Wynn ran his hand over the table, feeling the invisible current running through it, offering a chance to live for whoever laid upon its sacred surface. So, too, did the surgeon’s tools as they had been lined up perfectly as soldiers in their trays. Deadly looking with their hooks and blades, but nothing could be further from their true purpose.
“I see you’ve incorporated the vacuum-assisted closure.” Wynn pointed to the apparatus designed for continuous wound irrigation. The procedure hurt like the dickens, but it was an effective way to prevent infection from setting into open wounds.
One of the other physicians stepped forward. “We have, Your Grace.”
Wynn tried not to flinch at the imposter title aimed at him. The usage was meant with the best of intentions, but it didn’t belong to him. Not really.
“Dr. MacCallan, or Wynn, please.”
The man paled, which was impressive considering the already pasty pallor of most doctors. “Apologies, Dr. MacCallan. We pride ourselves on providing the newest technology and studies that may benefit our patients. The war cost us much, but advancements in lifesaving procedures have been made possible because of it.”
“Something we hope you can help us continue in the burgeoning field of cardiology,” Dr. Neil said. He enunciated each word with Oxford-based precision, as if to overcome his humble Dumfries origins. As if knowledge cared a sixpence about a person’s birthplace. “I’ve read over your transcript from the speech you gave to the medical board in Paris, along with Dr. Lehr’s notes on the matter. It’s a radical approach, but one we in this room are eager to deploy. Too many in our profession stick their heads in the sand or cry heresy when methods are challenged. We aren’t ostriches here at Glasgow Hospital.”
Wynn grinned. For all his nervousness about coming here, he’d never felt more at home. “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that.”
“Well, gentlemen. I believe we are all in agreement.” Dr. Neil glanced around at the other men as they all nodded. “We would like to offer you a position here at Glasgow Hospital, Dr. MacCallan. You would be placed on a trial basis for six weeks as is standard, observing our techniques and assisting the other surgeons. At the end of your trial period, we will convene again to decide if you are to be offered a full-time position as head of the new study for cardiology. Do you find these terms acceptable?”
Stifling a loud whoop, Wynn gave a more professional nod. “Yes. Thank you for the opportunity. I only hope I can be an asset to the work ethic and studious minds you’ve cultivated here.”
“I believe there’s only one outstanding concern we have. How will your duties as duke affect your duties as physician? A surgeon cannot be allowed to leave during an operation if there’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony.”
The other men followed Dr. Neil in a hearty laugh, but Wynn’s came out dry and brittle. Must he always chose one over the other? Duke or doctor. Was he selfish to believe there truly was a choice anymore? Day after day his new mantle grew in weight, a weight that had been borne so well on Hugh’s capable shoulders. For Wynn it was a shroud burying him alive.
During the war he was perfectly in line with his calling. There was no time for lords and manors. All that mattered was the shattered soldier on the table in front of him. Wynn had never felt more alive, more purpose coursing through his being—a purpose he could use to alleviate pain and suffering. A duke’s days were spent crawling through piles of estate accounts, tenant rents, commissions for this, speeches for that. Father had the diplomacy for handling those responsibilities; doing so breathed life through his every fiber. He was born to the title. As had been Hugh. Now Wynn was expected to cast aside everything he’d built his life toward and fall into a role he was never equipped for.
His only solace was that times were changing. The war had forced it. Could he not look after Thornhill and its people while also serving his medical oath? Oversee the larger issues and plans while entrusting the day-to-day business to Mackie? Or Svetlana. His wife had grown up in a palace, and he had the fullest confidence in her abilities. Was it naïve to believe it could work? He wanted to believe. Only time would tell.
“I see no reason why one should interfere with the other,” Wynn said. “My priority is to those in need.”
Apparently it was the correct answer. Dr. Neil bobbed his head in approval. His entourage nodded along. “Delighted to hear you say that. Now, shall we return to my office? I’d like to speak with you more about this heart theory regarding electrophysiology.”
Leaving the theater, the other doctors allowed Wynn and Dr. Neil to carry on alone. The two retraced their steps back down the corridor as nurses in starched aprons bustled by. Wynn peered at the surgery schedule posted by the doors, eager to see his name on rotation.
“We have the ancient Chinese to thank for laying the foundation of arrhythmia theories,” Wynn said, “but only recently have machines been created to detect the electrical phenomena of the heart. Disorders can be identified—”
An orderly popped up in front of them like a jack-in-the-box. He held out an envelope. “Dr. Neil. A letter for you.”
Dr. Neil waved him off. “Put it on my desk. I’m in conference with Dr. MacCallan.”
The boy’s nervous gaze flickered. “I was told to hand it to you with urgency, sir.”
“Very well.” Dr. Neil snatched the envelope from him and tore it open. “Excuse me a moment, Dr. MacCallan.” Scanning the letter, his eyes widened until they looked ready to fall out of his head. He refolded the letter and tapped it against his palm for several seconds. Finally he cleared his throat and looked at Wynn, his face pinched with displeasure. “I do not know how to say this but right out. You are familiar with a Lieutenant Harkin?”
Uneasiness curled in Wynn’s belly. Why would he ask that? They’d been speaking of Harkin only an hour before. “My patient in Paris.”
“The one whose heart you rotated for object extraction. It seems he has died due to surgical complications.”
The unease balled into a fist of shock and socked Wynn square in the middle of his chest. Harkin. The scared soldier who was nothing more than a lad. Who had trusted Wynn to keep him safe. Dead. It was always a possibility. Anytime a person went under the knife was a gamble with death, but the rationale was lost in a flood of guilt. Each death left a jagged crack through his Hippocratic oath.
Wynn pushed a shaking hand through his hair. “I was going to visit him in London next month. He’d written to me a fortnight ago saying how well he was doing.” The shock of the news spread numbly through his veins until his mind could only focus on a single thought. “It’s more important than ever to advance the cause of cardiology so incidents like this can be avoided. If we have the tools in place, patients like Harkin—”
“Yes, something to consider in future. I’m afraid we must part ways here. We’ll be in touch should we decide to continue the prospect of you joining our hospital.”
“I don’t understand. Minutes ago you offered me a trial position.”
“Your Grace—”
“Dr. MacCallan.”
Dr. Neil sighed through his nose. A common physician’s reaction when a patient refused to comprehend the diagnosis. “In light of this unfortunate development, the hospital’s president feels it would not be in good taste or standing to hire a doctor with a besmirched reputation. We were quite willing to listen to your newfound theories, but seeing as they cannot be considered safe—”