How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  “Oh, no, it is not for me. It is for my mother. She has not been well, and as a precaution I would like to consult with a doctor.”

  “Consult with a doctor? What do you hope to learn?”

  “How I may ease my mother’s condition,” Meg replied carefully. “I want to learn what I can do to restore her health.”

  Mr. Thornton nodded his head toward Jenny. “I heard you speak with that young woman about caring for her grandmother’s hand. Am I to understand you are spending time among the working folk in Milton?” His face had an austere expression, and Meg’s heart sank.

  “Don’t you care about the welfare of your workers, Mr. Thornton?” Meg countered with spirit.

  “My concern is the efficient running of my mill. How they spend their time away from work is none of my business.”

  “If your workers are sick or preoccupied with loved ones who are ill, they will not be able to do their best work for you, and that will affect the efficient running of your mill,” Meg countered bluntly. “I am surprised that a town of this size does not have a medical clinic to alleviate some of the suffering of the poorer inhabitants. With so much wealth, it is a crime to let people starve or die of illnesses that might be prevented.”

  Mr. Thornton flushed. “If that criticism is directed at me—”

  Meg interrupted him. “Indeed not. Forgive me, I did not mean any personal criticism. I just wonder at the general lack of care in Milton for the poor and needy.”

  Mr. Thornton opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment a shout came from across the courtyard. Two men emerged from the mill, supporting a sagging man between them. Mr. Thornton sprinted toward them, Meg at his heels. As she moved toward the small group, she overheard snatches of the conversation. “Machine got snarled—hand wedged in the gears—tore his hand open, Master—fetch Doctor Donaldson.”

  Mr. Thornton instructed the men to take the injured worker to the doctor’s residence before rushing into the mill to ascertain any damage to the equipment.

  As soon as he disappeared into the mill, Meg bade the men wait a moment. She removed the scarf from about her neck and wrapped it tightly about the injured man’s hand to staunch the bleeding. She then rummaged through her purse for her dropper bottles, selected one, and applied several drops in the man’s slack mouth.

  “This will help to stop the bleeding,” she explained breathlessly to curious onlookers. Once this was accomplished, she followed the men to the doctor’s house, located several streets from the mill.

  A distinguished man of medium height with graying hair opened the door; Meg assumed he was Dr. Donaldson by the keen look he gave the crowd and the authoritative manner in which he assessed the situation with a single glance. Opening the door wider, he bade the men enter, giving Meg one quick and curious glance before turning his attention to the injured man’s hand. He led the small throng to a small office outfitted for medical examinations.

  Dr. Donaldson unbound the ruined scarf and carefully examined the wound. “It is not crushed, only sliced open. There will be quite a bit of bruising, but no permanent damage, I believe. However, the wound must be sewn up.”

  He glanced at the men gathered about him. “My assistant is not here today, and I need someone to hold the edges of the wound while I sew it closed. Could one of you assist me?” The men shuffled and looked uneasy.

  Meg stepped forward. “I can help you,” she asserted. “I can sew the stitches while you hold the skin close to the bone.” At his inquisitive look, she hastened to add, “My name is Meg Hale, and I came to see you about my mother.”

  “Do you know what you are doing, young lady?’ he asked sharply.

  Meg nodded. “I have sewn up any number of wounds before.”

  He pinned her with a shrewd glance, but she met his gaze and held it. After a moment, he nodded his assent. “We’ll talk about your mother later, Miss Hale. For the moment, let’s see what you can do with this wound.” He positioned the injured man in a chair, cleaned the wound, and administered a small dose of laudanum to ease the man’s discomfort. Once these tasks were accomplished, he set up a tray with a needle, thread, alcohol, and scissors.

  At his request, Meg followed Dr. Donaldson to a back room that contained a sink. They washed their hands thoroughly with carbolic soap, and Meg donned a large apron that Dr. Donaldson offered to her. With confidence, Meg moved to the instrument tray and used the alcohol to sterilize the needle before threading it to the required length.

  While she prepared these instruments, Doctor Donaldson rummaged about in a cabinet and emerged with a glass and bottle of whiskey. He poured a large portion and offered it to the injured man, who readily gulped down the liquor. “That will help you deal with the pain,” the doctor explained to the patient, who nodded muzzily. Glancing up at Meg, the doctor asked, “Are you ready, Miss Hale?”

