Chapter Thirty-Five #2
‘If that’s the case, then Charles Brown must be wrong when he says that the cholera isn’t contagious.
They must be infecting each other,’ Tildy thought, but then was forced to consider the fact that people like herself, Lucas Royston, Charles Brown, Tommy Vincent, Pat O’Leary, and many others in constant contact with the disease had not been infected by it.
Black crosses had been marked against the names of those who were already dead, and tears stung Tildy’s eyes as she saw that several of the smaller children had been taken.
‘God comfort their poor parents,’ she murmured, then turned her gaze to the next poster and began to read, ‘At the Council Chamber Whitehall, 21 September 1832. By the Lords of His Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council.
It is this day ordered by their Lordships that a Board of Health be constituted for the Parish of Tardebigge in Worcestershire.
Consisting of the following members, viz …
The Right Honourable, the Earl of Plymouth.
The Right Honourable, Reverend the Lord Aston.
Reverend John Clayton.
The Churchwardens, Chapelwardens and Overseers for the time being.
Surgeons. Mr. H. Taylor.
Mr. A. Pratt.
Mr. L. Royston.’
Tildy scanned the appended list of names of the various wardens and overseers numbering fifteen in all, and grimaced cynically as she thought of how much they would claim from the parish in expenses, and how little they would do to actually aid the fight against the epidemic, notwithstanding the final stern admonition on the poster.
‘ … And the said Board are to proceed in the execution of the duties required of them accordingly.
Signed. C.C. Greville Esq. Clerk to the Privy Council.’
‘Well, at least now that we’ve an officially appointed Board of Health the Select Vestry will have no excuse for not voting more funds to fight the cholera with,’ she thought.'
Tildy turned to find Augustus Bartleet standing close behind her.
In the morning sunlight he presented a bizarre spectacle, with his painted lips, rouged cheeks and enamelled hands, and his bright blue coat with its hugely padded shoulders and wasplike corseted waistline.
He raised his tall white tophat and his long flowing locks waved gently in the breeze.
‘Good morning to you, Mistress Crawford. Might I have a private word with you?’
She nodded and moved a little way with him until they were out of earshot of the people reading the posters.
Although many townspeople mocked Augustus Bartleet for his foppish appearance and mannerisms and derided his way of life, Tildy had conceived an ever increasing liking and respect for him during the epidemic.
He had given his time and aid unstintingly to help the stricken, and had shown a courage that many of his detractors sadly lacked.
Now he told Tildy sombrely, ‘I am the bearer of sad tidings, Mistress Crawford.’
She knew with an absolute certainty that he was going to tell her of Maria Pitts’ death. ‘It concerns Maria Pitts. Sadly she died early this morning.’
The news brought grief to Tildy’s heart, and also that familiar hot and angry resentment that once again the cholera had gained the victory.
‘I was with her when it happened,’ the man went on. ‘I had gone to take a message to Lucas Royston. It seemed to me that death took her with a merciful lack of suffering at the end. Her life went gently from her. God rest her soul.’
‘Amen to that,’ Tildy sighed sadly, then asked, ‘And Doctor Royston? How is he bearing up?’
‘Very hard. He is sitting with her now, and refuses to leave her side. I think it best that he be left undisturbed until he has come to terms with his grief.’
‘I’ll go there now and see what I can do to help him,’ Tildy said.
‘Little enough, I fear,’ Bartleet told her.
‘In fact I was on my way to your house to tell you that there was no need of your going to the Pitts’ house.
Lucas asked me to tell you that he would prefer to be left alone at this time.
And truly I think it best that we all respect his wishes in this matter, Mistress Crawford.
After all, there’s nothing can be done for the poor young lady now, and nothing that can be done to bring comfort to Lucas. He must be given time to grieve.’
Tildy saw the sense in what he was saying, and accepted it. ‘Very well, Master Bartleet. I’ll not go there then.’
A sudden curiosity caused her to ask. ‘What happened exactly, to bring on her death? Only when I left her yesterday evening she was feeling a little more comfortable and seemed to be improving.’
‘She had a relapse and began to vomit again, and then slipped into coma. At least, that is what the old woman informed Lucas had happened. She said that after you had left Maria was complaining of thirst, and drank a deal of water.’
Tildy nodded. ‘Yes, she was complaining of thirst all through the afternoon, and drank much water then. She wouldn’t take anything else, only water, cold fresh water.’
A thought suddenly burgeoned in her brain which at first she could only marvel at as a complete nonsense. ‘Water? Cold fresh water?’ she murmured, and the man stared at her curiously.
‘What’s that you say, Mistress Crawford?’
She glanced at him, her lucent brown eyes wide and wondering. ‘Water, Master Bartleet, I was thinking of water.’
Abruptly she told him, ‘Good day to you, Master Bartleet,’ and hurried away across the central crossroads and up Evesham Street.
Outside Joseph Cashmore’s cottage she halted, and stood for a moment or two. ‘He’ll think me mad,’ she realised, and doubt rose in her.
While she stood a young woman came hurrying along the street and up to Cashmore’s door. ‘Is he home?’ she asked Tildy.
‘I don’t know.’
The young woman knocked on the constable’s door, and Cashmore opened it. He recognised his visitor. ‘It’s Meg Wilkinson, arn’t it?’
‘Yes Master Cashmore. I’se just come to tell you that old Mother Cater has just fell down wi’ the Blue Vomit, outside the Toll House up Mount Pleasant.’
Tildy gasped with shock; Mother Cater was the old woman who had been helping her to nurse Maria Pitts.