Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
For the next fortnight Mark treated Ellen like the queen she deserved to be.
He rubbed her feet, he kissed her hands, he made sure the cook prepared her favorite meals, he carried everything for her.
The first time she vomited in the morning he raced to wet a handkerchief and hand it to her. And he delighted in doing it.
Ellen seemed less happy about his fussing. She tolerated it because Mark couldn’t stop smiling when he touched her. She preferred never to reference her condition, to pretend it wasn’t happening. Mark understood, so he silently doted on her and kept his growing excitement to himself.
Mark grinned now, thinking of how pleased he’d be to share the news with his family when Ellen agreed to it. He opened a letter from Cottesloe and leaned back in his leather chair in the study.
Dear Mark,
No, I’m not on my deathbed. No need to panic.
We Glenfall boys rarely keep up correspondence, so I understand if that’s your first thought upon seeing my handwriting. Alas, I shan’t be grinning up at daisy roots any time soon, so you are not being called back to assume the mantle of Cottesloe. Yet.
Mother dislikes my humor, says it’s far too macabre. (I have half a mind to pack her off to the leaky old dower house, see how she likes macabre then).
I’m writing because this is the only peace and quiet I get.
I’ve locked and barred the door of my study.
In a few moments That Nurse will lay siege to my fortress, mark me.
But when she breaks down the door and sees I’m writing my brother, she’ll leave me in peace.
So you see, I’m not writing a letter so much as fending off enemy advances.
I swear, you’d think That Nurse was the baron here.
Always ordering me about, always pestering and bothering.
Telling me I can’t have port, torturing me with this exercise regimen called calisthenics.
It’s brutal. You should write your old Naval superiors, tell them about calisthenics.
They’ll win any war as soon as they inflict that upon our enemies.
In fact, they should press her. She barks orders better than a sergeant, with those pretty annoying eyes stripping you down.
Oh, here she comes. Pounding on the door. Mark, rescue me from this madwoman. If this is how Florence Nightingale trains all her nurses, she would’ve won the Crimean War for us in half the time.
She’s breached the defenses. She’s upon me.
I’m quite sure she’s scolding me, but I’m still writing to you.
Never fear Mark, if I have to keep writing this letter all day long I will.
You’ll get twelve filled pages in the envelope at this rate.
I have a full bottle of ink, a fresh pen, and a desk the size of Asia between myself and That Nurse.
The Nurse is, at most, five and twenty and is the size of a sapling.
And yet she moves through the world like a bulwark of a matron.
Downstairs likes her. They’ll change their tune as soon as one of them contracts influenza and she decides to nurse them back to health. Then they’ll see what I put up with.
My god, her color gets up when she’s riled. I think her cheeks are the color of apples now.
Mother can’t decide if she’s unhappy or pleased you didn’t come here for Christmas.
She missed you, but she’s also terribly pleased you spent the time with Ellen.
She actually went to the old nursery yesterday and was discussing paint colors with the housekeeper.
I’ve told her she’s getting ahead of herself, but you know Mother.
Though between you, me, and That Nurse shrieking at me right now, it will be lovely to pass on this estate to the next generation—when the time comes.
You know I never thought much about heirs or children—or marriage, for that matter.
But having been faced with my own mortality, now that I reflect, it will be lovely to pass on a legacy to my nephew one day.
You poor bastard. I can’t decide who has it worse—me, who will die alone and hating the world—or you, who have far too many women breathing down your neck. I’m sure Ellen’s family is quite eager for prams and christening gowns as well.
How are the brothers, you ask? Well, let me tell you.
Mother has halfway convinced John to finish his time as a curate and ask the bishop for his own parish.
Luke is in London, of course, so you’ve probably seen him more recently than myself.
The twins finished mafficking through Oxford and will start their Grand Tour soon.
Oh Oxford and its delights—hunting, cricket, rowing, etc.
Those were the days. (I’m curmudgeonly enough now to say that phrase, by the by.) Those were the days.
Blast. Ignore that ink spot. That Nurse startled me. She is the most infuriating—now she’s gone. Oh thank goodness. I can finish this letter. Might as well send it. I went through all the effort to write you, didn’t I?
