‘We may have to repeat the exercise when she goes into second stage. According to Doctor Tracy it does no harm to administer up to an ounce of chloroform. Beyond that, no one knows.’
Twice more they repeated the dose, despite the doctor’s obvious trepidation, and each time the incipient convulsions ceased. Labour proceeded normally until, five hours later, a lusty boy was born, his colour and his lungs testifying to his health. The placenta delivered easily and Elly cleaned the now conscious mother and placed the swaddled baby in her arms. The woman’s face as she received him was all the reward Elly needed for her arduous afternoon.
‘I knew we’d be safe if you were here,’ whispered Mrs Burton, her mouth against the newborn’s crumpled cheek.
Elly shook her head. ‘You have a fine doctor to thank, not me. Your safety and your healthy child are due to his interest in modern medical discoveries and his willingness to try them.’
Colour rose in Doctor Cooper’s thin cheeks. ‘I had excellent support. Matron, you may invite Mr Burton in to see his family.’ He began to roll down his sleeves.
But seconds later Burton burst in unceremoniously. ‘Doctor, you’re wanted urgently. A gentleman has been set upon by thieves in an alley behind the gaol. They say he looks set to die.’
Elly grabbed the doctor’s medical bag and accompanied him to the door.
‘Where is he?’ asked Cooper, taking the stairs at a run.
‘In our parlour. Two of my men found him and chased off the attackers. This way.’ Burton led them into a room at the left of the stairs, its heavily patterned walls and window draperies creating an under-sea gloom. Beyond the barricade of tables, chairs and screens stood a chaise longue with a still figure stretched upon it.
‘Light the gas,’ ordered the doctor, threading his way across the room with Elly close behind.
He bent down as light flared suddenly, and over his shoulder Elly had a clear view of the unconscious victim’s face. It was masked in blood, but the features were well known to her. It was Paul Gascoigne.
~*~
Elly held the sobbing girl in her arms, wondering what more she could say to comfort her. It had all been said. Nevertheless, she went on smoothing the dark head, repeating her litany as if it were some magic incantation.
‘Lucy, he’s not going to die. We won’t let him. You will not lose the last person in the world you love.’
Lucy raised her head from Elly’s shoulder and wailed, ‘How can anyone help him? He’s been brutalised. Did you see…? Did you see…?’ Her face collapsed and she buried it again, her body shaking with sobs.
Controlling her own tears, Elly said softly into the girl’s hair, ‘Yes, I saw. But it’s mainly bruising, my dear, and not nearly as horrible as it appears. The head injury was more severe, yet he has recovered his senses. Only his leg gives us cause for concern, and the bone will eventually mend.’
Lucy wrenched herself free of Elly’s hold and faced her, fists clenched, her voice rising. ‘I don’t believe you. I heard the doctors say it was serious. I know I’m going to lose Paul, like all the other people I ever loved, and I’ll be alone again. It’s not fair! It’s not fair!’
‘Lucy –’
‘Leave me alone.’
Elly caught Lucy’s arm as she whirled to leave the room. ‘I know it isn’t fair for your life to be so disrupted again, but I’d expect you to display more maturity in such a crisis. Paul needs you. Now is the time to repay his goodness. He asks for you constantly, yet you refuse to go to him because your feelings are lacerated by his appearance and you fear he might die. How can you be so selfish?’
‘I can’t help it. I can’t bear to see him so… so mauled.’ The girl’s face paled at the memory, and Elly forced her down on the landlady’s best parlour chair, holding her head on her knees.
‘You’re not to faint. I haven’t the time to care for swooning maidens.’
When Lucy had recovered she was allowed up, only to receive a lecture delivered gently, but firmly.
‘I shall not ask you about your feelings for Paul. I do know he loves you. Whether it is fondness for a young relative in his care, or something stronger, he has done all in his power to make you happy since you came to Sydney Town. He’s taken you riding, dancing, shopping for clothes. He is not a wealthy man, yet he’s done his best. He has been kind, Lucy, and you’re repaying him with cruelty.’ She gave her a handkerchief, waiting while she mopped her cheeks.
