She rubbed her lips with grimy fingers. “Couple o’ hours, I reckon, wouldn’t you?” Again she turned to Abner.
Ian waited for the grunt.
He didn’t let on how much what he was hearing shocked him. A couple of hours out cold! Had he experienced a fit? A seizure? He had no recollection at all, and that terrified him.
He straightened his jacket and smoothed his tangled hair with his fingers. “I must be going,” he said, finally feeling confident enough to stand. “I’m grateful you picked me up off the street.”
“Abner’ll take you ’ome. You don’t look none too steady on your stampers.”
“That’s quite all right—” Ian began, but Abner had approached him. He was a large man, with a rotund belly and arms like plump rolls of bread.
“You cured ’im once,” the woman explained. “’Is leg was broke from a cargo fallen off a ship. You set it right back in place and tended him till he could walk again.”
The memory came back to him like a puzzle piece falling into place, and he felt profound relief that not everything was gone from his memory. “You’re a dock-worker at Wapping.”
“You didn’t charge ’im none, brought him ’is tonics, even victuals till ’e could go back to work. ’E’ll see ye ’ome now.”
Without a word Abner turned and the two left the flat. When they reached a steep, dark stairwell, Abner put his hand on Ian’s elbow and stayed at his side until they reached the bottom. Once on the street, Ian tried to get his bearings, but before he could make out much in the evening light, Abner began walking.
“I assume you know where I live?” he asked, finding it an effort to keep pace with the large man.
Another grunt, but this time it was followed by some speech. “Most everyone ’round ’ere does.”
After that Ian said no more, preferring to leave the navigation to more capable hands. His legs threatened to collapse from exhaustion at any moment, but at least now they felt like his own.
He didn’t want to think any more about his spell, not right then, but his surgeon’s mind couldn’t help drawing conclusions. It was clearly some type of fit. It could be apoplectic. In that case, he was lucky to be even alive right now, much less walking. It could be epileptic. He breathed out slowly, hating all the conclusions. As long as he could keep his deepest fear at bay…
But as they neared the dark building housing the dispensary and his living quarters a few doors down, he could feel the fear coiling around the pit of his stomach, ready to strike as soon as he was alone.
They heard the watch call out the hour. “Ten o’clock and all is well!” The voice resonated from down Borough High Street.
All is well. Was it, indeed?
Ian thanked Abner and turned to his own door. A dim light still shone within.
As he fumbled with the door, finally closing it and pulling the bolt across, he heard footsteps behind him.
“Oh, Mr. Russell, at last you’re home. I wondered when you didn’t come home for dinner, and Mr. Jem came by, looking for you. I thought you’d be at the dispensary, but he said they hadn’t seen you all afternoon.”
“Yes, I’m home at last.” He turned to her, not sure what he was going to say.
“Are you all right?” she asked, peering up at his face.
“Yes, quite. Why, what is it?”
“You look awfully pale, that’s all. May I get you something? A hot tea or toddy?”
“No.” He stretched his lips into a smile. “I’m fine, I assure you. Why don’t you go on home for the evening?”
She gave him one last doubtful look before nodding. “Very well, sir. I’ll bid you good-night, then.”
“Yes, good night, Mrs. Duff.” He waited until she had left before taking the lamp and climbing slowly up the stairs.
“Hello, Plato.” The cat appeared out of the dark and followed at his heels. Once he’d closed the study door behind him, Ian leaned against it, feeling a great sense of relief in having reached this room. He set the lamp down and brought up his hand to wipe his brow. Despite the cold outside, he felt a sheen of perspiration on his skin.
How many lifetimes had he lived since early this afternoon when he’d visited Eleanor?
The name threatened to open up a monstrous wound that was only being held shut by a very tenuous thread. What kind of surgeon was he, to have done such a shoddy job sewing up the incision?
But not even thoughts of Eleanor could distract him for long from the fear waiting for him in the shadows.
Something was growing inside his head. He could no longer deny it. The throbbing pain that refused to go away, the fuzziness in his left eye, the clumsiness, and now the spasmodic movements in his hands and legs before he’d lost consciousness this afternoon.
The symptoms culminated in one conclusion: a painful, very imminent death.
He knew as sure as he knew that he was standing in his study that his prognosis was utterly hopeless. He’d dissected enough cadavers to have seen the kinds of tumorous growths possible in every organ of the human body. Sometimes they were operable, but more often they were not, since the operation would kill the patient faster than the tumor.
He pressed his head together in his hands. In his case, it was most certainly inoperable. He shuddered thinking of the only known surgical procedure to the skull. Trepanation. The very word filled him with dread.
He’d seen it done only a few times during his student days. It required boring open a hole in a person’s head, plunging the end of the drill in cold water every few minutes because it became so hot from the friction of metal on bone. The procedure was used to cure fits or violent behavior in mental patients, but the results were questionable.
