Chapter 14 #2
“Mamma developed consumption. My father and I tried everything. Some people recover, you know, so we held out hope. But . . . no.” Anne shook her head, willing away the awful memories, her mother’s white skin, haggard breathing, and coughing.
“May I ask what treatments were attempted?”
Anne nodded. “Of course we made sure she had plenty of rest, fresh air, and wholesome foods. We gave her cod liver oil, vinegar rubs, and inhalant gases to ease her lungs. We tried ointments and decoctions of aconite, water dropwort, sulfur and calcium hydroxide, and more.
“Father wanted to send her to Italy, where the mountain air is supposed to be beneficial. But she refused to go so far away from us. Plus, with the war on . . .” She shook her head.
“Father could not leave his practice for too long, so Fanny and I went with her to the mountains of the Lake District instead.”
Anne remembered the disappointment that any small improvement they had seen, or imagined, had proven to be only temporary.
“Sadly we saw no lasting benefit. My father then tried bleeding and purging a few times, as physicians often prescribe, but it only served to weaken her further, so we desisted. He considered trying hemlock as an inhalant, but I discouraged him. He also read an article by a Scottish doctor about a possible surgical treatment, partially collapsing one lung to allow it to rest. But I talked him out of attempting such a risky course. I regret that now.”
“Ah yes, an artificial pneumothorax. I read Carson’s treatise about that myself.”
She nodded and then went on. “Father was called away to perform an emergency surgery, so I was left in charge of her care for what turned out to be her final hours. I was alone with her when she died, and I have long felt guilty. If I had not discouraged my father, if I had known more, or been more diligent with inhalants and draughts, we might have saved her. I might have saved her. But I failed.”
He was quiet a long moment, and Anne feared he agreed with her, or was silently listing all the remedies she had not tried.
The fire crackled and popped.
“I am sorry,” he said at last. “What a difficult experience.”
She nodded again. “And now I fear I may fail with Lady Celia, though I am determined not to.”
She felt his steady gaze on her profile, and then he said, “You are not alone in being afraid to fail. I face it every day. It’s inherent in what we do, in this calling we share.”
We . . . Despite her guilt and regrets, she appreciated that he included her as someone who aspired to help and heal, as someone with a valid calling.
She turned toward him, and he leaned closer, elbows on his knees to face her more fully. “Never forget, Miss Loveday—we are human and fallible and will always have more to learn. There is only one Great Physician who could heal anyone and everyone . . . should He so will.”
“Yes, I know you’re right.”
“Being right does not diminish the pain and remorse of losing a patient, especially one you love.”
Anne nodded and blinked back tears. No, it does not.
After a time, she asked, “What about your parents? Dr. Marsland mentioned your father is a lawyer?”
“Yes. My parents have now lived and worked in India for some eight years. I remained here to attend medical school. My sister stayed as well. But my sister’s husband was recently offered a position with the company Father works for, so they left England last year to join them.”
“Do you miss them?”
“I do. But I’m where I want to be.”
Another minute of silence passed, save for Lady Celia’s breathing, the hiss of the fire, and the steady click of the pendulum clock.
Then he asked, “What was she like, your mother, before she became ill?”
A smile immediately lifted Anne’s lips. “Lovely, kind, gracious, generous to a fault.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
Warmth and pleasure swept over her. Self-consciousness too. “Nothing to her.”
“And she and your father were happy together, I gather?”
“Very much so. Theirs was a love match. They were kindred spirits who brought out the best in each other. I miss her dreadfully. And I miss the way he was while she was still with us.”
“And you, Miss Loveday. Have you ever been in love? Forgive my impertinence. Especially after I accused you of being inquisitive.”
It must have been the firelight, the two of them sitting together, her in her nightclothes, warm and snug under blankets, for she was not affronted by the question, and was even ready to answer.
“I don’t think so, no. In Churchdown, there was a young man who came into the shop almost daily for a time, under the pretense of looking for a remedy for his sister. I liked him at first, until we learned he had no sister, and Papa sent him away with a flea in his ear.”
Dr. Finch chuckled.
Anne thought, then added, “Jasper Paine and I were childhood friends, and I may have developed a slight tendre for him in my teen years, which I put down to seeing him in his regimentals that first time. But it was nothing serious.
