“Wait your turn, you young cur,” growled the old man. “There be others needing the doctor first.” He nodded to the mother and babe. The woman stared at the faded green wallpaper, the remnants of a time when the home had been fancy and belonged to a family of means. Such families had long since moved away and built larger homes in parts of London Mercy had only heard about but never seen.

Mercy regarded the babe’s unmoving outline, then faced the older man. “The doctor may be able to save a life. Do you want two children dead instead of one?”

She held his angry gaze until finally he dropped his sights to the muddy footprints that caked the wood floor.

“Doctor,” Mercy called again as she made her way to the room Dr. Bates used as his office. “Please, I need your help. Straightaway.”

Seeing the door was ajar, she bumped it open with her hip. The massive desk positioned near a boarded window was cluttered with books and papers and inkpots. A lantern was lit and illuminated its dusty globe painted with delicate flowers. But Dr. Bates wasn’t there.

The door of the adjacent room swung open, and a young man exited, his hand swathed in bandages. He didn’t spare her or the others a glance, as if they didn’t exist.

Mercy supposed it was easier for some people to pretend the problems weren’t there. The heartache, the burdens, the needs . . . it was all so overwhelming at times.

Clara’s weight dragged at Mercy. For an instant, she was tempted to slide down next to the mother with the dead babe and stare at the wallpaper too. But at a clank from the open doorway, Mercy forced herself to move, gathering the strength to fight for one more life.

“Doctor?” She entered the room unbidden. “Can you give a look at my little lamb?”

At the room’s lone table, a young man stood in front of a basin of water where he was washing his hands. Beside the basin lay a scattering of instruments and supplies—a scalpel, small scissors, ligature thread, and needles. He’d discarded his coat over the back of a nearby chair to reveal a striped waistcoat and a finely tailored shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark brown hair was tousled, likely the result of a long day of rushing from one urgent need to the next.

His face was unfamiliar, not one of the usual doctors who gave of their time at the dispensary. Since Clara needed immediate attention, this man would have to do.

He glanced up and paused in his scrubbing. Exhaustion crinkled the corners of his eyes and forehead. “I shall be with you in a moment.” He didn’t speak unkindly, just wearily.

“I don’t have a moment, sir.” Mercy crossed the room toward the cot. “This sweet child is failing fast, that she is.”