Ian walked across the room, terror flooding him, threatening to cut off his ability to breathe. He collapsed in his chair and reached for his only weapon, his beloved Bible, already reciting the passages he knew by heart.
“The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want…yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
His fingers shook as he flipped the pages from Psalm 23 to Psalm 91. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.”
He read the next verse eagerly: “Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.” Hadn’t God delivered him all these years from every foul disease he’d treated?
“He shall cover thee with His feathers and under His wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.” Yes, now for the crux of it: “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday…”
He continued reading, drawing strength and solace from the words, and finding peace at last. The fear receded to the edges of the room, and he sat in the circle of light, filled with the power of the words.
Was the Lord calling him home? Was his labor on this earth finished? These thoughts no longer wrenched at him. There was still so much work to be done, and he felt he had only touched the surface, not only in his medical practice, but as a servant of God. How many souls had he won into the kingdom?
Was it too late? Would he stand before the Lord someday having little to show with the talents he’d been given? Ian prayed, seeking the Lord for the answers. Had he strayed in some way that the Lord was displeased with him and must now cut short the length of his days?
His thoughts turned again to Eleanor Neville. Had these months of lusting after her finally reaped this destruction in his life? He cried out the words of David. “Oh, God, cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Dr. Elliot, you must have something more effective than that tonic you gave me last week,” Eleanor said pee
vishly, eyeing the offending bottle as if it contained arsenic.
“But, madam, Salvator Winter’s Elixir Vitae is the best restorative available today. It says here plainly.” He took the bottle from her and read through the half-moons of his spectacles. “‘An excellent Life-Preserving Remedy, so speedy a Reviver of the Spirits and Restorer of Decayed Nature.’” He looked at her as if it was her fault the tonic had done nothing for her.
“Well, give me something stronger. I’m not sleeping at night, my nerves are delicate.”
“In that case we shall try Rose’s Balsamic Elixir. It will sweeten the blood and correct all imperfections of the digestion. You shall see, your bloom will return in no time at all.”
She glanced dubiously at the new bottle he held out to her. She took off the stopper and sniffed. It had an agreeable odor, more like a cordial than a medicine. “Very well, I shall try it. And some sleeping powders.”
“Of course, Mrs. Neville.” Quickly he wrote out a prescription. “I shall leave you a sample here, and you can get more at the apothecary’s.”
She took it, only somewhat satisfied. The man was certainly charging her enough; the least he could do was leave her a sufficient dose to get her through the week.
“You should have called me when you first fell ill.” The physician recommenced the scolding he’d begun after he walked in. “There are too many quacks about nowadays. I can’t say you are looking at all the thing. I would also recommend Godbold’s Vegetable Balsam and Vandour’s Nervous Pills.”
“Very well. Write them down.” She handed the prescription back to him. The top of her vanity was already full of bottles and pillboxes, but there was always the possibility she hadn’t found the right one yet.
After her physician had left, Eleanor paced the length of her sitting room. It was too cold and dreary to go out on this January day. She jerked to a stop every time she heard a carriage go by. Perhaps today she’d hear if she’d gotten the part in Moncrieff’s new production of Don Giovanni at the Olympic.
She smiled, momentarily distracted by the thought of the new show. In this one, the part of Don Giovanni was going to a female. Madame Vestris was already a hit in a similar production at the Sans Pareil.
Eleanor held her breath as a coach rumbled down the street. She glanced toward it and recognized d’Alvergny’s gold-and-blue crest decorating the door panel. She sighed wearily. At least he would distract her. He’d resumed his frequent visits since she’d recovered from the fever.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor,” he said, bending over her hand after he’d been shown into her sitting room.
“Are you here to amuse me? Because I warn you, I am in dire need of amusement,” she told him.
“I shall endeavor my best. Shall I tell you the latest on dits from court?”
“Court sounds like a dreary place since Princess Charlotte died.”
“There is still amusement to be had if one knows the right people.”
“I wish you knew some of the right theater people,” she said as she turned away from him with a bored sigh.
“Perhaps I do.”
“Robert Elliston?”
“I know him.”
“I’m trying out for the don’s part in Moncrieff’s new production at the Olympic.”
“Ah,” he said with a smooth smile. “From Leporello to the don.”
“I think it would be amusing to play Don Giovanni this time. In this production, he comes back from the dead and ends up in London. It’s called Giovanni in London, or the Libertine Reclaimed.” She laughed. “Tell me, have you ever seen a libertine reclaimed?”
He answered with an enigmatic smile. “Why not try out instead for A New Way to Pay Old Debts? They are reviving Philip Massinger’s old play at the Drury Lane.”
She made a doubtful face. “If I could get an audition.”
“Kemble is manager.” He shrugged. “I’m on their committee. Say the word and I’ll arrange an audition.”