  She nodded and began her task. While he held the ends of the flesh together and ensured the musculature was kept close to the bone, Margaret stitched up the patient’s hand with neat and precise knots. She worked quickly and efficiently, and Dr. Donaldson was greatly impressed with her handiwork.

  As she progressed in closing the wound, she remembered that it had never failed to amuse Aunt Lily that Meg, who could not sew a straight seam at home, was known at the hospital for the economy and skill with which she stitched up wounds. The hands muttered uneasily about a woman doing this sort of work, but those who looked at the hand afterwards agreed she had done an impressive job. Dr. Donaldson bandaged the man’s hand, and bade him go home, requesting that he return on the morrow to have his wound rechecked.

  “Very impressive, Miss Hale,” Dr. Donaldson proclaimed with a gleam in his eye as the men shuffled out of his office. “Where did you learn to stitch up a wound? You did as good a job as I have seen.”

  Meg demurred. “I have assisted our local doctor in Helstone. There is no nurse within miles of our parish.”

  “One of the men told me that you gave the injured man something from a dropper bottle. May I ask what it was?” Dr. Donaldson inquired.

  Meg rummaged in her bag and pulled forth the bottle labeled phosphorus. She handed it to him, explaining, “It is a homeopathic remedy for bleeding.”

  “Yes, I am familiar with phosphorus, but I wonder how you know about it?”

  Meg met his gaze. “Our doctor at home was a practitioner. He taught me the uses of homeopathic remedies.”

  Dr. Donaldson’s eyes were shrewd, weighing her words before he spoke. “Miss Hale, I am in the process of establishing a medical clinic in Milton where I intend to treat the poorer inhabitants. Many of these men and women cannot afford a doctor, and will wait until their condition is beyond my help before they come to me. My current assistant refuses to help with this endeavor, but I can see that you have the intellect and stomach for such work. Would you be willing to work with me?” he asked earnestly. “I cannot pay you much, but I can give you a small wage.”

  Meg could have kissed his honest face. “I would be happy to work with you, Doctor.” Unable to believe her luck, she thrust out her hand. Hesitating in surprise for a brief moment, Doctor Donaldson clasped her hand and shook it soundly.

  “Now that that is settled, why did you come to see me?” he asked, and Meg quickly told him of her mother’s ailment and her symptoms.

  He looked grave. “I would like to examine her before reaching any conclusions. You have been correct to feed her nutritious food, and the cod liver oil should improve her stamina. I will visit her this evening, if that is suitable.” Meg agreed, and they set a time for him to come to their house in Crampton.

  “Now,” Dr. Donaldson exclaimed, rolling down his shirt sleeves, “you had best remove that apron and clean up before you go home. I would not have your mother suffer a shock at seeing you covered with blood. There is water in the pitcher, and soap and clean towels in the back room where we first washed up.”

  As Margaret departed to tidy herself, an authoritative knock sound
ed at the front door. Dr. Donaldson opened the door to reveal Mr. Thornton.

  “How is Rawlings, Dr. Donaldson?” Mr. Thornton asked in a grave tone. “Were you able to save his hand?”

  Dr. Donaldson nodded, waving Mr. Thornton inside to his office. “Indeed, I was. He suffered no lasting damage. With some help, I was able to close the wound so that it should heal nicely. Thanks to Miss Hale’s quick actions, he should be well on his way to recovery.”

  “Miss Hale?” Mr. Thornton asked sharply. “What did Miss Hale have to do with it?’

  “She managed to staunch the bleeding at the mill by tying his hand up with her scarf, and she gave him a remedy to stop the bleeding. Once here, she sewed his hand up. Did the neatest job I’ve seen in all my years of practice, and was cool as you please about it. She has the makings of a damned fine healer, if you ask me.”

  At that moment, Meg emerged from the back room, wiping her hands upon a folded apron. “I will take this dirty apron home and launder it …” she began, but her voice trailed off as she spotted Mr. Thornton in the doorway, a thunderstruck expression on his face.

  She nodded approvingly. “I see you have come to inquire after your worker.”