“And I certainly did not love, nor even like, any of the men my stepmother has introduced me to in her attempts at matchmaking.”
Anne took a deep breath, wondering if she should ask. Wondering about Rosa. Then she pushed the words over a lump in her throat. “And you?”
He nodded, expression sober. “Yes, I was in love once. Thought I had met the woman I would marry.”
An uncomfortable weight pressed on Anne’s chest, accompanied by a flicker of jealousy—something foreign to her and distinctly unpleasant.
She swallowed and asked, “What happened?” Anne dreaded the answer, fearing she knew what it was, or rather, who.
His reply surprised her.
“She grew disgusted with any talk of my training or patient symptoms. The smells of the sickroom, of the sick, and worse. It’s why I’ve taken to frequently washing my hands, my person, my clothes.
And wearing a special cologne containing vanilla to combat the lingering odors.
All those measures proved insufficient. Her disapproval of my profession mounted.
And when I proved unwilling to forgo my chosen path, she chose to forgo a future with me.
She has since married another and has a beautiful family. ”
“How awful for you. I am sorry.” So not Rosa, then, Anne concluded, wondering again what their relationship was.
He shrugged. “I am happy for her . . . truly. Though sometimes I can’t help but consider how much less fulfilled, yes, but also how much less lonely I would be now had I made a different decision.”
Anne forced her gaze away from his pained profile and stared into the fire until her eyes burned. And watered.
Sometime later, Anne awoke with a start. She’d not intended to fall asleep. Her gaze quickly swept the room. The patient still slept peacefully, thank God. Her physician slept as well. Anne rose and added fuel to the fire as quietly as she could.
Straightening, she walked near and stood beside him. His head was leaning against the back of the chair, long legs stretched out in front, eyes closed, fair hair falling over his brow. Without his cravat, his collar lay open, leaving his neck exposed, a shadow of whiskers darkening his jaw.
She reached over and gently smoothed the fallen lock of hair from his brow.
His eyes opened and before she could retract her hand, he captured it in his.
He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm.
The new growth of beard scraped against her skin, even as the sweet kiss soothed it, sending warmth and pleasure up her arm and straight to her heart.
Be careful, Anne, she admonished herself. Remember your resolve. Though at the moment, she could not have said why.
Determined not to let another mistake happen, or to be blamed for something she didn’t do, Anne began making tiny markings on both the digitalis and laudanum bottles after each use, logging these in a small notebook. She asked Rosa to verify the readings and date and initial each line.
Lady Celia’s heart rate remained irregular throughout the next day and then returned to its previous levels. Dr. Finch and Dr. Marsland continued to call on her often and to assure Miss Fitzjohn that her mother was improving by the hour.
When Lady Celia was somewhat recovered and feeling more herself, Anne talked to her, gently probing to learn if anyone had gone into the dressing room Anne used who should not have been there, or if she had seen anyone pour something into her tea, noticed it having an odd taste, something. Anything.
Lady Celia pressed her eyes closed, trying to remember. “Now you mention it, the tea did taste odd. More bitter than usual and yet cloyingly sweet too. I remember thinking it must have been left to steep too long, so someone added extra sugar to compensate.”
“But . . . you don’t take sugar in your tea,” Anne said, remembering her father saying digitalis was very bitter.
“You’re right. What’s all this about?”
Anne pressed dry lips together and admitted, “You had a bad reaction . . . to what appears to have been too large a dose of digitalis. I don’t believe I measured incorrectly or somehow doubled a dose, so I’m trying to figure out how it happened.”
Anne wondered again if the tea had somehow been tampered with, and if so, by whom, for a pattern was clearly emerging. First the broth, then the bees, and now this.
“Hmm.” Lady Celia pursed her lips in thought, then asked, “What do the doctors say?”
“They have both been extremely kind about it. Concerned about you, of course, as your family has been. While some assume I . . . must have made a mistake.”
“Not you, Anne. I trust you.”
Relief and uncertainty wrestled within her. Anne hoped Lady Celia’s trust in her was not misplaced.
