Read Online The Devlin Diary by Christi Phillips - Free Book Online
Authors: Christi Phillips
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Claire.
“I’m not quite sure what she—,” Claire began.
“Didn’t Andrew Kent hire you?” Elizabeth asked, peering up at her.
“Yes.”
“He’s bent over backward to make sure that you’ve got everything you could possibly wish for.”
Claire felt her face flush. Andrew Kent bent over backward for her? But he’d hardly even talked to her; they’d had only one conversation since she’d arrived. What in the world did Dr. Bennet mean? And why was she so snide about it, as if there was something inherently wrong with being hired by him?
Perhaps, Claire realized with a sudden, sinking feeling in her stomach, Andrew Kent was known for hiring women in whom he had a personal interest. It occurred to her that she could be the most recent in a long line of research assistants and junior fellows, an appalling thought. One thing was certain: she was already the subject of speculation and gossip. Perhaps it was unavoidable when you were the new fish in the pond. Pond? Ha. More like goldfish bowl.
“But I hardly know Dr. Kent.” Claire shook her head. “It’s not like that at all.”
“So sorry,” Elizabeth said in a way that didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “I guess I’d got completely the wrong idea.”
“So you’re available tonight after all?” Derek asked.
“No, not tonight. I have an, um, appointment,” she stammered.
“An appointment?” he said skeptically.
“Yes, an appointment.” Claire set her cup and saucer on the counter. “Goodness, look at the time! I’ve got a supervision back at my set in fifteen minutes.”
She backed out of the lounge, smiling and offering a few words about how pleased she was to meet them, and made a rapid retreat down the stairs. An appointment. What a lame excuse. Of course she didn’t have an appointment that evening.
She had a date with Andrew Kent.
Chapter Six
4 November 1672
H ANNAH WALKS THROUGH Louise de Keroualle’s suite until she spies Lord Arlington and Madame Severin taking wine in a small sitting room. How is she going to explain the mademoiselle’s illness? She knows of no delicate way to phrase it; perhaps she should remind them that the news could well be worse. At least she is a physician who understands the difference between the clap, as it is known in England, and its more virulent cousin, syphilis, commonly called the pox. Hannah has seen patients with both complaints and knows that a misdiagnosis can easily be made, even by experienced doctors. This misunderstanding sadly increases the sufferer’s anguish, as the treatments for the pox and the clap are quite different, and one does nothing to dispel the miseries and sad consequences of the other disease. Woe especially to he who has gonorrhea, or running of the reins (for it is believed that the unwholesome urethral discharge comes from the kidneys), and is recommended by some quack doctor to a course of treatment for the pox, which consists almost exclusively of preparations containing mercury: mercury lotions, mercury pills, mercury enemas, mercury steam baths. The metallic chemical has shown some efficacy in arresting the development of the pox, but its effects are loathsome: excessive salivation, nausea,fluxing, blackening of the gums, loosened teeth, hair loss, melancholia, frenzy, even mental derangement. And of course it does nothing to cure the clap, which, left untreated, can cause barrenness in women and, in men, strangury, an inflammation of the prostate—occasioning a discomfort even greater than that which was experienced at the beginning. The lengthy, expensive cures for the pox are often taken at private spas or baths on the outskirts of London, because in spite of the fact that the diseases of Venus are rampant in all classes of society, they are socially stigmatizing.
Every physician in London is all too aware that venereal disease is epidemic, but no one knows how many Londoners die annually from the pox or from complications of the clap. The
“I’m not quite sure what she—,” Claire began.
“Didn’t Andrew Kent hire you?” Elizabeth asked, peering up at her.
“Yes.”
“He’s bent over backward to make sure that you’ve got everything you could possibly wish for.”
Claire felt her face flush. Andrew Kent bent over backward for her? But he’d hardly even talked to her; they’d had only one conversation since she’d arrived. What in the world did Dr. Bennet mean? And why was she so snide about it, as if there was something inherently wrong with being hired by him?
Perhaps, Claire realized with a sudden, sinking feeling in her stomach, Andrew Kent was known for hiring women in whom he had a personal interest. It occurred to her that she could be the most recent in a long line of research assistants and junior fellows, an appalling thought. One thing was certain: she was already the subject of speculation and gossip. Perhaps it was unavoidable when you were the new fish in the pond. Pond? Ha. More like goldfish bowl.
“But I hardly know Dr. Kent.” Claire shook her head. “It’s not like that at all.”
“So sorry,” Elizabeth said in a way that didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “I guess I’d got completely the wrong idea.”
“So you’re available tonight after all?” Derek asked.
“No, not tonight. I have an, um, appointment,” she stammered.
“An appointment?” he said skeptically.
“Yes, an appointment.” Claire set her cup and saucer on the counter. “Goodness, look at the time! I’ve got a supervision back at my set in fifteen minutes.”
She backed out of the lounge, smiling and offering a few words about how pleased she was to meet them, and made a rapid retreat down the stairs. An appointment. What a lame excuse. Of course she didn’t have an appointment that evening.
She had a date with Andrew Kent.
Chapter Six
4 November 1672
H ANNAH WALKS THROUGH Louise de Keroualle’s suite until she spies Lord Arlington and Madame Severin taking wine in a small sitting room. How is she going to explain the mademoiselle’s illness? She knows of no delicate way to phrase it; perhaps she should remind them that the news could well be worse. At least she is a physician who understands the difference between the clap, as it is known in England, and its more virulent cousin, syphilis, commonly called the pox. Hannah has seen patients with both complaints and knows that a misdiagnosis can easily be made, even by experienced doctors. This misunderstanding sadly increases the sufferer’s anguish, as the treatments for the pox and the clap are quite different, and one does nothing to dispel the miseries and sad consequences of the other disease. Woe especially to he who has gonorrhea, or running of the reins (for it is believed that the unwholesome urethral discharge comes from the kidneys), and is recommended by some quack doctor to a course of treatment for the pox, which consists almost exclusively of preparations containing mercury: mercury lotions, mercury pills, mercury enemas, mercury steam baths. The metallic chemical has shown some efficacy in arresting the development of the pox, but its effects are loathsome: excessive salivation, nausea,fluxing, blackening of the gums, loosened teeth, hair loss, melancholia, frenzy, even mental derangement. And of course it does nothing to cure the clap, which, left untreated, can cause barrenness in women and, in men, strangury, an inflammation of the prostate—occasioning a discomfort even greater than that which was experienced at the beginning. The lengthy, expensive cures for the pox are often taken at private spas or baths on the outskirts of London, because in spite of the fact that the diseases of Venus are rampant in all classes of society, they are socially stigmatizing.
Every physician in London is all too aware that venereal disease is epidemic, but no one knows how many Londoners die annually from the pox or from complications of the clap. The
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