That look again. “Who?”
“Duncan Gray,” Violet says, with great patience. “He went to school with James, Ezra, and Archie. He is a dear friend of Hugh’s.”
“Oh. The dark one.”
Violet responds with perfect equanimity. “Yes, he has dark hair and I believe, dark eyes as well. Miss Mitchell is his assistant.”
Edith’s gaze rakes up and down me, and she gives the most unladylike snort. “Assistant, you say.”
“The Grays have always been…” Violet seems to search for a word. “Broad-minded. Have you met his sister, Isla Ballantyne? She is here as well. She is a chemist, and the most fascinating—”
“Is this not a wedding party? Someone’s sister. Someone’s assistant. It is most irregular.”
“It is Fiona’s wedding, and she invited her brother and his friends, whose company she enjoys. Just as Archie invited his friends, including your husband, whose company he enjoys. Now, why don’t we all go and see whether we can find Fiona and Isla and play a game until lunch.”
I open my mouth to excuse myself, but then I catch Violet’s expression, a silent scream that begs not to be left alone with Edith.
“That is an excellent idea,” I say. “If you can find Miss McCreadie, I will find Mrs. Ballantyne.”
I manage to duck out of the game, as does Fiona. We have an excuse—Gray wants to work on that wildcat. I am his assistant, and Fiona asks to watch. Sinclair takes the fourth place for whist, and we leave them to it.
The question becomes where to operate on the kitten. The obvious place is the kitchen… if we want the cook quitting in protest. The only animals allowed in a kitchen are the ones served on the table.
We end up in the stable, which is possibly the worst place, between the noise and the manure and the poor lighting. After trying to fix the lighting problem, Gray gives up and has a couple of the grooms carry a barn table outdoors. I scrub it down as best I can, and Fiona helps, ignoring my protests. She is indeed McCreadie’s sister, rolling up her sleeves and diving in. I may hate their parents for what they’ve done to both of them—disowning McCreadie and forcing Fiona into an arranged marriage—but I must give them credit for raising two lovely humans.
Once the table is washed, Fiona disappears into the house and reappears with a bundle of sheets that Mrs. Hall is surprisingly letting her use. They’re old bedding, relegated to servants’ quarters, but in this world, they would have been recycled until they were threadbare rags.
Gray nails down one sheet as the most sterile table topper we can hope for. We’ve reached a time when doctors are starting to understand that infection comes from dirty conditions, though cleanliness is still notcommon practice. While Gray believes in the new science, this insistence on a clean operating theater is in deference to his assistant, who could confirm that yes, dear God, you don’t slice into a living body without first boiling your instruments.
Once all that is done, Fiona lifts the kitten onto the cloth. Gray had been adjusting the dosage of the painkiller until the kitten was sleeping but still had a strong heartbeat. Now he conducts a thorough examination of the unconscious creature. Fiona and I silently stand by as he pokes and prods and, finally, exhales.
“I cannot save the leg,” he says. “I am truly sorry, Fiona. I thought I could, but I can see now that it is mangled beyond my skill to repair.”
“Can you amputate it?” I ask.
He goes quiet, and I glance at Fiona, who nibbles her lower lip.
“That is… not usually done with an animal,” she says. “I have treated a dog that lost a leg in an accident, and it went on to a good home with lovely people, but I would not ask Duncan to perform such a surgery on a mere wildcat.”
There’s a note in her voice that has me looking at Gray. It’s a note that says she’s being polite while hoping he’ll agree to the surgery.
“Dr. Gray?” I say.
“I certainlycando it,” he says slowly, “but a three-legged wildcat is, I believe, unlikely to be returned to the wild. Of course, Fiona is the expert at that.”
“You are correct,” she says. “However, a Highland tiger is not truly a tiger. She could be kept as a pet, and I would be happy to do so.”
We could mention that, in a few days, that won’t necessarily be her choice. She’ll need to ask her husband’s permission to keep the kitten. But neither of us is saying that. Either she’s forgotten her upcoming change in status or she believes she can win Cranston’s approval for a three-legged wild pet cat.
“I also cannot guarantee the cat would survive the surgery,” Gray says. He quickly adds, “I am happy to attempt it, to the best of my ability, but I have only performed amputation on humans, and mostly as a surgical assistant.”
“I will understand if she does not survive it,” Fiona says. “And even if she does, and the pain or shock is too great, I will not see her suffer.”
“All right then. Let us begin.”
And so, I witness my first—and hopefully last—amputation. I’m not squeamish, but this is hard to watch.
I believe amputation is far more common in this era than my own. Of course, I can’t say that without access to a computer and research stats. But I know a bit about it in this time from my medical reading and conversations with Gray, who believes that amputation rates are already dropping. Chalk that up to the discovery of ether and the ability to knock a patient out and perform proper surgery.