Anne reminded herself that she was not scatterbrained or forgetful. She was competent and skilled. And she would do everything in her power to make sure no further harm befell another patient in her care.
The next day, Anne went downstairs to retrieve a tray of tea and toast for Lady Celia’s breakfast. Kezia shyly approached her, wanting to thank Anne for her kind ministrations to her father, Joe Webb.
When Anne returned to Lady Celia’s room a short while later, she was surprised to see the goose feather on the floor outside the door, meaning someone had ignored the signal and gone in anyway.
She paused, hearing voices within.
“Consider it a loan,” Mr. Dalby was saying. “I am one of your beneficiaries after all, but I need the money now.”
“I don’t owe you a farthing. I can write you out of my will at any time, just as easily as I wrote you in.”
“I would not advise it.”
“Be careful, Jude. Sir Herbert trusted me implicitly and left me everything, and Katherine will inherit most of what I own one day. Yes, I had planned to leave you and Jasper each something, but if you persist in badgering me, I may change my mind and my will. Don’t give me cause to do both.”
“And don’t give me cause to . . . to become desperate. I need the money by the end of the month, or else . . .”
“Or else what? Are you threatening me?”
“Of course not. I am the one under threat. Albert Palling faces bankruptcy and he’ll drag me down with him.
Do you not care? I will receive interest on nothing.
Worse than nothing. I will be obligated to pay a share of the debt or suffer the humiliation of a bankruptcy notice in The Gazette.
Will you not mind the blot on the family name? ”
“What is one more blot after all you, and now Jasper, have subjected us to?” she asked.
“My previous . . . indiscretions . . . are nothing to this, surely.”
“It’s not a contest! The point is, I am not to blame for your financial difficulties. You chose to marry as you did, for an interest in a mill, even after I told you its heyday was at an end. Would you listen? No. And now you shall have to pay the price.”
“Very well. But I promise you, I shall not be the only one to pay.”
“Again, I warn you, Jude. Take care. And don’t even think about pursuing Katherine for her inheritance.”
“Not that I have any plans to do so, but why would you object? Cousins marry all the time. In fact, in our younger days, you seemed to encourage a match between us.”
“That was years ago, before I realized what a danger you pose to females. I would not want Katherine to face the same fate as your first wife.”
“How dare you. What are you suggesting?”
“I suggest nothing. I am only repeating certain rumors the whole town has heard.”
“I thought you were too clever to believe everything you hear. In any case, Kat is of age. She can make her own decisions. She does not need your permission.”
“But you both need my money. I believe she is too clever to marry you, but if she does, I shall disinherit you both.”
“Cursed woman!”
Footsteps pounded across the room. With a sharp inhale, Anne rounded the corner, breakfast tray and all, tea sloshing in her haste.
She would be out of sight if he retreated downstairs to the whiskey decanter.
If instead he went straight to his own room, she would be caught, standing there, clearly eavesdropping.
The door flew open and slammed against the wall. A moment later, angry footfalls thundered down the stairs.
Anne released the breath she’d been holding. She’d not been caught. The knowledge did not give her much relief. Desperate men were capable of desperate acts.
She waited a suitable amount of time, and then tentatively entered Lady Celia’s room. She found the older woman sitting up in bed, staring off into the distance.
“I’ve brought tea and toast. Though I’m afraid I spilled some of your tea. . . .”
Lady Celia did not seem to hear her. “Anne, if anything happens to me, I want you to tell Katherine that Jude . . .”
“That he . . . what?”
Lady Celia pressed her lips together, seeming to think better of whatever she’d been about to say. Instead she said, “Tell her to have nothing to do with him—perhaps she will listen to you.”
Anne was tempted to ask what reason she should give, but having overheard the argument, she thought she had a fair idea already.
“Very well,” Anne replied. “Though let’s hope and pray nothing happens to you. In fact, I shall make it my duty to guarantee it.”
“That’s a promise you cannot keep.”
“Perhaps. Yet I shall do all I can to keep you well.”
Memories of another ailing woman, another bedside, revolved through Anne’s mind once more, but she forced them aside.
“I’m not hungry,” Lady Celia said, waving away the tray. “Please bring over my writing things instead. It’s time I wrote another letter to my solicitor.”