by Dilly Court
‘Dr Joliffe has come,’ Martha announced unnecessarily.
Maude pushed her plate away from her and rose slowly to her feet, glowering at the unfortunate physician.
‘Good morning, Miss Greenwood,’ he said, clearing his throat nervously. ‘And what can I do for you today?’
‘You can keep your own counsel about what goes on in this house for a start.’ Maude leaned towards him so that her face was close to his. ‘Do you understand me, you old pill-peddler?’
‘You offend me, madam. I never divulge anything to anyone concerning my patients.’
‘Not even if this one was on the wrong side of the law?’
Irene held her breath as the doctor hesitated for a moment.
‘So it’s true what they’re saying in the village? You are harbouring a felon.’
Moving swiftly, Maude grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shook him. ‘Say that again and I’ll take the horsewhip to you. No Greenwood was ever involved in anything illegal. D’you understand me, doctor?’
‘There’s no need for violence, Miss Greenwood,’ he said, staggering a little as she released him. ‘Lead me to the patient, Martha. I’ll not stay a moment longer in the room with a madwoman.’
‘Grrrrr.’ Maude made a growling sound like one of her dogs and the doctor fled from the room.
As she followed Martha and the doctor up the stairs Irene was torn between concern for Arthur and amusement at Miss Maude’s tactics. It seemed that Artie’s aunt was not afraid of anyone or anything, and Irene felt a sneaking admiration for the tough and unconventional woman. She put all such thoughts out of her mind as they reached the sickroom and she waited anxiously while the doctor examined Arthur. Martha hovered in the doorway as if afraid of catching something, but Irene moved close to the bed. She had to swallow a lump in her throat at the sight of Arthur’s hollow cheeks and waxen skin. He opened his eyes but he did not seem to recognise her.
‘Tell me, doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Is he going to get well?’
‘That I cannot say with any degree of certainty, miss.’ Dr Joliffe eyed her curiously. ‘Are you related to Miss Greenwood by any chance?’
Irene had almost forgotten her boyish garb, and if the situation had not been so serious she might have smiled. As it was she merely shook her head. ‘No, doctor. I am Arthur’s friend from London. Is there anything you can do to make him better?
He shook his head. ‘Not very much, I fear. He must be kept quiet and given sips of water if he will not take anything else. I’ll bleed him, and then we will have to wait until the fever breaks. It could go either way, so you must be prepared. Now I suggest that you ladies leave the room while I apply the leeches. I don’t want either of you swooning over my patient.’
Chapter Ten
AFTER THE DOCTOR had left, Irene and Martha returned to the kitchen where they found Maude pacing the floor with a clay pipe clenched between her teeth and the dogs at her heels. ‘Well?’ she demanded, coming to an abrupt halt and taking the pipe from her mouth. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Arthur is very poorly,’ Irene said gently. ‘The doctor bled him.’
‘And he left by the front door,’ Martha added. ‘You frightened the poor man to death with your antics.’
‘Joliffe is a silly old fool, but I suppose he knows what he’s doing.’ Maude stamped her foot and the dogs backed away, showing the whites of their eyes. ‘Hell and damnation! I blame my brother for Arthur’s condition. If he hadn’t been so hard on the boy, forcing him into a trade that he had not the heart for, none of this would have happened.’ She glared at Irene. ‘You will stay and nurse him back to health, of course.’
It was a statement rather than a question and it took Irene off guard. She had not thought past the simple act of warning Arthur that Kent’s men were looking for him, and even in that she had been too late. ‘I – I suppose I could stay for a day or two, if you don’t mind.’
‘Whether I mind or not doesn’t matter. I’m no good in the sickroom and Martha has too much on her hands already. Arthur needs proper care.’
Martha had followed Irene into the kitchen, and was silent for once as she took the hot loaves from the oven. Maude rounded on her. ‘Have you nothing to say on the matter? It’s not often that you are lost for words, Martha Marchant.’
‘So you do remember my name then?’ Martha said, curling her lip. She cocked her head on one side, addressing herself to Irene. ‘It’s usually “you old crow” or “hey, you”.’