‘Elly, don’t berate me. I don’t mean to be cruel.’ Lucy hiccupped, swallowing her sobs. ‘I love Paul truly, but blood and injuries make me feel sick. That day of the coach accident I admired you so much for helping the injured people, but I couldn’t have done it. I shut my eyes when I held the candles for you, then afterwards I went behind the trees and was sick.’ She hesitated, eyeing Elly diffidently, then went on. ‘It sounds wicked, I know, but if I’m to lose Paul, I don’t want to see him any more. I don’t want to… to invest any more of myself in someone who will leave me. It hurts too much.’
Elly had a short struggle with herself, and the better half won. ‘I understand what you mean, although I can’t accept it. My sympathies are always with the distressed, and Paul is suffering terribly, both in mind and body, while you try to protect yourself from future pain.’ She sighed as she got up. ‘I don’t suppose there is much I can say to change your mind.’
Lucy shook her head miserably. ‘Please don’t hate me, Elly.’
‘I don’t hate you. It’s just… Will you write to him?’
‘I… Perhaps. Do you truly believe he’ll live, Elly?’
‘If I have anything to say about it, he will.’ Elly left the room before she said anything she might regret. She knew Lucy would be well cared for, with the Widow Brockenhurst fluttering around her like a mother hen, and Jo-Beth promising to take the girl on an outing to the Botanical Gardens that afternoon. Elly would be on duty until late, but she intended to call on Paul at his home before she retired.
Doctor Hart, the district surgeon, remained cautiously optimistic about Paul’s recovery, two weeks having passed without him succumbing to pneumonia, while most of his injuries had healed. On the evening when he was carried into the gaol governor’s residence Elly had believed, like Lucy, that he would die. His pulse had been almost indistinguishable, his clothes soaked in blood from his injuries. Elly had felt like dying herself as she worked alongside Doctor Cooper on Paul’s poor battered body. The head wounds had worried her most, but Paul had recovered his senses over a period of days.
It was assumed that his attackers were thieves who had been interrupted before finishing their work. However, Elly had a disturbed feeling that Cornwallis had arranged it. Having witnessed for herself the kind of sadistic enjoyment his nature craved, she knew it would be only a matter of time before he struck again.
She cursed herself for not handling the confrontation in Hyde Park more tactfully. All she had done was add to Cornwallis’s desire for revenge, and Paul had suffered for it. He would go on suffering, too. She knew that. She was not as happy about his condition as she’d told Lucy. His gashed leg would not heal. Proud flesh had been cut away more than once and all possible remedies tried, but still the wound festered over the crack in his shinbone. Along with Doctor Hart, Elly feared gangrene.
That night the hired cab dropped her outside the narrow brick cottage that Paul rented. Overlooking the water in Balmain, it was one of several new developments on half-acre lots, close to the city yet retaining a feel of the countryside. It had proved popular with merchants anxious to spend their wealth on houses worthy of their new estate, and with investors who saw the possibilities of increasing property values as Sydney spread into the suburbs.
When Elly arrived she found the door had been left on the latch, and she let herself in quietly. As on the few previous occasions when she had visited Paul’s sanctum, she was impressed. He’d taken an ordinary room and turned it into a tranquil haven, offering a wing chair by a fire, a convenie
nt footstool nearby, glass-fronted bookshelves within easy reach, and a rack of pipes. A massive desk stood under the sitting room window. It was covered in papers, a cedar and brass inkstand, several pens and books of cuttings from journals lying loose, waiting to be glued in.
The rug had faded to muted reds and turquoise, the walls to a dull dusky rose. Over the timber mantel hung a portrait of Pepper; and below it squatted a pretty green and gold lacquer clock. The only other object which could be classed as ornamental was an oil lamp on the desk – a large affair of brass and crystal with an elaborate painted bowl. This pooled light on the leather couch where Paul lay, his injured leg propped on a cushion.
He sat up when he saw Elly, his smile weary but welcoming.
Her heart lurched at the sight of his worn, vulnerable face. Furrows between his brows and newly hollowed cheeks were indication of how much he had endured. But he had brushed his hair carefully and arrayed himself in a Chinese silk dressing gown which had seen better days.
