How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  An impossible dream perhaps, but Arabella was committed to making it a reality. One thing she didn’t lack was determination.

  The Foundling Hospital, Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, London

  “I’m afraid the matron cannot see you this afternoon, Miss . . .” The plump, middle-aged housekeeper of the Foundling Hospital squinted down at Dr. Radcliff’s letter. The hospital’s entry hall was not only chilly and damp but also poorly lit, and it took her a moment to find Arabella’s name again. “Miss Jardine, is it?”

  “Aye, that’s right.” Beneath her disheveled blond curls, Arabella’s forehead knit into a frown. This wouldn’t do at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the hall porter reaching for the handle of the front door. A large-boned, heavily browed man, he looked as though he wouldn’t hesitate to eject her at a moment’s notice. Turning her attention back to the housekeeper, Arabella decided to argue her case. “But I have an appointment. Dr. Radcliff arranged it. He’s on the hospital board, I believe.”

  The woman sniffed haughtily as her gaze flicked over Arabella. She clearly wasn’t impressed by Arabella’s person. Given her plain attire and the fact she was unchaperoned, it was obvious she wasn’t well connected or from a family of means. It didn’t appear to matter that she knew the physician either. “Yes, I know Dr. Radcliff,” she said, handing back the letter. “Fine gentleman he is. And ordinarily Matron would be happy to show you about. But not today. Perhaps you could come back next week when we run our public tour.”

  A knot of frustration tightened inside Arabella’s chest. “Unfortunately that won’t suit as I’m leaving town the day after tomorrow for an extended period of time. Is there anyone else who might be amenable to showing me around? One of the other staff members perhaps? A nurse or teacher? Dr. Radcliff mentioned he would be attending a board meeting this afternoon. Is there somewhere I could wait for him?” It suddenly occurred to her that she was more disappointed about the prospect of not seeing Dr. Radcliff than missing out on a guided tour. And she hadn’t expected that.

  The housekeeper sighed heavily, her ample bosom straining the seams of her plain black gown and white cotton pinafore. “I really don’t think so, Miss Jardine,” she said in a clipped tone. “Besides, I’m sure the good doctor has better things to do with his time. Just like our matron. With a number of children falling ill overnight—” The woman clamped her lips together as if she’d said the wrong thing. “Everyone is just too busy.”

  Alarm spiked through Arabella. “Oh, dear. I hope whatever it is, isn’t too serious.” No wonder the matron was busy. Illness could spread like wildfire through a place like this, with devastating consequences. She’d once witnessed a measles outbreak in Edinburgh’s North Bridge Orphan Hospital, an institution she’d visited with her grandfather on many occasions. “Is there anything I can do to help? I’ve a good deal of nursing experience myself.”

  The housekeeper arched a thin eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by Arabella’s claim. “I don’t think so. Matron has everything well in hand, miss.” Her gaze skipped to the porter’s, and Arabella felt a cold draft wash over her back and eddy about her ankles as he opened the door.

  Taking a step closer to the housekeeper, Arabella slipped her hand through the slit in her gown’s woolen skirts and pulled her coin purse from her pocket. The woman’s eyes gleamed when she heard the coins chink together. “Miss . . .”

  “Mrs. Bradley.”

  “Mrs. Bradley.” Arabella opened her purse and removed one of her precious sovereigns. She’d intended to purchase a few bits and pieces on Bond Street before she returned to the Arbuthnotts’ rented town house on Half Moon Street. But she was willing to make a small sacrifice if it meant she could stay. “Would it help if I offered you a wee donation as a token of my appreciation for your trouble?” she said in a low voice. “If you could spare a little time to take me through the girls’ wing. And then as I suggested, I could wait somewhere for Dr. Radcliff. I hear there’s a picture gallery . . .”

  Mrs. Bradley snatched up the proffered coin and tucked it into the pocket of her pinafore faster than an alley cat pouncing on a rat. She gestured at the porter to shut the door. “Very well, Miss Jardine.” Turning on her heel, she strode across the hall toward another door. “Follow me.”

