“I am sorry, Lord Eysley.” Kitty’s apology trailed off.
The devil! Warrick’s low chuckle rolled out. He looked again at the distant Miss Woodville, and back at his approaching stepsister. The Lord deliver him from women!
12
“So, I do not think application to Mr. Lysons at the Tower would lead to any future work for you, Miss Tilla.” Dr. Jenner’s advice, reinforcing Lady Guthrie’s earlier opinion, closed that avenue of discussion.
Dr. Jenner and the daughter of his Berkeley friend and neighbour sat in the Guthrie library during the late afternoon, having rendered the Ceylon report in perfect condition for the printer. “When I return home,” Dr. Jenner’s words reflected his longing, “I shall ask the Earl of Berkeley if there is a library to organise in one of the churches in his domain. There would be little recompense for you, but it would be a start.”
“It does sound dreary, Dr. Jenner, buried alive in some remote church, working for ... a pound a year.”
“Think of it as a first step towards the financial independence you profess to want, and it sounds much better.”
“I think sailing to America sounds much better as a first step to independence,” Quintilla quipped. “Have you ever wanted to see its vast lands, stretching out to infinity?”
“No. I have been content with the lure of nature’s infinite mysteries in this land.”
“I wish you could have gone with us this morning to Kew. Nature riots there.”
“It would have been a pleasant outing, but I want to be constantly available to the Grosvenor physicians. I know the illness is in the crisis stage. Surely they will call on me for advice now ... unless it is too late.” He sighed. “Read again from your mother’s letter, with her news of Berkeley.”
Quintilla obliged the disheartened country doctor. She had just reread her mother’s account of her father’s most recent laboratory investigation when the Guthrie butler appeared in the open door, his long face a portent of serious news.
“The Grosvenor carriage is at our front door waiting for your reply, Dr. Jenner,” he said, carrying the silver tray with its white envelope to where the physician sat.
“At last.” Eagerly tearing open the missive, Dr. Jenner hastily scanned its contents. He stood, his face matching the butler’s in sobriety. “Tell the carriage to wait. I will come immediately.”
Dr. Jenner turned to Quintilla, who also stood, the better to face the tension that now charged the room. “Sir Henry Halford and Sir Walter Farquhar have sent for me.” He paused. “Oh, Miss Tilla. So many of my hopes rest with young Master Grosvenor.”
“I know, Dr. Jenner.” Going to his side, Quintilla laid her hand on his arm. “Let me go along with you.”
In the open carriage with the Grosvenor crest, Dr. Jenner spoke of the final days of his own son, Edward. The doctor attributed his wife’s worsening health to the sad events of the previous year.
Smoothly, swiftly, they rode past St. George’s Hospital, and turned north on Park Lane bordering Hyde Park. Its fashionable hour approached, and the Grosvenor carriage on its grave errand encountered increasing numbers of the ton in pursuit of the usual carefree diversions.
Passing Mount Street, the carriage turned right into Upper Grosvenor Street and swept through gates displaying the family’s crest. Loitering near the gates were people far less fashionably dressed than the gentry they had just seen.
The solid mahogany door of the great house was immediately opened by a footman in Grosvenor livery. He hastened to assist them from the landau.
Once inside, Quintilla squeezed Dr. Jenner’s hand before he was escorted into the depths of the mansion. Quintilla, refusing the offer of refreshments while she waited, was ushered into a small drawing room opulent to a degree she had never before witnessed.
Above a table of lapis lazuli mounted on ormolu, and dominating the wall, hung a large portrait by Gainsborough of a dark-haired lad dressed in lustrous blue satin. Quintilla stood staring at the handsome blue-clad boy, probably close in age to the Grosvenor child now struggling for life. If he failed in that struggle, the chance to eradicate smallpox safely might die with him.
Restlessly pacing about the room, Quintilla shivered. She had not changed her dress from the trip to Kew, and its delicate sheerness offered little comfort against the chill in the dim room. Did the family already prepare for mourning?
