Free The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy by Marsha Altman Page B

his own way. This post would legitimatize his profession in his parents’ eyes—although the way that he was dressed at the moment would not have impressed them.
    He had been surprised to discover when he applied for the sought-after position that the man making the decisions was no older than forty-five or perhaps fifty. Bertrand had expected an old man in a wig who had served the king. When he asked around, he found Dr. Maddox had a good reputation although he had never published any papers or spent much time at the clubs the other doctors frequented. Also, he never gossiped about his patients. So they knew little about him and didn’t care much for him.

    Either way, Maddox seemed a reasonable man to be employed under and the position was no doubt a comfortable one, so Dr. Bertrand had no objections and made it to the society house right on time. The doors were shut, and the doctor was sitting on a bench, hatless and dressed in black. “Ready, Dr. Bertrand?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAre you armed?”
    â€œYes, sir. A small pistol.” It would have been foolish to go about London without one.
    Dr. Maddox stood up. “I have always believed in the benevolence of humanity. From that axiom, I have earned most of my scars. Nonetheless, I can’t bring myself to actually use a weapon, so I am glad you brought one,” he said, and called for their carriage.
    They rode in silence for some time before stopping at the edge of East London, where one wouldn’t want to be seen in such a nice carriage. “Wait here,” Dr. Maddox told his driver. “Now, Dr. Bertrand, I assume you’ve had all of your vaccinations.”
    â€œI have, sir.”
    Dr. Maddox had left his walking stick inside the carriage, and he carried only his satchel. He reached into his coat and removed a piece of paper. “I know the street at least. Perhaps not the exact address, but we shall find it. And take off your hat—you look like a man of wealth.”
    Blushing, Bertrand did so, and left it with the driver as they proceeded up the foul-smelling streets of some of the worst sections of London, well outside of the Town proper. “Now, whatever I say, you just follow my lead,” Dr. Maddox said as they came to a wooden door that was nearly off its hinges. “Here we are.” There was no doorknob, so he knocked with his fist. “Hello? Mrs. Potter?”
    There was some noise before a fat woman in an apron opened the door, holding up a candlestick. “Who is it?”
    â€œYou requested a surgeon for a Mr. Potter,” he said. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand.”
    She looked at them both skeptically. “I can’ afford two doctors.”

    â€œThe fee is the same, I assure you. Mr. Bertrand is my apprentice.”
    â€œA shilling.”
    â€œYes.”
    She hesitated and then stepped back to let them in. The apartment had maybe three rooms—a kitchen, some kind of sitting room, and a bedroom.The sitting room was outfitted with cots and there were children sleeping on them. When some of them stirred, they were hushed by a stream of curses from their mother as she led the doctors into the bedroom.
    Sitting up was a man in a bloodied white shirt, with an old soldier’s jacket from the Continental War over his shoulders. His beard was brown, his hair filthy. One of his arms was cut off about halfway up the forearm. “I can’ afford two.”
    â€œThere’s no extra charge, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Maddox said, bowing to him. “I am Dr. Maddox and this is Mr. Bertrand. Do you mind if we look at your wound?”
    â€œJust make it stop with the gunk, wouldja?”
    Dr. Maddox pulled a chair close to the bed. “Light, please, Mr. Bertrand.” Bertrand held up the light as close as possible as Dr. Maddox removed his glasses and looked very closely at the wound. It was an old amputation, probably done hastily on the