  As soon as Arabella entered the girls’ dormitory in the hospital’s east wing, with its endless rows of narrow beds covered in stiff white sheets and rough, dun woolen blankets, an icy shiver skated down her spine and her stomach clenched. Her breath caught and her pulse fluttered wildly like a trapped moth beneath her skin. She had to curl her gloved hands into fists to hide her trembling fingers.

  It was always the way. It didn’t matter that she’d visited similar places countless times with her grandfather. No amount of rational thought could overcome her body’s visceral response, the immediate instinct to turn and run, run, run out the door and back into the street into the fresh air and light.

  Perhaps it was the absence of curtains at the high, barred windows, or the echo of footsteps on cold, bare floorboards that caused such a reaction. Then again, it could have been the sharp scent of laundry starch and lye soap that transported her back to another time and place. Another orphanage she’d rather not remember with its mean-spirited nurses and their harsh orders. Their hard eyes and even harder hands that pushed and slapped and pinched.

  But it was those very memories that drove her ambition. Her desire to make things better for other abandoned or orphaned children. Fifteen years may have passed since she was last an inmate of Glasgow’s Great Clyde Hospital and Poorhouse, but she would never, ever forget how it felt to be a small, desperate child rendered mute with crushing fear and despair. The terrible, smothering sense of being completely alone and unloved.

  Unwanted.

  If Mrs. Bradley noticed Arabella’s odd demeanor, she didn’t remark upon it. She simply delivered what appeared to be a well-practiced speech about the children’s routine: when they rose and when they slept, how a cleanliness inspection was always conducted after morning prayers, the nature of the children’s personal chores and domestic “employments” based upon age, and the amount of time allocated to academic studies such as arithmetic and literacy lessons.

  All the while, Arabella strove to listen and make mental notes of details such as how many children were accommodated within the hospital, the budget allocated for uniforms, and the number of teaching and nursing staff employed by the board. This was what she needed to know in order to begin making her own plans to establish a foundling home and orphanage.

  But right now, she couldn’t seem to focus, even when she endeavored to jot down pertinent information in a notebook she retrieved from her satchel. It seemed she would have to come back another time to gain a better understanding of the running costs that would be involved.

  Unless Dr. Radcliff would be willing to share such details. He was on the board after all. But that would require Arabella to summon the courage to tell him about her ambitious plans. And she didn’t know him well enough for that. Well, not yet . . .

  By the time Mrs. Bradley had shown Arabella through the refectory, one of the classrooms, and the laundry, she was feeling almost like herself again. Seeing the children—who all appeared to be sufficiently nourished and adequately clothed in gowns of brown serge, crisp white pinafores, and matching bonnets—had helped to reassure her that the Foundling Hospital took better care of its inmates than the Great Clyde Hospital had. Some of the younger girls had even traded shy smiles with her.

  Mrs. Bradley gave the hospital’s sick ward a wide berth—as was to be expected given an outbreak of illness—so the last port of call was the kitchen.

  The familiar smells of boiled beef and baking bread hit Arabella as soon as she and Mrs. Bradley crossed the threshold into a cavernous room. Like the laundry, the kitchen was abuzz with activity. Older girls who appeared to be aged between nine and perhap
s fourteen diligently peeled and chopped potatoes, kneaded bread, or stood by the fireside tending to whatever bubbled in the enormous cast-iron pots. Arabella also spied a much younger child who couldn’t have been more than five huddled on a low stool by the fireside, half-heartedly working a small pair of bellows—a totally unnecessary activity in Arabella’s opinion, considering the fire was already burning brightly.

  Indeed, the kitchen was a good deal warmer than any of the other rooms she’d visited so far. Condensation clung to the windows, and it wasn’t long before Arabella felt sweat prickling down her back and along her hairline.

  The fearsome cook—Mrs. Humbert—was a stout, florid-faced woman with work-roughened hands, a caustic tone, and a scalding glare. When her gaze scoured Arabella, she tried not to flinch. She’d just mustered the courage to ask Mrs. Humbert if the children were ever provided with any other type of vegetable besides potatoes, when all hell broke loose.

  The young girl by the fire tumbled off her stool onto the flagged hearth, her body jerking oddly. The other girls who stood nearby screamed and jumped back. Ladles and spoons went flying, and a pot of rice pudding overturned.