Oh, how slowly time inched its way forward! She wondered what interesting water-colours were appealing at this moment to Aunt Guthrie and Kitty, and to the rabbity Mr. Delaney.
Quintilla made herself sit in a small armchair upholstered in blue damask of a colour with the blue boy’s suit. Now, how might she support herself as she fashioned an interesting life? If she could be anything she wanted to be, what would she choose? She did not have the talent to be an opera singer on the stage, but what fun to sing and be paid for it! Colourful surroundings could be hers if she managed a vegetable stall, filled with beets of dull magenta, flame-coloured carrots, robust cabbages of delicate green. No. That was not for her. Perhaps she might submit for publication some of her scribblings written down over the years.
More than once it had crossed her mind to start a school, teaching children to explore the wonders of books and nature. A worthy calling. There must be a great need for schools in the New World. An informed citizenry was necessary if everyone was to behave equally well to one another ... Could she teach Warrick’s children, watching them grow and develop into admirable people like their father? No. Too painful. Like living over a candy shoppe without ever tasting the sweets.
Quintilla’s thoughts left the contemplation of life plans for a review of her brief relationship with Warrick Dhever, the Baron Eysley. A few hours ago, she had wanted to dash away at the sight of him coming through the rhododendron in Kew Gardens. Unthinkable, to further endure his distaste of her, devastatingly evident the afternoon before. She still did not understand it all, but surmized her taking up the dishonest “American’s” cause had precipitated Warrick’s anger.
She went over in her mind every word of their conversation at Kew, his words—their meaning disguised to surmount the presence of others, the quelling interference of Lady Storr, the idiocy of Miss Woodville. And Warrick’s courtesy. How quickly she ... and he ... had slipped back into their easy friendship.
She must not think of that. They might never meet again. Better that way. Quintilla did not want to bear another blow like the one Warrick had delivered yesterday. She must start to forget him now, before it became impossible to drive him out of her heart. There were pleasures of the mind to fill her life. She would count coins instead of romantic dreams.
Quintilla covered a yawn with her hand. It had been difficult to sleep last night. All the beautiful roses at Kew. And Warrick—so kind. She closed her eyes, the better to see him, walking towards her in the bright sunlight.
Quintilla sat up with a start at the sound of the opening door. Dr. Jenner entered, then leaned back against the massive door as he closed it.
She rushed to his side. “Dr. Jenner?”
“The crisis is over, and he shall live.”
“Oh, Dr. Jenner.” Quintilla sighed.
“Actually, he had begun to improve before I came. They wanted my confirmation that the crisis was past, and all would be well.” He spoke softly, drained by the stress under which he had been labouring since receiving news of the young man’s worsening condition.
“But his brothers and sister, vaccinated, did not catch the disease from him.” The scientist’s elation overcame the humanitarian’s fatigue.
He stood away from the door, and drew a deep breath. “Now, I must work on the absolute purity of the vaccine to assure perfect protection and prevent such alarms as this in the future.”
“Are you certain impure matter caused the problem? Perhaps vaccination wears out, the way clothes do, and needs to be replaced with a new vaccination.”
Dr. Jenner had to smile at her amateur’s ap
proach to medical problems. She had always been such a cheerful thing, nice to have around. He scrutinised the room’s elaborate decor.
“Come sit down, Dr. Jenner. Let me ring for some tea. I know it will bolster your spirits. Sometimes the relief can be more debilitating than the crisis.”
“No, Miss Tilla. I have asked for the carriage to be made immediately available. I want to return to Sloane Crescent.” He paused, and sweetly smiled at her. “With the Ceylon report now ready for the publisher, there is nothing further to keep me here in London. I can return to my two Catherines.” His voice shook.
“A happy contemplation, Dr. Jenner.”
“I believe, in spite of this day’s successful outcome, my vaccination bill will suffer rejection this year.”
“I fear you are right,” Quintilla said. “But we will prevail in the end, Dr. Jenner.” She supported his arm as they left the room, and the hall, to enter the landau awaiting them at the front door. The carriage began a journey east on Upper Grosvenor Street in order to avoid the fashionables thronging Park Lane.
