Never Less Than a Lady by Mary Jo Putney

As a child, I would sneak off to the village surgeon’s house to watch what he was doing. He’s the one who taught me to use spirits to clean instruments.” She blotted the blood from the jutting shrapnel and prepared to cut. “I would have studied surgery if females were allowed. But midwifery is equally fascinating, and it’s a woman’s trade.”
    She continued talking as she worked. She’d learned the first rule of surgery early: quickness. The faster she worked, the sooner the procedure would be over, the less blood would be lost, and the better the patient would fare.
    She found that shrapnel was more difficult than buckshot because the piece was larger, irregular in shape, and all jagged edges. Wishing she had forceps, she cut around the ugly lump of metal. “This must have been working its way out for a while. If it were close to the surface originally, your army sawbones would have had it then.”
    “I’ve felt it gnawing through my leg for months. Damnation!” He flinched as she got her blade under the shrapnel and popped the fragment from the muscle, but he managed to hold his thigh reasonably still.
    She blotted the raw wound clean, poured on whiskey and blotted again, then dressed it with honey. He asked, “Honey?”
    “I learned that from Mrs. Bancroft. Wounds are much less apt to fester if it’s used.” She tied the bandage around his thigh. “That’s done. Are you still willing to have me remove the other piece?”
    “Might as well.” He took a deep swallow of whiskey. “Cut on, Lady Macbeth.”
    “She didn’t wield the knife herself. I wonder if she resented having to give the job to her husband? My governess made me memorize speeches from all Shakespeare’s plays. I still remember them, too. ‘Give me the daggers!’ That was Lady Macbeth. She was definitely a frustrated surgeon.” Julia recited other speeches she’d learned so many years ago, which left most of her attention free to concentrate on her surgery.
    This incision was more difficult because it wasn’t as obviously needed, and she had to use the razor to cut unbroken skin. Reminding herself that she would save Randall—her husband? really?—pain later, she cut around the shrapnel. It was smaller than the first piece, but situated near vital tendons and ligaments. Praying she would do no harm, she loosened and removed the wicked piece of metal.
    Thanking God she didn’t seem to have done irrevocable damage, she dressed the wound and set her knives precisely on the tray. Then she folded onto the wooden chair by the bed. She felt dizzy and exhausted and for some reason, on the verge of tears.
    “Have a drink.” Randall offered her the whiskey bottle.
    She accepted the bottle and tilted her head back for a serious swig. Her swallow was followed by a fit of coughing. “Dear Lord,” she gasped when she could speak again. “This could fell an ox!”
    He chuckled. “That’s rather the point.”
    She swallowed a smaller amount and handed him the bottle, then got to her feet, swaying a little. “It’s getting dark. I’ll ask Mrs. Ferguson for a lamp.”
    “Find yourself some food as well. And please pull out the chamber pot.”
    She frowned. “Are you in good enough condition to use it?”
    “Well enough. Then I intend to sleep the clock around.” Randall smiled at her with surprising sweetness. “Thank you, my indomitable lady. You are…quite amazing.”
    A little flustered, she fled the room and headed to the kitchen. Given the way he’d rescued her, she was glad that finally she could do something for him.
    Her husband?
    She followed the scent of food to the kitchen at the back of the house, where Mrs. Ferguson presided over two scullery maids. “You look rolled up,” the older woman said briskly. “How is your husband?”
    “Resting now. He’ll do.” Julia managed a smile.
    “Naturally he wouldn’t admit anything was wrong until he collapsed. Men!” The landlady snorted. “Sit you down, lass, and