  “What the ’ell is goin’ on?” screeched Mrs. Humbert, advancing toward the commotion.

  “Sally’s choking.” A tall redheaded girl pointed at the little one on the floor. “She must’ve nicked a piece of carrot out of the boiled beef pot again.”

  “Li’l toad. Serves ’er right.” Mrs. Humbert elbowed several gawking girls out of the way. “After I’ve finished fumping ’er on the back, I’ll box ’er ears.”

  Arabella rushed to the fireside too; the little girl’s eyes had rolled back in her head, and her mouth had twisted. Her body was rigid and her muscles twitched.

  “She’s not choking. And you’ll do no such thing, Mrs. Humbert.” Arabella dropped to her knees beside the child and glared back at the fuming cook. “She’s having a seizure.”

  Planting her fisted hands on her ample hips, Mrs. Humbert towered over Arabella. “An’ ’ow would you know, Miss ’igh-and-Mighty?” she demanded.

  Arabella narrowed her gaze as she tugged off her gloves. “I know.” Ignoring the cook’s thunderous scowl and Mrs. Bradley’s protests, she turned the girl, Sally, gently onto her side and placed a hand on her forehead. The child’s skin was burning hot and her cheeks were bright red, but Arabella didn’t think the heat of the fire was to blame. “Does Sally have a history of epilepsy?” The cook and housekeeper stared at her blankly. “You know, the falling sickness?”

  “’Ow would I know?” huffed Mrs. Humbert.

  Mrs. Bradley shook her head. “Not that I know of, Miss Jardine.”

  “She has a fever. A high one. It can trigger fits in babies and young children.” Arabella began loosening the child’s pinafore and gown. “We need to cool her down. Can someone please fetch a cloth soaked in cold water? The seizure will soon pass.”

  Sure enough, within a minute, Sally regained consciousness. She moaned and blinked a few times before tears welled in her large, pansy brown eyes. Eyes that seemed too large for her small, flushed face. “My head hurts,” she whispered.

  “You had a wee fall,” said Arabella gently, stroking her hot cheek. “Do you think you can sit?”

  Sally nodded and Arabella helped her up. The child whimpered and buried her face in Arabella’s shoulder. “She needs to be taken to the sick ward and assessed by a doctor.”

  Mrs. Bradley nodded. There seemed to be a newfound respect in her eyes. “Of course. We have an infirmary. Up you get, Sally.”

  But little Sally was still shaking and crying. Standing up seemed quite beyond her, so Arabella picked her up. Her body was so slight, she barely weighed a thing. “I’ll carry her.”

  “Very well.” For the second time that afternoon, the housekeeper bade Arabella to follow her.

  A short time later, Sally had been installed in a cot in the infirmary, and the hospital’s matron was thanking Arabella for her quick thinking and care.

  “Dr. Radcliff mentioned you were coming today, Miss Jardine,” she said, ushering Arabella outside and down the corridor. They paused by a large window that overlooked a sodden garden featuring a bed of drooping daffodils. A slender, attractive woman who was perhaps in her thirties, the matron had a calm yet efficient manner about her. “I apologize for not being able to show you around the hospital myself.”

  “I understand completely,” said Arabella. “I can see how busy you are.” There were half a dozen other children occupying beds in the infirmary, and Arabella suspected they were all suffering from the same ailment. “Measles is terribly contagious, so I truly hope you can contain the outbreak.” Because she hadn’t contracted the disease when she helped treat children at the North Bridge Orphan Hospital, her grandfather had surmised she’d already had the illness as a child.

  Beneath her starched white cap, the matron’s brow plunged into a deep frown. “How did you know?” she asked in hushed tones. “Did Mrs. Bradley say anything? I asked her not to. We don’t want to alarm the public unnecessarily. Or the board, especially when the children have yet to be seen by a doctor. I hope I can count on your discretion.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Arabella. “And to answer your question, no, Mrs. Bradley didn’t mention it was measles. But when I loosened little Sally’s uniform, I noticed the rash on her neck and shoulders. And on her face. It’s quite distinctive.”