Most of those crowding Upper Grosvenor Street were ordinary-looking people; some, almost disreputable. With the appearance of the Grosvenor landau, the crowd seemed to swell and gather force like some ocean wave. Whether or not they recognised Jenner as one of its occupants did not matter. Signs denouncing vaccination appeared, bobbing up and down among the flood of individuals that quickly surrounded the carriage. The sign-holders and their cohorts took to chanting the phrases scrawled on their placards. “Vaccination kills children! Vaccination is for cows!”
More people poured into the street, many only onlookers. The crowds and the shouts grew in volume. “Vaccination is for cows! Vaccination kills children!”
Midway through the intersection with Park Street, the carriage stopped, unable to proceed farther. Its occupants were left exposed to the jostling dissidents who peered at them closely. The carriage rocked as first one, then another, gazed from all sides. The Grosvenor carriage attendants could only watch helplessly as the traffic grew.
“Grosvenor’s death is Jenner’s fault. Grosvenor’s death is Jenner’s fault.” There was a contagious cadence to the message, leading everyone to join the vehemence.
Dr. Jenner, beloved by all of Gloucestershire, was stunned by chants calling him a killer of children and by signs attacking vaccination. How could this happen in the midst of a civilised city?
Quintilla was the first to react. “Listen! Listen! The Grosvenor lad is not dead! He improves. He will live! He will live!” She stood in the rocking vehicle, trying to keep her balance in the centre of the stormy sea of people. She fell back down beside Dr. Jenner, but stood up immediately. “Please listen!” she shouted.
On the edge of the crowd, well-dressed bucks and dandies stood watching, finding it an interesting change from the customary Hyde Park scene at five. Smartly garbed ladies stared and commented among themselves at the odd spectacle, rather like a combination of the storming of the Bastille and a festive May Day celebration. There were probably more onlookers than anti vaccination advocates, but chaos resulted, and Quintilla’s attempt to reason with the unreasonable could well be the spark to turn May Day jubilation into a Flodden Field tragedy.
A block away, in Grosvenor Square, Warrick heard the commotion, the now-familiar howl of a mob on the verge of rioting. He had just deposited Edwina and her Woodville cousin at Eysley House after an interminable stay at Kew, where not one “pretty flower” had been overlooked. A mediocre repast at an inn by the river intensified the tedium of a day spent dancing attendance on two bothersome females. He needed physical exertion to recover, and was going to dismiss his carriage until the sound of strife caused him to reconsider.
As his open carriage approached the south side of the square where it merged with Upper Grosvenor Street, Warrick looked to see whose vaccination views were under attack. Had the Grosvenor heir died, then, provoking the disturbance? Warrick’s groom, now functioning as coachman, strained to keep the horses under control as he drove the carriage closer to the turmoil in the street.
This was a real mob, thought Warrick, larger by far than the handful of prancing masqueraders whom he and Boringdon had escaped yesterday. No colourful masks appeared here, just mean signs bobbing in time to an escalating frenzy.
Over the noise, the breeze carried the sound of pleading: “Listen, please.” Warrick saw who attempted to dissuade the rabble. A familiar figure in a sky blue dress and white hat stood in an open carriage. Beside her, ineffectually tugging at her arm, sat Dr. Jenner. Equally ineffectual were efforts to move the carriage in any direction.
“Grosvenor’s death is Jenner’s fault. Grosvenor’s death is Jenner’s fault.”
The chants grew louder. Nothing would encourage the mob more than explanations based on truth and logic—useless now.
The little fool. Apprehension fueled Warrick’s concern, spurring him to action. He must silence Quintilla before her exhortations had the opposite effect of what she sought. While he removed his hat and coat, his cravat, loosened his collar, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and ran his hands through his hair, he instructed his groom.
Satisfied that he looked plebeian, Warrick jumped from his carriage. He had spotted a likely target on the edge of the crowd. The man’s placard identified Dr. Jenner as a killer of children. Charging into the rowdy’s back, Warrick knocked him to the ground.