  “Am I to understand that you sewed up Rawlings’ hand, Miss Hale? Wherever did you learn such a skill?”

  Meg responded in exasperation, “Sewing is sewing, Mr. Thornton, whether on fabric or skin. In Helstone, I helped out when the men had accidents in the fields. The farmworkers often cut themselves with scythes, or crushed their hands or feet moving stones. I assisted the village doctor in patching them up, and learned much from watching him.”

  Dr. Donaldson looked at her shrewdly. “I’d be willing to bet you’ve done more than stitch up a few cuts, Miss Hale,” he said softly.

  At his words, Meg had a sudden vision of the horrible burns and wounds she had faced each night in the makeshift ward during the war. Men who had lost eyes, ears, and limbs filled the beds. Many men had severe burns or raging fevers and infections, and the nurses had to ration out the miniscule amounts of sedatives that made their way into their hands. Meg remembered sneaking some of Aunt Lily’s older sheets and towels out of the house one evening to use for bandages. Aunt Lily had been furious, but Gran had provided Meg with money to buy supplies. Stitching up this worker’s hand had been nothing in comparison, but Meg could not explain that to these men who had not experienced the ravages of the Great War.

  Glancing up, she caught Mr. Thornton’s puzzled gaze. He had watched Miss Hale’s reaction to Dr. Donaldson’s comment, and was struck by the naked grief that had crossed her face. He knew that her mother was ill, but unless he was greatly mistaken, this young woman had witnessed much suffering. For a gently bred woman to assist as she just had, she must be inured to pain and blood. Who are you, Miss Hale, and why are you such an enigma? Against his better judgment, she fascinated him.

  Abruptly annoyed at his train of thought, Mr. Thornton thanked the doctor for his care of the mill hand, and asked him to send the bill to Marlborough Mills. Tipping his hat, he left. Meg watched his tall form move briskly down the street.

  Turning back to Dr. Donaldson, she asked, “When would you like me to begin work?”

  “I have rounds tomorrow morning—you may meet me at ten if you wish to accompany me. That is, if your parents are amenable to your doing this type of work.” He reminded her that he would visit her mother that evening, and escorted her to the door and waited while she donned her coat and hat.

  Meg was determined to move heaven and earth to do this type of work, and thought her parents might welcome another source of income. She knew she must face the hurdle of explaining her desire to work with the doctor to the satisfaction of Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Despite that, her heart rejoiced at the thought of being able to practice her life’s calling once more, and to learn medicine at the side of an experienced doctor. Oblivious of stares in the streets, she threw back her head and laughed with glee before she hurried home.

  Chapter 7. The Mock Turtle’s Story

  “Miss Hale!” Dr. Donaldson’s sharp voice rang out from the examination room. “Where is that bandage?”

  “Are you certain it is in the top cabinet?” Meg asked, rummaging in the storage room. “I have found rolls of the regular-sized wraps, but nothing wide enough to cover that burn.” She reappeared in the doorway, a smaller role in her hand. “I believe if we wrap it carefully, this thinner bandage might work. I’ll look for the larger roll later.”

  She hurried over to the table where Dr. Donaldson was applying salve to a woman’s burnt arm. She wrapped the bandage about the woman’s lower arm, carefully winding it around the limb to ensure the wound was covered completely. When she finished, she tucked the end of the bandage under the wrapping and pulled it through a strip, knotting it with a loose end.

  “I believe that will do,” Meg said, examining her work with satisfaction. “But Sarah, you must rest your arm for the remainder of the day. If you use it too much, the bandage will come off. Let it heal today, and it will be ready to put to use tomorrow.”

  Sarah smiled. “Thank you, Miss,” she said shyly and slipped from the room.

  “Yes, thank you doctor,” Dr. Donaldson said dryly, and Meg had the grace to blush.

  “I am sorry, Doctor Donaldson,” she apologized ruefully. “I forget my place.”

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t apologize. Your advice is correct, and your instincts serve you well. Furthermore, the women trust you more than they do me.” He sighed again. “I am lucky to have your help, Miss Hale. I do, however, wonder how you have come to know so much about medicine. You gave Sarah arnica for the pain—where did you say you learned the use of homeopathic remedies?”