  “Yes . . .” The matron gave her a considering look. “You’ve either encountered measles before, or had medical training. Or both.”

  Arabella smiled. “Both. My grandfather was a physician. I used to assist him in his practice.”

  “Ah.” The matron nodded. “And you know Dr. Radcliff as well, I hear.”

  Arabella felt her own cheeks grow hot. “Yes.”

  “Did someone mention my name?”

  Arabella turned at the sound of a pleasantly deep male voice behind her. It was indeed Dr. Radcliff. Arabella’s blush deepened as her gaze met the doctor’s, and she nervously adjusted her glasses, hoping the action would help hide the fact that her face was so red.

  The doctor was just as amiable as she recalled. A trim gentleman of middling height and age—his brown hair was shot with silver at the temples—he wasn’t particularly handsome, but he possessed a charming manner and kind brown eyes. Eyes that held hers for a moment longer than was perhaps necessary before he bowed over her hand.

  “Miss Jardine,” he said, a genuine smile playing about his lips. While his gaze held a warm light, his long fingers were cool against her skin. “It has been far too long.”

  “Yes, it has,” Arabella replied, dismayed that she sounded a little breathless. “It’s lovely to see you again.” The doctor released her hand and she curled her fingers into her palm; she fancied she still felt his touch. Giving herself a mental shake for being such a wigeon, she added, “And before I forget, I must thank you for arranging a tour for me. It’s been most enlightening.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. And you’re most welcome, Miss Jardine. I know you have a passionate interest in facilities such as this one.” The doctor turned his attention back to the matron, who was observing them both with a quizzical expression. “Good afternoon, Matron. I understand you have need of me.”

  “Yes.” The young woman gave a succinct recount of the situation, even describing Arabella’s intervention when Sally had taken ill. “So, unfortunately, it seems we might have a measles outbreak on our hands,” she concluded gravely.

  Concern shadowed Dr. Radcliff’s eyes. “Would that you and Miss Jardine were wrong, Matron. But I rather suspect you’re not.”

  He caught Arabella’s gaze again. “If circumstances were different, I’d suggest we take a turn about the picture gallery and then ask Mrs. Bradley to arrange tea for us all”—he nodded at the matron—“in one of the parlors. But I’m afraid it will
have to be another time. I hope you understand, Miss Jardine.”

  “Yes of course.” Even though disappointment tugged at her heart, Arabella summoned a smile. “I look forward to it.”

  “Perhaps when you return from the Continent?” Dr. Radcliff was following the matron toward the infirmary. “How long will you be away? I don’t recall your mentioning that in your last letter.”

  “Four months at this stage.”

  The doctor paused on the threshold. “Be sure to send me your direction. I want to tell you all about my plans for a new clinic for the poor at Seven Dials. I’m modeling it on Dr. John Bunnell Davis’s Universal Dispensary for Children. Oh, and be sure to squeeze in a visit to L’Hôpital Necker, L’Hôpital des Enfants-Trouvés, and L’Hôpital des Enfants-Malades in Paris if you have the chance. They’re all wonderful hospitals.”

  Arabella inclined her head. “I will. Goodbye, Dr. Radcliff. Matron.” But Matron was asking the doctor if he had any Godfrey’s Cordial on hand as he stepped into the room. And then the door closed behind him.

  Arabella sighed as she retraced her steps along the corridor, heading toward the hospital’s main entrance. It was such a shame that fate had conspired against her this afternoon. She’d been so looking forward to spending a little more time with Dr. Radcliff. Of course, their encounter had been so brief, she couldn’t be sure if he looked upon her as anything more than a friend. They were certainly like-minded individuals. And from what she’d seen of him on the three occasions they’d met, he was a most congenial, even-tempered man. He would make some lucky woman a lovely husband. If he wished to marry again, of course . . .

  Arabella had no idea what his wishes were in that regard. But after today, it had become abundantly clear to her that she wouldn’t mind at all if Dr. Graham Radcliff began to view her as a prospective spouse. As a doctor’s wife—particularly someone with Dr. Radcliff’s social connections—it would be much easier for her to realize her goal. To make a real difference to all those children who were forced to endure inferior conditions in poorly funded and managed institutions up north.