The middle-aged widower was a fit, sturdy man with a lionesque head, a shock of snow-white hair, and eyes that had seen humanity at its highest and lowest. His craggy face was routinely set in truculent lines, but when he was with his patients, his features softened with a grandfatherly kindness that immediately earned their trust.
“Dr. Havelock,” Mrs. Fernsby said with a touch of annoyance, “I asked you to wait in the visitors’ foyer.”
“Winterborne doesn’t mind interfering with my schedule,” he said testily, “so I’ve decided to interfere with his.”
They exchanged narrow-eyed glances.
More than a few employees had speculated that beneath the habitual antagonism between Havelock and Mrs. Fernsby, the two were secretly attracted to each other. Seeing the pair at this moment, Rhys was inclined to believe the rumor.
“Good morning, Havelock,” Rhys said. “How have I interfered with your schedule?”
“By foisting an unexpected visitor on me during a day when I have at least a dozen patients to attend to.”
Rhys sent Mrs. Fernsby a questioning glance.
“He’s referring to Dr. Gibson,” she told him. “I interviewed her as you asked. Having found her both qualified and agreeable, I sent her to Dr. Havelock.”
Havelock asked brusquely, “How can you judge her qualifications, Fernsby?”
“She has a medical degree with honors and top prizes,” Mrs. Fernsby retorted.
“From France,” Havelock said with a slight sneer.
“Considering how English doctors failed to save my poor husband,” Mrs. Fernsby snapped, “I would take a French doctor any day.”
Before the argument could develop into a full-fledged brawl, Rhys interceded quickly. “Come in, Havelock, and we’ll discuss Dr. Gibson.”
The physician entered the office, saying pointedly as he passed the secretary, “I would like some tea, Fernsby.”
“That’s Mrs. Fernsby to you. And you may find all the tea you want at the staff canteen.”
Pausing, Havelock turned to give her an offended glance. “Why can he call you Fernsby?”
“Because he is Mr. Winterborne, and you are not.” Mrs. Fernsby focused her attention on Rhys. “Sir, would you care for some tea? If so, I suppose I could place an extra cup on the tray for Dr. Havelock.”
Rhys struggled to conceal his amusement before replying blandly, “I believe I would. Thank you, Fernsby.”
After the secretary had left the office, Rhys said to Havelock, “I made it clear to Dr. Gibson that her hiring was subject to your approval.”
A scowl divided the older man’s forehead into a ladder of ridges. “She informed me it was a fait accompli, the presumptuous chit.”
“You did say last month that you needed an assistant, aye?”
“One of my choosing, since I’m the one who will be called upon to train and guide him.”
“Do you doubt her proficiency?” Rhys asked.
Havelock could have destroyed Garrett Gibson’s incipient career with a simple “yes.” However, he was too honest to take that route. “Had any man come to me with her qualifications, I would have hired him on the spot. But a woman? There’s too much prejudice to overcome. Even the female patients will prefer a male doctor.”
“At first. Until they become accustomed to the idea.” Seeing the objection on the older man’s face, Rhys continued with a hint of amused chiding, “Havelock, I employ hundreds of hardworking women who demonstrate their skill every day. Recently I promoted a salesgirl to manager of her department, and her performance has been equal to that of any man at her level. And obviously Fernsby’s abilities are beyond question. I’m not a radical, Havelock; these are facts. Therefore, as men of reason, let’s give Dr. Gibson a chance to prove herself.”
Havelock reached up to tug fractiously at a lock of white hair as he considered the situation. “I’ve fought enough battles for one lifetime. I have no desire to take part in women’s struggles against injustice.”
Rhys smiled, his gaze unrelenting.
The doctor let out a sighing groan, acknowledging that he was being given no choice in the matter. “Damn you, Winterborne.”
THE DAY WAS bitterly cold, the air laced with frost that stung the nose and chilled the teeth. Helen shivered and gathered her wool half-cape more tightly about her neck, and pressed her numb lips together in a futile effort to warm them.
According to the rules of mourning, enough time had passed since Theo’s death that the Ravenel sisters could now respectably leave their faces uncovered in public, so long as they wore veils draped down the backs of their hats or bonnets. Helen was grateful that she no longer had to squint through a layer of black crepe.
The Ravenel family and a handful of servants were about to depart London on a train bound for Hampshire. It seemed to Helen that Waterloo Station, a ten-acre system of sheds filled with a complex web of platforms and additions, could not have been more perfectly designed to cause the maximum amount of confusion for travelers. The volume of travelers practically doubled each year, forcing the station to expand in an ad hoc fashion. To make matters worse, the railway employees often gave contradictory information about where a train would arrive or depart. Porters carried luggage to the wrong trains and guided people to the wrong hackney carriage ranks and booking offices. Passengers seethed and shouted in frustration as they milled inside the open-sided sheds.
Helen jumped at the sound of a nearby brass orchestra that began to play a regimental march with strident enthusiasm. The first battalion of the Coldstream regiment had been brought down from Chichester, and a crowd had gathered to cheer their arrival.