‘Paul, you are positively magnificent – a pasha upon his throne,’ Elly teased, laying her pelisse over the wing chair.
His smiling response did not quite mask his wince as he sat up to greet her. ‘My best deshabille donned in your honour, Elly. I knew you would call in, however late the hour. Does Hart know you’re here?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s better not to tell him. He’s so jealous of his status, unlike Doctor Cooper. How are you feeling, Paul?’
‘Oh, tolerable. Better, in fact.’
‘I see. Perhaps I’d better inspect your leg.’
‘There’s no need, my dear. Hart dressed it this morning, and he’ll call in again tomorrow.’
A new note in his voice set off an alarm in Elly’s head. ‘What did he say?’ She settled herself on a stool beside the couch.
‘Why, the usual. It’s slow to heal, but there’s no cause for worry.’
Elly leaned forward. ‘Oh, Paul, why won’t you tell me the truth? Or, better still, let me see for myself.’ Before he could protest she had twitched the rug onto the floor and pulled his nightshirt back to the knee. A bandage bound his leg from ankle to above the knee-joint, stained with the yellow salve smelling of comfrey which was favoured by Doctor Hart.’
‘No, Elly!’ Paul grasped her hands hard enough to hurt.
She held his gaze steadily. ‘Let me go. I will examine your wound. It’s my duty and my right.’
For a long moment their wills locked. In the silence Elly heard the mantel clock ticking, the fall of a piece of wood in the grate. Paul’s eyes were hard as agate. Then he let go her hands.
‘Very well. Have it your way.’ He lay back to demonstrate his lack of interest as Elly unwound the bandage and removed the pad over the wound.
When a good two minutes had gone by without her commenting he said, ‘Well?’
Elly kept her voice steady only with an immense effort. ‘Paul, what did Doctor Hart really tell you?’
‘He said the wound was turning septic and advised me to have my leg off.’ He gripped her hands again, this time in support. ‘Don’t look like that, Elly. It’s better than dying. And with the new anaesthetics I won’t suffer much.’
She laid her head down on the couch, battling her emotions. Finally she started to rebind the festering sore that smelled and looked what it was – the harbinger of death.
‘Paul, do you trust me?’
‘With my life.’
‘That’s what you would be doing, if you found that you could bear my treatment. It could save your leg. But if it doesn’t, the poison might have spread too far to save your life by amputating.’
He raised her head away from her task, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘What is this treatment? Why haven’t I heard of it before?’
‘It’s seldom used these days. It’s also revolting, and I only suggest it out of desperation.’
‘Go on.’
Elly swallowed. ‘It means allowing maggots to eat away the dead flesh, as they would carrion.’
Paul released her and sank back. The silence echoed with unspoken thoughts. Elly kept her head down and continued to re-bandage the leg.
When she had finished she rose and half-turned away. ‘I’m sorry. It was a stupid notion. Why should you take such a risk with your life?’ She touched his leg gently, hesitating. ‘Oh, Paul, couldn’t you at least try it? You might as easily die after surgery as from the septic wound.’
‘Where would you get the maggots?’
She whirled around. ‘I’ll get them! Paul… You will really let me try?’
His lop-sided smile appeared. ‘I said I’d trust you with my life, and so I will. Bring on your maggots. But for God’s sake keep them out of sight. I’ll fob Hart off for a day or so until we see what results.’
Elly couldn’t find words. She picked up her cloak, fastening it under her chin with shaking fingers. ‘I’ll leave right away,’ was all she could manage.
Paul half rose. ‘Elly, the streets are dangerous at night.’
‘Don’t worry. I thought I might miss the last ferry, so I took a cab. It’s waiting, with the driver I use regularly for home visits. He’ll see me safe.’ She forced a smile. ‘My dear Paul, if you could see some of the places I go to attend patients you would be horrified. I’m accustomed to caring for myself. Now, sleep if you can. I’ll be back tomorrow with… with the treatment.’
She whisked out the door and down the stairs to lean against the wall and burst into heaving sobs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Elly finally returned to Paul’s rooms late the following afternoon, accompanied by Jo-Beth, who had discovered what was going on and wanted to support her friends through the proposed ordeal. Elly was glad of her distracting presence for Paul’s sake as well as her own. She erected a rough screen across Paul’s body which would hide her actions from him. Unfortunately, she could not disguise her movements, and she felt him stiffen as she began to unwind the bandage on his leg. His fever had returned, an indication that the infection had worsened.