Irene glanced nervously at Miss Greenwood, half expecting a row to ensue, but to her relief Miss Maude seemed to find Martha’s words amusing and she chuckled. ‘Shut up, you old crow. You know I rely on you entirely.’
‘It’s not always this pleasant in the Round House,’ Martha said, winking at Irene, ‘but if you’re willing to stay, you can make up the bed in the dressing room next to young Arthur.’
‘No!’ Maude said firmly. ‘It’s too small and cramped. Where are your manners, Martha? The young lady will have the rose room while she’s a guest in my house.’
Martha opened her mouth and then closed it again, and her eyes rounded in apparent astonishment. ‘The rose room – are you sure?’
‘For the Lord’s sake, woman, haven’t I just said so?’
Shrugging her shoulders, Martha turned to Irene. ‘So you will remain here until the boy is out of danger?’
Irene hesitated. She had not expected to be away for long, nor had she thought to leave a note telling Pa where she had gone. If he returned and found her missing he would in all likelihood go to Love Lane expecting to find her there. Her prolonged and unexplained absence might start a panic, but Artie’s life hung in the balance – she could not think of deserting him now. ‘I’ll stay until Artie is over the worst, but I must get back to London soon.’
‘That’s settled then,’ Maude said. ‘Now I’ve got work to do. I’ll leave you two to sort things out.’ She plucked her coat and hat from the rack and was gone, leaving a trail of pipe smoke in her wake.
‘I’ll show you to your room then,’ Martha said, assuming a brisk and businesslike manner. ‘But I don’t go upstairs any more than I have to, not with my bunions, so don’t go ringing the bell every time you want something.’
* * *
The room that Irene had been given was bright and airy. The wallpaper blossomed with pink cabbage roses entwined with a tracery of green foliage, and the curtains were made from matching material. The delightful summer garden effect was continued in the pink and green Chinese carpet with a soft pile that made Irene feel as though she were walking on air. Despite her grumbles, Martha had hefted a scuttle filled with coal up the stairs, and a fire burned brightly in the grate, its dancing flames reflecting off the highly polished brass bedstead. The rosewood dressing table and clothes press gleamed with lavender-scented beeswax polish and oil lamps with cranberry-glass shades adorned the bedside tables. Irene could imagine their rosy glow illuminating the room after dark.
This was a room fit for a princess and as she caught sight of her reflection in the cheval mirror she felt grubby and out of place in such feminine surroundings. Stripping off her boyish garments Irene went over to the washstand and filled the china washbowl with warm water from the jug she had brought from the kitchen. Blowsy pink roses stared up at her from the bottom of the bowl and a cake of soap had been provided for her use. The sweet scent of it filled her nostrils, making her feel quite dizzy, and as she washed away the grime from two days on the road she began to feel more human.
She dressed in her own clothes and folded Jim’s coarse breeches and shirt in a bundle, ready to be washed. Brushing her hair with a silver-backed brush Irene stared into the large mirror on the dressing table, revelling in the luxury of being able to see the whole of her face at one glance. The shard of looking glass on the mantelshelf at home only revealed a fraction of her features at a time, and it was fortunate that vanity was not one of her besetting sins. She had always considere
d herself to be the plain one in the family. Why couldn’t she have been a beauty like Emmie, with silky blonde curls and a rosebud mouth?
A groan from the room next door brought her plummeting back to earth. What did her personal appearance matter when her best friend might be on his deathbed? She hurried into Arthur’s room and was dismayed to find him considerably worse. His skin was the colour of parchment and he was raving wildly in his delirium. She bathed his forehead and bare torso with a damp flannel. She held his hand and talked to him in a low voice. When she found that he seemed to respond, she kept up a running commentary, saying anything that came into her head until she was hoarse and in danger of losing her voice. She left him only to go downstairs and replenish the jug with water, but Martha insisted that she sat down at the table and ate a bowl of stew. ‘How is the boy?’ she asked as she buttered a slice of bread and handed it to Irene.
