by Derry O'Dowd
‘Eupham,’ said James, his arm around her shoulder, ‘this is just spite. Hurtful as it is, spite. You and William are among some of the kindest, best people I know, and it would honour me to call you my friends.’
She turned her face to him and smiled through her tears. ‘You are a caring man, James, and a good friend, but there has been worse, you know, much worse,’ and she told him her woes.
James knocked at William’s study door and entered. William was sitting in a chair, the sleek black house cat on his lap. The cat lifted his head at James’s approach. James looked at Smyley’s miserable face. Down the small panes of glass behind his head the daylight lowered. And as James sat down opposite him, his host’s hair was illuminated from behind a small occasional table, giving him the appearance of prophetic greatness, haloed as he was.
Smyley stroked the cat, which responded to his hand with rippling fur and pleasured purrs. ‘The cat is called Abraham,’ he said. ‘Eupham ladles her love on him, calls him Baby Bram – I don’t think the grizzled old gentleman from the Bible would have approved, do you? At any rate, she needs an outlet for all her love and affection. I myself am drowned in it on a regular basis.’ He paused and looked at James.
‘She was trying to protect me, James.’
James nodded his understanding and let the words spill from Smyley.
‘Unlike some of my colleagues, I do not speak ill of the midwives who live in this part of London. I meet with them and keep good work relations with many of them. Most of my efforts come from their good offices. Now you can understand why I will welcome women and midwives to my courses readily, so all may study equally.’
‘Yet Eupham told me that you are pilloried in the press by midwives who find the presence of the man-midwife unnecessary at delivery. She was very upset,’ James said, recalling her unhappy face, normally wreathed in smiles and good nature.
‘I am written about in many pamphlets, did she tell you that?’ Smyley stiffened and the cat jumped from his lap, looking back at him disdainfully, tail kinked in a question mark at his usually mild-mannered master’s change of mood. It meowed as if in rebuke and stalked away to the fireside to lay down once more.
William paused and the bright flush of annoyance sank from his cheeks. ‘I made a well-intentioned proposal to soften the prejudice against the man-midwife. We could wear a commodious dress like a loose nightgown over our clothing when proceeding to a delivery. You see where my comments have led today.’
He gave a great sigh and looked to the fire. ‘A notable midwife wrote that I am a great horse of a man with hands so large no gloves can be made to fit.’ Smyley, wounded, took a handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out crisply and blew his nose noisily into it before squeezing it in his hand.
‘Worse still, of a number of colleagues wrote cruelly about me. One said that my hands are only fit to hold horses by the snout while they are shod by the farrier, or they may be used to stretch boots in Cranburn Lane! I try to shield Eupham from such insulting remarks, as she becomes inflamed on my behalf. She would like me to write a pamphlet in my own defence but I am not sure that is the best way.’
The room fell full and heavy with silent thought, both men gazing at the flames as the cat opened a sleepy yellow eye and regarded them.
Dublin, 26 February 1741
Dear Doctor James,
I am very glad to hear that your time in London is proving a success and that you will be coming back to us later this year. Thanks for your letter.
Thanks too for the book for Daniel, though I think if you don’t mind me saying so but Mr Defoe’s The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Marnier is a little beyond his comprehension and age at the moment.
Perhaps if you were to find a book about animals before you return? They are Daniel’s favourite things at the moment and on walks woe betide if we do not stop to say hello to every cat, dog or horse we may encounter.
We read the book you have sent every night at bedtime before the candle is blown out. And your son, being a such bright inquisitive little dote with the word ‘why’ coming up in our talks many times a day every day, wants to know about the sea and boats and why did Mister Crusoe do this or that. I must confess I do not always have the answers!
But it is very difficult to get exasperated at his curious little face turned upwards towards my own as he waits as patiently as he can for the reply to his questions.
We go to the park on fine days, and he is fascinated by the other children there, especially as he regards himself as such a big boy whenever we see a child younger than him, or a baby.
He has a smile that lights up a room and a laugh that would gladden the stoniest heart. Much like his mama.
He is nearly able to put on his own shoes now, and we have a rhyming song for the task which he hums under his breath throughout the day.
And as for his drawings! Why, I am very impressed by his hand – for one that is so young he shows a fine grasp of things and people and colours. I am sending you a recent picture. Daniel did it for you, but I feel I must tell you, and do not mean any hurt by it, that he does not remember you, as you are only ever presented as a shadowy figure, present in his life yet not. I lay no blame, indeed I would never presume to do so, but tell you that you should be aware so that on your return you can start anew with your son.
We are all well here in Dublin, and look forward to your return. Please let me know if there is anything that you would like me to do before you arrive, and wishing you a safe and speedy journey.
Yours,
Peg Reilly.
James Quinn ran his finger over the crudely drawn cat, coloured a bright, improbable blue, and smiled. The feline had startling red eyes and enormous, jagged teeth. If Peg thought this was a great talent who was he to argue?
And suddenly he felt so homesick that he could taste it. He sighed and wished with all his heart that he was back in Dublin with his small son, finally making a relationship with him.
London, 11 March 1741
Dear Father and Mother,
I hope this finds you well, and thanks to you and Kate for the last letters from home. You must tell her it took me at least a week to read her writings!
I have had a letter from Peg with a picture from Daniel. My, what an artist at such a tender age! I find myself yearning for him and look forward greatly to getting home to see my boy.
London still enthrals me. I have enjoyed my time here and have learned and seen much.
The Gregoires warned me well – those differences that exist in medical care between London and Paris are truly astonishing. Paris has been at the forefront for centuries and as yet London does not follow its lead. There is no charity ward in all of London for women in childbirth, can you believe that? No charity ward; my anger rises up through my body in waves of coursing heat at the thought, may the Lord bless the women and children of this city. Of course Dublin and even our own dear Galway are no better, but having seen the light of wisdom in Paris it is difficult to return to the dark again.