  Meg smiled but did not answer his question. She had worked with Dr. Donaldson for over a fortnight and found that she savored every minute of her time with him. He was a skilled and intelligent physician who corresponded with other physicians and visited London hospitals to keep his knowledge and practice up to date. Unlike many of the doctors with whom Meg had worked at the hospital, he asked her opinion on cases, and would carefully weigh her input when making a diagnosis. She gave thanks daily that she had had the presence of mind to travel through the mirror with her purse upon her wrist; the essential oils and homeopathic remedies she had brought with her through time had proven invaluable at the clinic as well as at home in the care of her mother.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hale did not quite know what to make of their daughter working with the doctor, but after he explained to them how valuable her assistance was in a village such as Milton, Mr. Hale acquiesced. Mrs. Hale vastly preferred that her daughter be involved in what she viewed as a charitable endeavor rather than menial work, and agreed as well. Now that Mary Higgins served as housemaid under Dixon, Meg had the time to assist the good doctor. Meg knew that the town was agog with tittle-tattle concerning her work at the clinic, but did not care one snap of her fingers for the wagging of idle tongues. She saw the assistance that the doctor provided for poor families as well as wealthier ones, and appreciated being part of that work. She also appreciated the care that Dr. Donaldson provided to Mrs. Hale.

  It had taken one examination for Dr. Donaldson to realize that Maria Hale was, indeed, gravely ill, and that little could be done to cure her. Meg had grieved to hear her diagnosis confirmed, and her heart ached that this woman whom she had come to consider a mother was condemned to such a fate. She also felt anxiety for Mr. Hale who did not comprehend the extent of his wife’s ailment.

  Dixon cautioned Meg not to let on to Mr. Hale about the advanced degree of Mrs. Hale’s illness. She feared that he would blame himself and fall into despair. “And I can’t take care of both of them at one time,” Dixon explained. “Best to let him think she will recover, and find out differently later.”

  Meg reluctantly agreed, but was skeptical that they could shield an intelligent man like Mr. Hale from the truth. However, as the days passed, Meg realized that
he saw what he wanted to see, and interpreted what was before him in the manner in which he could best deal with it.

  “Meg, where are you?” Dr. Donaldson asked, and she started. “Are you wool gathering?”

  “No, I was thinking about my mother,” Meg replied with a modicum of truth.

  Dr. Donaldson grew grave. “I am sorry that there is little that I can do to help her, Meg. As she gets worse, I will administer stronger narcotics to alleviate the pain. However, as you are well aware, there is no remedy.”

  “I know, doctor, and please know that I am grateful for whatever assistance you can provide. I wish I could find fresh vegetables or fruit for her, but the selection is so limited.”

  “You do your best, my dear, and that is better than most patients in her condition receive,” Dr. Donaldson replied promptly. He glanced at the clock. “I believe our time is up for today—shall I see you tomorrow?”

  Meg made a face. “I am afraid not. My parents and I are invited to Marlborough Mills for dinner tomorrow night, and I must dress and prepare myself.”

  “Will your mother attend?” Dr. Donaldson inquired.

  Meg frowned. “No, she will not. I believe it will be too great a drain on her energy. No, it will be up to my father and me to hold up the Hale family honor.”

  Dr. Donaldson chuckled. “It is quite an honor, to be invited to Mrs. Thornton’s annual dinner. I take it you are not excited to go.”

  Meg grimaced. “No, I am not, especially when Mrs. Thornton believes I have designs upon her son.”

  “Mrs. Thornton has accused many a young woman of scheming to catch her son. You are in ample company, my dear.”

  “That is company I prefer not to keep,” Meg replied wryly.

  Meg considered visiting Bessy on her way home, but decided against it. The Higgins household had been fairly grim of late, given that a strike had been called. The workers had walked out of the mill two weeks before, and the cotton industry had ground to a halt throughout Milton.

  Meg had attempted to talk to Nicholas Higgins about the workers’ plans for the strike, but he was reluctant to disclose any details. He had informed her that the hands had met again at the Lyceum, and that the men who worked for Slickson had been told they would not receive a raise. The other Masters had said to expect a response to their wage demands within a few days. Higgins had threatened that if they did not get an adequate answer to their wage demands, they would stop their machines ten minutes before quitting time on the designated date and walk out, and so they had.