“You do, and I’ll be your slave for life,” she half joked.
“Would you? That’s a very attractive offer.”
Her smile evaporated as she realized he was deadly serious. Leaning back in her chair, she considered. “I don’t like the term ‘slave.’”
“What term would you prefer?” he asked smoothly.
She returned his look steadily. Although she’d been stringing him along nicely for several months, she’d never seriously considered him for a lover. But now circumstances had changed. Drastically so. “Can you guarantee me a leading role at the Drury?”
“I can guarantee you an audition for a leading part. Your talent will do the rest.”
She assumed a nonchalant air, although she was feeling far from calm. “Fair enough. But I owe you nothing unless I land the part.”
He inclined his head in assent. “Naturally not.”
“And if I do land the part—” She left the sentence for him to finish.
“I think you know what I want…have been wanting for a long time.”
“A liaison?”
He bowed his head in reply.
She said nothing for a moment, feeling as if her life hung in a balance. One word and her destiny would be forever altered. “If I got a plum role, and that’s still an if, I would expect more in return for my…favor.”
He made a careless motion with his hand. “Name it.”
She moistened her lips. “A Mayfair address.”
“Naturally.”
She looked down at her manicured nails, wondering at how easily that had been accomplished. She met his gaze again, this time naming a yearly stipend. It wouldn’t hurt to continue investing in the three-percents for the day she would no longer find acting work.
He shrugged. “A trifle.”
She sat back and let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well, let us see how that audition goes.”
He smiled. “I am all anticipation.”
After he’d left, she considered what she’d done. What matter if he used her body? It had been used before and survived. He could never have her heart; there was certainly no danger of that. Her body was merely a tool, available for whatever advancement she could procure from its use. Her time was running out; she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
A week went by and Ian felt himself growing worse, but he confided in no one. Like a boat bobbing against the tide, he didn’t know what his secrecy would accomplish, but he couldn’t bring himself to let anyone know his condition. Was it because there was no sorrier sight than a sick physician? He thought of the proverb Jesus had quoted—“Physician, heal thyself.”
Well, he hadn’t the power to do so.
He lived in terror lest he lose consciousness again. What if it happened during an operation?
He swallowed, pushing the terror back down his throat, knowing the effort was only momentary, dependent on the strength of his will.
Even if he managed to stay on his feet during surgery, could he get his hands to obey him? Would a spasm strike him and prevent him from holding the surgical instruments in his hands? And what of his eyesight?
He remembered the words of the eminent surgeon, Astley Cooper of Guy’s Hospital: “A surgeon must have the eye of an eagle, heart of a lion, hand of a woman, and mind of a scholar.”
Was he losing two of these critical faculties—his sight and steadiness of his hand?
He had told his uncle nothing. The previous week he had asked him for a powder to take for his headache. His uncle had asked him if he was suffering any other symptoms, but Ian had brushed him off with something about feeling mental fatigue. His uncle had said no more but given him a bolus to be swallowed when he felt the pain coming on. He hadn’t dared ask for any more, afraid to arouse his astute uncle’s suspicions that something was worse.
It was during his weekly rounds at the mission that he stumbled as he was going from one patient’s bed to another. Althea, who was following behind him, grasped his elbow.
> “Are you all right?” she asked in concern.
He shoved her hand away. “I’m fine,” he snapped.
“Forgive me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately contrite. “Just clumsy, that’s all.”
She gave him a close look but said nothing more.
After he had finished his rounds and gone into the small alcove used as his office when he was there, he busied himself cleaning and putting away his instruments. Thankfully, he’d felt nothing more than a momentary loss of control.
But he felt weary. He let the instruments drop onto the table and collapsed into the wooden chair behind him. Resting his head in his hand, he felt despair overwhelm him.
He started up as he heard a soft knock on the partially opened door. Althea stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry, Ian. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He expected her to excuse herself and leave him, but she remained there. “May I come in?” she asked when he said nothing.
“Yes, of course,” he finally replied, straightening.
She brought up another chair close to his. “Ian, is there nothing I can do to help?”
He looked at her gentle eyes, debating what to say or not say, but finally the need to unburden himself became greater than he could bear. He felt a sense of relief as he nodded. “Yes, something is very wrong.”
“What is it?” she asked when he didn’t continue.
He swallowed and looked away, not knowing how or where to begin. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Oh, Althea…Althea…I’m in trouble, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do.”
She leaned closer, grasping his hand. “Tell me what’s wrong, Ian. It can’t be as hopeless as you make it sound.”
“I’m dying.”
Her hand stilled on his. “Tell me,” she repeated quietly.
He removed his hand from hers and bowed his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. Slowly, he began to speak, describing his symptoms and how long he’d had them. She had been a nurse long enough to understand his medical rundown.
When he’d finished speaking, the room was still.
The Healing Season Page 23