Irene swallowed a mouthful of the delicious mutton broth. ‘He’s very poorly. He’s out of his head with fever. I don’t think that the bleeding did him much good.’
‘I never trust pill-peddlers,’ Martha said grimly. ‘There’s a wise woman who lives a mile or two outside the village. She’s the one I go to when my aches and pains gets too much to bear. She makes medicine with herbs and roots and she don’t charge as much as old Dr Joliffe.’
Irene was not convinced but she did not want to offend Martha. ‘If he’s no better by morning we might give her a try.’
‘If we leave it until then it might be too late. I’ll go and see her as soon as the mistress has had her dinner.’
‘I – I haven’t much money,’ Irene said hesitantly.
‘Old Biddy Thorne would sell her soul for an ounce of baccy or a poke of snuff. Don’t you worry about paying, miss. Herself has ample funds but she’s usually too mean to spend it. However, this is an emergency so I’ll just take some of the housekeeping money and we’ll argue about it later.’
Later that afternoon Irene was almost at her wit’s end as Arthur grew steadily worse. His eyes were wide open as he thrashed about on the bed, but the terrifying sights which made him scream with fear were visible to his eyes alone. It was all that Irene could do to prevent him from throwing himself out of bed, and she could have cried with relief when at last Martha appeared carrying a brown glass bottle which contained a decoction of herbs from Biddy Thorne. Martha pulled the cork from the bottle with her teeth and she poured a measure into a teaspoon, handing it to Irene.
‘Biddy said give him one teaspoonful every hour until the fever breaks.’
Irene eyed the thick brownish-black liquid with suspicion and she sniffed it cautiously. It smelt bitter and yet there was also a hint of liquorice and black treacle in the mixture, together with just a suspicion of brimstone.
‘I’ll hold his head,’ Martha said, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. He bucked and wriggled, but Martha had weight behind her and he had little strength left. ‘Quick,’ she urged. ‘I can’t hold him for long.’
Somehow Irene managed to get the spoon between his lips and most of the fearsome brew went into his mouth. He swallowed automatically and she mopped the trickle of liquid from his chin. ‘There, Artie. That will make you better in no time at all.’ She glanced up at Martha’s set face and a shiver ran down her spine.
‘I seen many go like this,’ Martha said gloomily as she laid him down on the pillows. ‘Once the lung fever gets them there’s not much hope.’
‘He’s not going to die. I won’t let him.’ Irene took Arthur’s limp hand in hers and she chafed it gently. ‘See, Martha. The medicine is beginning to work. He’s quieter already.’
‘Or on his way out.’ Martha waddled to the door. ‘Just keep giving him Biddy’s medicine and pray. There’s nothing else we can do for him.’
Irene did pray. She had never set much store by religion, but now she prayed to whatever god there might be up in heaven to save Arthur’s life. He was not a bad fellow, just a bit weak and easily led. If his father had not been such a bully, and his mother a cold and ambitious woman, maybe he would have turned out differently. She blinked the tears from her eyes and swallowed hard. Giving way to despair would not help Artie get well. She settled herself on the chair and watched him as the drug lulled him into an uneasy sleep.
She must have dozed off herself as she awakened with a start and found the room in almost total darkness. Spikes of moonlight slanted through the windowpanes, giving just enough light for her to find the box of vestas on the bedside table. She lit the oil lamp and peered anxiously at Arthur. Was it her imagination, or did he really look a little better? She laid a tentative hand on his forehead and he did not seem to be quite as hot as he had been previously. She forced another spoonful of medicine between his lips and bathed his face. He did not respond, but at least his delirious ravings had ceased. Whatever Biddy Thorne had put in her decoction, it seemed to be having some effect.
Irene left his bedside to go to the kitchen for a bite of supper and a cup of tea, after which she returned to the sickroom. She spent the night taking catnaps in the armchair by the fire, waking at the slightest sound from the bed and rising hastily to check on Arthur’s progress. She tried to keep awake, but this proved more difficult than she had anticipated, and when she opened her eyes after what she had thought was a short nap she was shocked to see the first cold grey light of dawn filtering through the half-closed curtains. She rose stiffly and went over to the window to draw them and allow daylight into the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she realised that there was no movement from the bed and her heart missed a beat. Holding her breath, she crept over to the bedside, fearful of what she might find. All manner of imaginings ran through her mind. Supposing Arthur had cried out to her in the night and she had not heard? What if he had breathed his last and she had been sound asleep?
