening crack of thunder chased him through the door, followed by another that shook the windows. His soggy cloak dripped puddles on the tarnished floor inside the entrance.
Familiar sounds of the hospital greeted him, making his heart race with the thrill of possibilities, possibilities of saving a life. Attendants rushed to their assignments, and the apostolic clock in the entrance hall chimed six bells. The interior of the building, well lit by multiple sconces, held warmth, a welcome relief from the elements—the life of the building, a medicinal orchestra, preparing for its most important symphony.
“Lord Ravensmoore. We’re meeting in surgery in a few minutes,” called one of his colleagues.
“I’ll be there,” Devlin said, removing his cloak. He headed to get an apron in preparation for the morning’s events. The odors of herbal and mustard poultices mixed with the stench of disease and the fear of patients awaiting the unknown.
Devlin had attended Langford’s lectures two years earlier in London. The doctor emphasized the need of physicians to acquaint themselves with the intricacies of surgery as well as traditional medicine, the apothecary, and obstetrics. Langford strongly believed that surgical skill was not below the physician’s responsibility, as some of the medical community taught, but a necessary part of their training. One of the things that had convinced him to study with Langford was this unique
Devlin lit the lamp, which cast a weak glow through the cold room, and traded his nightshirt for more suitable garments. He hurried to the small dining room where Mrs. Hogarth placed a platter of ham, poached eggs, and tomatoes on the table. His stomach rumbled.
“Good mornin’, Lord Ravensmoore.” Edna smiled, wiping her gnarled hands on the clean blue apron tied around her ample waist, and offered him a quick curtsy.
“Ah, heat. A wonderful commodity,” he said, sitting down at the place set for him in front of a burning fire. “Mmmm, what a delicious smell. I’m ravenous.”
“Ye say that every mornin’ ye have time to eat, sir.”
“I think it every morning, whether I have time to eat or not. And when I don’t have time to eat, I dream about your cooking on the way to the hospital.”
“Such a charmer ye are, sir. I’ll get yer coffee.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Devlin devoured his food and washed it down with the coffee Mrs. Hogarth served him. “You’re too good to me. I should marry you,” he teased, “but I don’t think your husband would approve the match.” He enjoyed watching her round face flush with delight.
“Yer right about that, sir. Besides, I’m a bit too old for ye.” She grinned. “But I do appreciate a man with a sense of humor. Now run along, or ye’ll be late and that mean old doctor will be after ye again.”
“How did you know about that?” Devlin asked, both surprised and annoyed.
“Yer friend, a Mr. Melton, stopped by to cheer ye up. Said Dr. Langford had growled at ye for bein’ late.”
Devlin didn’t approve of Melton’s gossiping with the innkeeper’s wife. He concealed his irritation and laughed good-naturedly, then gulped the last of the coffee. “You’re right. I’d better go before Langford has reason to make an example of me again.”
He plucked his black wool cloak off the hook in the hallway and darted out into the rain. So Melton had dropped by to cheer him. Very kind of him.
The April sky finally unleashed its fury that had threatened for several days. The rain beat him, stinging like tiny daggers. He thought it the perfect day to stay abed. The doors to the small, candlelit, parish church stood open and inviting against the elements, a sharp contrast to the great, stone building looming before him. Guardian Gate Hospital.
A streak of lightning illuminated the heavens. Devlin hurried past the archway of the hospital as a deafening crack of thunder chased him through the door, followed by another that shook the windows. His soggy cloak dripped puddles on the tarnished floor inside the entrance.
Familiar sounds of the hospital greeted him, making his heart race with the thrill of possibilities, possibilities of saving a life. Attendants rushed to their assignments, and the apostolic clock in the entrance hall chimed six bells. The interior of the building, well lit by multiple sconces, held warmth, a welcome relief from the elements—the life of the building, a medicinal orchestra, preparing for its most important symphony.
“Lord Ravensmoore. We’re meeting in surgery in a few minutes,” called one of his colleagues.
“I’ll be there,” Devlin said, removing his cloak. He headed to get an apron in preparation for the morning’s events. The odors of herbal and mustard poultices mixed with the stench of disease and the fear of patients awaiting the unknown.
Devlin had attended Langford’s lectures two years earlier in London. The doctor emphasized the need of physicians to acquaint themselves with the intricacies of surgery as well as traditional medicine, the apothecary, and obstetrics. Langford strongly believed that surgical skill was not below the physician’s responsibility, as some of the medical community taught, but a necessary part of their training. One of the things that had convinced him to study with Langford was this unique
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