Stay warm,
Matthew Cottesloe
Mark chuckled and shook his head. Matthew and The Nurse were getting on like a house afire.
Despite some intense melancholy leaking through at times, Matthew sounded like he was having the time of his life—or at least the most entertainment since the accident.
No wonder Luke had enjoyed Christmas so much.
The evening stretched before him, full and promising.
He’d returned from escorting Ellen back from her long day around the dispensary.
She’d gone upstairs to change into clean clothes, then they'd have an hour or two together before supper.
Rain had poured for three days, and the rookeries were awash in filth and mud.
The Thames rose past its banks and would leave all sorts of rubbish and refuse in its wake when the waters receded.
On the walk back from the dispensary, Mark had eyed some of the ricketier buildings with concern that the mud had softened the foundations too much.
“They’ve lasted this long,” Ellen had said as she’d sidestepped a puddle so large and deep a child could have swum in it. “They’ll probably last the night, too.”
Mark’s eyes snagged on the last letter in his afternoon pile.
A postmark from Oxford. His grin grew. For the past month he’d done very little translation.
Whenever he’d sat down and pulled out pen and paper, instead of writing out ancient Greek, he’d found himself writing in English. Writing stories.
Once there were twelve gods. Most of them lived high on a beautiful mountain in the sky called Olympus.
That night with the Carlson children had stayed in his mind, and not just because of the tragedy.
Because of the light in the children’s eyes as they had hung on his every word, like the ship’s boys had.
Mark loved his dusty tomes and philosophy debates and all the lectures about Greek literature.
He’d never felt the joy he’d experienced when he introduced children to Greek mythology.
He’d felt so proud, as if saying, Look at this thing I love.
Look how wonderful it is. Look, and you might love it, too.
And so somehow, he’d written a children’s version of the best-known myths.
Some aspects he toned down, of course, but he still tried to capture the wonder and whimsy of the myths.
Mark had no idea who he was writing for or what to do with it when he finished the collection.
He couldn’t stop writing, not when it brought such lightness to his heart and passion to his pen.
Holding his breath, Mark cut open the envelope and withdrew the letter after placing his spectacles on. It was from Professor Duncap.
Glenfall,
Pleasure hearing from you. Edward Chancors passed me your selection on the Argonautica. Well done. Why don’t you schedule a visit in the next few weeks? Come to my office, and we’ll discuss possibilities of further scholarship. My office hours are noon to four, Tuesday through Thursday.
Send a note to let me know which day you’ll come.
Looking forward to speaking further,
Prof. Duncap
Wadham College, Oxford
Mark reread the letter and realized what Duncap was saying.
There was a chance, a strong chance, of him joining the ranks of dons at a college in Oxford as soon as he finished reading for his Fellowship.
Likely even the one he’d studied at years ago as a student.
His skin tingled. He could visit next week, and if a position became available, he could move at the end of the spring term and be taking students in the fall.
And Ellen would be having their baby in early fall. It would be perfect.
Ellen put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
“Do you need a minute?” Amelia paused counting the donated medicine to watch Ellen closely.
She shook her head, swallowed the queasy feeling back down, and opened her eyes.
“I can keep working.” Oh, how she hated morning sickness.
Though clearly the term was coined by a man, because morning sickness could pop up any time of day.
“Have we received donations from this chemist before?” She knelt beside Amelia, opening her own crate of brown glass bottles in the dispensary waiting room.
Medicine near its expiration date filled the bottles, nestled in the crates filled with straw and sawdust.
Ellen pulled one bottle out and blew away the sawdust to read the label. “Arsenic.” She pulled another bottle out. “Camphor with opium.”
“Yes, I’ve received donations from this chemist before,” Amelia said. “Mrs. Daugherty said we were running low so I went out yesterday after my neighborhood rounds and begged. He’s trustworthy; I trust his medicines.”
At the end of the month, if the chemist had medicine he wouldn’t be able to use or sell, or had canceled orders, he sometimes donated it to any medical charities who got there first. This time Amelia had won the race.