Chapter 4 #2
Susan started. She hadn’t realized Captain Locock stood behind her. Oliver Montgomery had watched Lionel, too.
“Can’t help liking him,” Locock said, “though half the time, I think he’s laughing at me.”
“And he seems to know everyone … and everything.” Captain Montgomery narrowed his eyes. “He’s privy to more secrets than a Roman Catholic confessor.”
“Still, he’s an amusing chap,” Locock said. “Livens up a dull evening.”
Susan arched an eyebrow. “Like this one?” When he started to protest, she said, “Perhaps you’re just missing Mrs. Locock tonight.”
“My wife hovers when the baby fusses. She’ll drive the nursery maid mad if she keeps it up.” Locock shook his head. “Mary sends worried telegrams to my father every other day.”
“New mothers. It’s quite understandable.”
“Thank God we’re leaving for Cowes next week. Then she’ll have my father and his medical advice on the spot.” Locock lowered his voice. “Mary and I feel grateful and blessed. Adoption was likely her only chance at motherhood, but you know the whole story, Susan.”
George Trevor claimed Lady Styles for the next set, and they followed Princess Louise and Frederick Locock to the floor. By the time Susan finished dancing and talking politics with the well-informed Mr. Trevor, the story had circled the room.
On Monday, the Prince of Wales would visit the Clerkenwell survivors at St. Barts Hospital.
Many guests planned to dance until dawn, but the frail, ailing Princess of Wales left with Lady Styles just after midnight. Alix winced with every step.
Two footmen waited at the end of the hallway with an invalid chair. They carried her up the stairs and wheeled her to her chamber. Susan opened the bedroom door, and a footman rolled her across the threshold.
“Thank you, Wilfred,” Lady Styles said. “That will be all for this evening.”
Susan closed the door and turned up the gas lamps on the center table.
Family portraits and religious paintings crowded the walls, and a nearly life-sized figure of the crucified Christ loomed over the canopied bed.
Susan often wondered what the Prince of Wales made of it.
Four pregnancies in five years. Bertie mustn’t find it too off-putting.
The princess eased herself into the chair at her dressing table. She slipped the catch on her pearl choker necklace and laid it aside.
“Shall I ring for your maid?” Susan asked, reaching for the bell pull. The princess didn’t answer. “Your Royal Highness?”
“This appointment you have with Doctor Lewis … when do you see her?”
“She suggested Monday morning at her clinic.”
“How shall we …” Alexandra’s hand went to her throat, her fingers worrying the small scar on her neck. “How will it be managed?”
“I’ll suggest to the doctor that we visit her at Finsbury Circus on Friday, if convenient. Princess Louise has a drawing lesson that morning.” Susan touched Alexandra’s shoulder. “And no one will know it’s not a social call,” she said gently.
The princess sighed. “Very well.” Her hand slipped from her throat and fell to her lap. “I must do something.”
On Monday morning, Kate surprised Julia. Her maid waited at the front door, dressed in a hat, gloves, and a coat. She had a wool throw draped over her arm.
“Mrs. Ogilvie is after giving me the whole day, so I’ll be going to the clinic to help out.”
Julia was touched. “Mondays are your half days, Kate. You don’t have to—”
“The nurses looked tired out, and an extra pair of hands will be welcome to change the linens at least.” Kate shook her head. “The work of a clinic … it’s not only fixing broken bones, is it?”
“No, but after that business on Friday … this is kind of you.”
“’Tis over and done, and the world could use a little kindness just now, I’m thinking.”
“Amen to that,” Julia said, pulling on her gloves.
Kate climbed into the coach behind Julia and held up the wrap. “The cold’s come on us something fierce, so Mrs. Ogilvie sent this along. Are you needing it?”
“I don’t think so. You take it.”
Kate tucked it around her. “We’re all happy to hear the inspector will soon be home from his travels.”
A post office telegram marked “Handed in: Lyon, France” had arrived for Julia on Saturday. Then, a second sent from Paris came at breakfast that morning.
“He should be back in London on Thursday.”
“He nearly got you drowned, but there’s much to be said for a man who sends you hothouse roses after he fishes you out of the water.”
Julia laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
She had spent considerable time “looking at” the inspector’s imminent return from every vantage. Relief flowed, her first emotion. After that came the familiar to-and-fro of her complicated, contradictory feelings.
Julia’s morning filled with Monday’s typical duties and patients.
With winter setting in, many of the ill were respiratory cases.
She examined the Clerkenwell victims, pronouncing two fit for release.