‘Did Doctor Hart visit today?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, with a portentous frown and an offer to operate this week. I told him I wanted to give the idea more thought while I pursued another form of treatment privately. He went off in a huff. I don’t think I’ll see him again.’
Although pale, Paul smiled easily at Elly then began chatting to Jo-Beth, who handed him a large tumbler of whisky.
‘Start sipping, my lad. In no time at all you’ll forget what’s happening down there and be merry as a cricket.’
Paul looked at the brimming tumbler then placed it back on the table beside the couch. ‘Good God, do you want to knock me out cold? My thanks, but I’d prefer not to embarrass myself before two ladies.’
Elly picked up the tumbler. ‘Paul, you should drink it. Your pulse is thundering. There’s no shame to you in dreading this procedure, so why not make it easier for yourself?’
‘No. I’ve never yet needed a crutch. I will not start now.’ His face closed against her, and she turned away. What impetus drove Paul? Surely not a need to prove himself a man. She’d never known anyone less insecure.
She worked swiftly, having braced herself mentally for what she must do. Today she was all nurse, her hands steady as she picked the heaving mass of maggots from their box and laid them on the suppurating wound, watching to see them begin their work. There was a line of demarcation between the healthy tissue and the ulcerated mass, a red inflamed zone running into black, and the maggots fastened upon the dying tissue.
This was not Paul’s body, Elly told herself, and these were merely some of God’s little creatures doing what came naturally to them. She even said a small prayer, before remembering that she no longer believed in Him. How strange, she thought, recalling her father’s strictures. Had he been mistaken? Was there a Divine Plan after all? If she had not been victimised by The Settlement dwellers she would never have met Paul, and their lives would have run in quite different
paths.
Jo-Beth’s voice penetrated her thoughts, the assumed Irish brogue exaggerated as she embroidered one of J.G’s tales in an effort to distract Paul. ‘.... but Wentworth didn’t like me calling him a fool, so he told me I was drunk. “Sir”, I said to him, “I may be drunk, but I’ll be sober tomorrow, and you’ll still be a fool.”‘
Paul smiled dutifully, although his leg muscles shivered uncontrollably under Elly’s touch.
‘Elly, I can feel them. I can.... God! It’s horrible.’
She saw the sweat break out on his brow and picked up the tumbler. ‘Please Paul, drink some whisky to relax your nerves.’
Jo-Beth said, ‘If J.G. were here he’d match you and say, “Here’s mud in one eye, lad, and a glint in the other.”‘
With only a moment’s hesitation, Paul took the whisky and gulped down half. He avoided Elly’s glance.
Was it so bad, she wondered? What had she let Paul in for? Hiding her anxiety, she watched him surreptitiously, saw him grow paler and more rigid by the moment. His jaw had clenched tight enough for the cords to stand out in his neck. He tipped the glass, draining it. Jo-Beth caught her glance, her startled brows raised, and refilled the tumbler.
Now Elly wished she’d given Paul laudanum, although he would probably have indignantly refused it, neither of them having realised how much mental strain would result from their experiment. However, with so much alcohol in him, she daren’t add the opium - two full tumblers of whisky and he remained sober. His eyes were too bright, but with the feverishness of an almost intolerable restraint. Paul was screaming inwardly, she was sure.
She leaned over him, screening him from Jo-Beth’s view.
‘Shall I take them off?’ she whispered.
His eyes pleaded with her. However, his lips formed the word, ‘No.’
Elly’s own nerves had tightened painfully. Paul’s intolerable tension reached out to her, goading her to do something. What could she do to help? He was a proud man. His self-esteem might be wounded beyond bearing if he were driven to break in front of others. It would be better if only she bore the brunt of it. On the pretence of wanting better light to check her work, she got Jo-Beth to set the large oil lamp on the floor below the screen, keeping Paul’s face in shadow, and indicated with a meaning glance that her friend should leave.
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 32