He was lying on his back with his face turned away from her, and he was very still. For a moment she was convinced that he was dead, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a moan of despair. Then, as if by a miracle, Arthur moved. He turned his head slowly towards her. His eyelids fluttered and opened.
‘Artie. Oh, thank God. I thought you was a goner.’ She laid her hand on his brow and tears flooded down her cheeks as she realised that the crisis was past. His skin was cool and his breathing regular.
‘Is that really you, Irene?’
‘It is me. Yes, it is.’ Her voice hitched on a sob and she grabbed his hand, holding it to her cheek. ‘You gave us such a fright, you silly boy.’
‘Why are you crying then?’ Arthur stared at her, frowning. ‘Where am I? This isn’t the pickle shop and it isn’t my room at home.’
‘Don’t talk, Artie. Save your strength.’ Assuming an air of authority and busying herself by straightening his tumbled bedclothes, Irene hid her relief beneath an air of authority. ‘You must rest. You’ve been very poorly but thank God you’re on the mend now.’ She plumped his pillows energetically. ‘I’m going to give you another dose of medicine and then I’ll go downstairs and make you a nice hot cup of tea.’
When Dr Joliffe came to see his patient, he was cautiously optimistic about Arthur’s chances of making a full recovery, but he shook his head and tut-tutted when he saw the bottle of elixir that Biddy Thorne had prescribed. ‘Foolish and dangerous nonsense,’ he said angrily. ‘Who knows what she puts in her nostrums? She might have poisoned the boy.’
Irene listened politely, but she was certain that if anything had helped to pull Arthur round it was Biddy’s potion. Still mumbling into his starched shirt points, Dr Joliffe said that he would call again in a day or two and in the meantime his patient must stay in bed and rest.
Having left Arthur propped up on his pillows gazing drowsily out of the window Irene went downstairs to the kitchen. She found Miss Maude standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. ‘Pompous little pill-pusher. I can’t abide doctors. Never could.’ She turned to Irene and her eyes were still blazing. ‘I won’t be lectured by any
man, let alone someone as self-opinionated as that old fool. He virtually accused me of using witchcraft to cure my nephew – the damn cheek of him.’
Martha stopped rolling out pastry for a piecrust. ‘He was just put out because old Biddy is a better physician. The boy might have died if it wasn’t for her medicine.’
‘I’m glad Arthur is better, of course, but I can’t stand around all day gossiping,’ Maude said dismissively. She turned to Irene, giving her a hard stare. ‘You will stay until he is completely recovered, won’t you?’
‘I must go home soon, Miss Maude. My family don’t know where I am and they will be worried about me.’
‘Send them a letter then. Martha will post it for you in the village.’ Maude picked up her battered felt hat and rammed it on her head. ‘I’ll be at the smithy all afternoon. Parson needs shoeing and there’s a ploughshare needs straightening out. Damn fool of a boy went over a rock the size of Canvey Island. I don’t know if he’s half blind or stupid, but you just can’t rely on anyone these days.’ She made for the back door and the dogs yapped a greeting as she stepped out into the cold November afternoon.
Puzzled by Miss Maude’s last remark, Irene turned to Martha. ‘The parson needs shoeing?
What does that mean?’
‘Well, it ain’t the vicar,’ Martha replied, chuckling. ‘Parson is her horse, named after the last incumbent at the vicarage who got on her wrong side. Miss Maude don’t like clergymen nor doctors.’
‘She doesn’t seem to think much of men in general.’
‘Nor most women neither.’ Martha laid the pastry over a dish of meat and potato and she trimmed off the excess with deft strokes of a knife. ‘You’re lucky she took a fancy to you straight away. That don’t happen too often, I can tell you.’