Young Willie Abbott had gone home with his aunt on Saturday, but the little sister he’d been looking for was dead.
Minnie Abbott, just eight years old, died when her house on Corporation Lane collapsed, the bombing’s youngest victim.
The remaining injured patients required several more days of attentive nursing to avoid the danger of infection.
The grim tally from the attack was a dozen dead and 120 wounded.
The final reckoning was anyone’s guess as newspapers filled with animus against the Irish and vitriol against the police.
Editorials in some Sunday papers called for a Parliamentary inquiry into Scotland Yard, and many demanded Sir Richard Mayne’s head.
Kate dispensed cups of tea and attended to the extra piles of bedding, relieving the nursing staff of distracting housekeeping chores. At one o’clock, she tapped and opened the office door.
“Lady Styles is here, Doctor Julie.”
The doctor rounded her desk and offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Julia patted the chair’s armrest. “You found us without difficulty?”
Susan sat, smoothing her skirts. “London cabbies seem to know every cranny of the city. When I gave the address of your clinic, the driver rattled off the names of the nearest public house and the corner draper’s shop where we turned.”
“It’s a varied neighborhood, to say the least. Lady Styles, I’ve wondered … Before we begin, have you heard anything more about that sad business on the Isle of Wight?”
“Nothing from the police, but Lizzie Dowling’s sister is traveling from County Cork to see me. She’ll be here tomorrow, as it happens.”
“That’s a long trip.”
“Yes. I have little to tell her, but the girl has something to tell me. I’ll know more tomorrow afternoon.”
Julia’s visitor looked grave but composed. The mauve lace at her throat relieved the gray of her fitted jacket, adding color to her cheeks.
“Well, you look perfectly healthy, Lady Styles. Blooming, in fact,” Julia said. “So, what brings you here today?”
“I’m quite well, but …” Susan peered at the ornate lettering on Julia’s medical diploma affixed to the wall. “Does that say Philadelphia? You traveled far to become a doctor.”
Julia knew a delaying tactic when she heard one.
“Yes. Parliament opened a back door for females by adding foreign doctors to the medical register. They either forgot or didn’t know that some women hold medical degrees from abroad.
” Julia smiled. “My money’s on ‘didn’t know,’ or they would have slammed that door shut. ”
“You’re probably right.” Lady Styles played with the buttons on her dove-gray gloves.
Julia leaned forward. “Confiding in a stranger is difficult, but you can rely on my skill and discretion. For me, a consulting room has the seal of a confessional.”
“Thank you for that reassurance. I hesitate because the matter is delicate, and it’s about Alix. Princess Alexandra.”
“The Princess of Wales must have … surely, she’s under a doctor’s care?”
“Her Royal Highness sees all too many doctors,” Susan said dryly. “And they provide detailed reports about her condition to the Prince of Wales and Her Majesty.”
“To the queen?”
“Not all doctors share your belief in the privacy of a medical consultation. But the princess has begun to wonder …”
Julia waited while Lady Styles wrestled. Finally, she sighed and said, “Princess Alexandra would like an independent opinion. She made up her mind when I told her about you, a lady doctor.”
“I would be honored, Lady Styles. May I suggest Her Royal Highness visit me at my consulting rooms at Finsbury Circus?”
“Friday morning would be convenient for the princess if it suits your schedule.”
“Friday it is … at ten o’clock?” When Lady Styles nodded, Julia made a note.
Susan stood. “There’s no point in my being here unless I’m frank with you. I know what Alix fears. The princess is loyal, but she’s not a fool. She understands that the Prince of Wales …” She held Julia’s gaze. “Princess Alexandra is afraid she may have contracted an illness from her husband.”
“I see,” Julia said.
“I’m sure you do, Doctor. She hasn’t put a name to it, but I will. Princess Alexandra is afraid she may have syphilis.”
Shortly before two o’clock on Tuesday, a tall, thin man with a wiry abundance of ginger facial hair and pale blue eyes hailed a hackney cab on Ivy Lane.
“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.
“The Chapter House on St. Paul’s Alley. We’ll be waiting for a lady, but I’ll make it worth your while if she’s delayed.”
“Right you are.”
Promptly at two, a young woman came through the front door, stopped on the pavement, and looked around. The ginger-bearded man approached her and touched the brim of his bowler.
“Miss Dowling?”
She pulled a paper from her pocket. “You’ll be the one sending me this note?”
“That’s right. Lady Styles didn’t want you to lose your way.” He opened the carriage door. “You brought the letter with you?”
She reached into her handbag and took it out.