“Oh, you poor fellow,” said Warrick, helping him to his feet and brushing away any possible damage to his jacket. “These mobs can be dangerous, and you look a bit fagged. You don’t have smallpox, do you? That’s the way it hits you, like a clap of thunder.”
With such a sympathetic diagnosis, the fellow was sure of the possibility, and staggered off, leaving Warrick in possession of the venomous sign. Now Warrick, waving his sign, breached the crowd. He grinned. He slapped people on the back. He chanted. Everything he did helped to maintain the holiday mood.
Quintilla, meanwhile, did not cease in her efforts to instruct. “He will not die. He is improved. Vaccination protected him.” A clump of dirt hit the side of the carriage. Another hit the crown of her white satin hat, the momentum knocking her down to the seat beside Dr. Jenner. She stood up. “He did not die! Let us pass.” Warrick quickly reached a position next to Dr. Jenner in the carriage. The physician’s concerned expression relaxed slightly at sight of a familiar visage. Warrick pulled Dr. Jenner’s arm down the side of the carriage and placed in his hand the awful sign. “Slip from the carriage, wave this sign, and follow me when I seize Quintilla,” Warrick ordered. Dr. Jenner nodded his understanding.
“Oho!” On the other side of the carriage, Warrick hooted to win Quintilla’s attention.
“So, Mistress Mine,” he shouted at her. “This is how you spend your time when you should be home cooking my dinner. Well, I guess I know what to do with a scolding woman!”
Quintilla’s eyes widened as Warrick, in his shirtsleeves, hair tousled, grabbed her and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of wool. Loudly, in ribald language, he explained to those around him what he would do with her when he got her home. Warrick’s Punch-and-Judy show instantly became the center of attention.
“I warned her, but she would go off.” Warrick gained confidence in his histrionics. “I don’t care about vaccination, but I aim to have my woman at home where she belongs.” The crowd around him cheered his bold reminder of a husband’s rights and a woman’s place.
Quintilla could only suffer the indignity of her awkward position. She did not bother to protest or look up, but kept her eyes down to escape the derision and the general merriment at her expense. Her arms covered her head and crushed her white satin hat. She knew exactly what Warrick was trying to do, but could think of no way to help except to remain as inconspicuous as possible, a subdued Judy to his Punch. Life had become a series of welcomed reunions with this intrepid gentleman. In her terror-filled heart, there was a small corner that savoured the contact with his stro
ng body.
The moment Warrick grabbed Quintilla, the crack of a whip and the clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves from north of the intersection shattered the raucous jeering. Warrick improvised further. He would use every red herring he could get. Yelling and pointing up Park Street in the direction of the distinct sound, Warrick shouted, “Jenner is hiding in that carriage! After him!”
Under this additional diversion and the consequent northerly movement by much of the throng, Warrick, with Quintilla draped over his shoulder, made his way south on Park Street. He could only hope Dr. Jenner followed. Warrick turned around once, briefly, but did not see the Gloucesterman’s broad countenance. People ran past them, lured north by the exciting sounds of angry voices.
Warrick turned right into Reves’s Mews and lowered Quintilla to the ground. “Wait right here,” he charged her, and started to leave. Quintilla, who had no intention of moving, closed her eyes and leaned against a grimy brick wall. She clasped her arms over her breasts and felt the torn openwork that earlier today had handsomely decorated the sleeves of her gown. Her throat hurt.
At that moment, Dr. Jenner turned the corner into the Mews, almost colliding with Warrick. The physician, his hat gone, his cravat awry, tightly clutched the sign which insulted him.
“Dr. Jenner. Well met.” Warrick greeted the somewhat-dazed gentleman. Taking the physician’s cruel sign, Warrick broke the handle across his knee and deposited the whole in a nearby barrel. “Are you all right?”
Briefly nodding once or twice, Dr. Jenner gasped, “I soon will be.”
“Good. My carriage waits for us in Berkeley Square, a short walk from here.” Warrick led his bedraggled troop east, down the Mews. “Nothing like a stroll to whet one’s appetite,” he drawled encouragingly.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 14