Here in London, the Royal Hospitals of St Bartholomew and St Thomas and also Guy’s Hospital minister to the sick and dying. There is the new London Infirmary for the manufacturing classes and merchant seamen, Greenwich Hospital for sailors, and even Bedlam for the insane. Do mothers and their infants not count at all?
Still, there is one man-midwife, Richard Manningham by name, who tries to emulate the Paris tradition. He has set up a small charitable ward for mothers in houses along Jermyn Street.
William fears the noble venture will soon be submerged under waves of debt for want of public funds. Meanwhile, the city is overtaken and swimming in gin.
William Smyley is such a great man. His practice here is as mine will be in Dublin. There are rounds of the patients in the districts each morning and afternoon.
The evening is taken up with writing the day’s cases and preparing for the visitations on the following day. In the midst of this medley come
the urgent calls both day and night to attend difficult and unresolved midwifery cases. Such is the life of the modern man-midwife. William and the Gregoires seem happy with the lives they have chosen. I hope that after all my studying and hard work I will be as satisfied with mine.
I must remain here until June, at the latest, to complete my preparations for my new life as a man-midwife in Dublin. By then I will be very excited to see Daniel and come to visit you in Galway. I must confess I cannot wait!
With love, I enclose my affection for you all at home within the folds of this letter.
Your son,
James.
13
To make your own ass’s milk when there is no beast at hand
Take a fine handful of the roots of the sea holly and add to it some pearl barley. Boil these in fresh water until much reduced. Strain the mixture off to cool and then add some fresh boiled cow’s milk and stir. Drink anytime when most agreeable, but particularly in the morning.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
The early afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows, lighting even the darkest corners of the wood-panelled games room. It gifted the sporting paintings with bright achievement and snuggled into the seats of the soft chairs along the walls as if resting there for a moment. The rectangular wooden-framed billiard table stood proudly in the middle of the room, with cue holder, ball holder and the famous rules book The Complete Gamester by Charles Cotton within easy reach of whoever decided to play. Card tables sat in a small alcove off Sir Alan Cavendish’s favourite room.
‘The billiard game is not your forte, James,’ Sir Alan smiled as he replaced the cues then spun the ivory ball down the green cloth.
‘Time was always against me,’ he replied wryly. ‘My studies first, then work filled my life. There has been precious little time for entertainment.’
‘So unlike Mary Queen of Scots, who was laid out in repose on the billiard table cloth she loved so well, it appears you have no such intent.’ Sir Alan paused. ‘You live a strange life, my friend, devoted to the lives of others, and the welfare of mothers and infants. Me, I do not venture to understand women and their foibles although I do find their race infernally delightful.
‘All that work around the house and dressing and stitching and crochet must be dreadfully boring. Give me the hounds and the hunt, the sport and carousing and the better things in life like a good card game with friends.’
Sir Alan looked around the room, glancing at each painting in turn, as if weighing his words on his tongue before speaking again.
‘Meanwhile you delve under the skirts and petticoats of women seeking Lord knows what, maybe even the future in the crystal ball that is the matrix.’
‘The Good Lord placed the womb in that location under the skirts, Sir. Otherwise it might be attached to the chest, a knee or an elbow.’ James’s reply painted seams of mirth on his host’s face. ‘The Ancients were of the opinion that the womb was forever on the move. One day here, close to the fundament, another day wandering up here under the breast bone.’
Sir Alan countered, ‘So you, like Doubting Thomas with his finger in the wound of Jesus, must constantly seek proof of their error.’ He laughed at his own response. ‘I tease you, James, it is but a jest. Here let us sit awhile before we join Catherine and her visitors. It will make for an interesting evening as the guests are from the worlds of art, music and the theatre - trust Catherine to provide us with stimulating conversation over the dinner table!’
As the men sank into the plush seats, Sir Alan’s conversation became more serious.
‘As you well know, I am a wealthy man and I am almost entirely dedicated to the pursuit of money matters. I am even known to carry mint leaves in my wallet as they are reputed to attract money. Can you believe that? I own estates, properties and shipbuilding here, commerce there. Is there no end to my collection, you may ask? My only other dedication is to the welfare of my family.’
Sir Alan looked down and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his chair before raising his head once more and regarding James frankly and steadily.
‘If you will reconsider your move to Ireland and remain in London, James, I promise to introduce you to the highest echelons of our society. Without doubt you will become a celebrity man-midwife sought by the wealthy, the high and the mighty, and my darling Catherine would be more affordable to your ever expanding purse.’
Sir Alan searched out a response from James’s impassive face, and finding none there continued, ‘Of course if London is not to your liking, I should tell you that my cousin, the Earl of Drumaline, has a large estate not far from Dublin’s Pale. So if you decide that London is not for you it may just be that you come to know more of Catherine as she holidays there at least once a year.’
As James made to reply, Sir Alan raised his hand to silence him, ‘Not a word about our conversation, my friend, it is just between us. No reply is needed.’ Sir Alan slid his hand into a waistcoat pocket and withdrew a gold case emblazoned with the Cavendish family crest.
‘Snuff?’ he enquired, putting a definite end to that conversation. ‘I have here the highest quality Virginian tobacco ground up and passed through the finest sieve. No oil or flavouring added, just pure Virginian sunlight,’ he said, tapping the box to loosen and gather up the powder. He offered the snuffbox to James who shook his head imperceptibly.
‘Thank you. I have never taken it up.’
Sir Alan flicked the lid open and placed a couple of pinches of the precious powder at the base of his thumb.
Two profound snorts later, the snuff was deep in his nostrils.
‘Ah,’ he started, then sneezed massively and, eyes watering, hurriedly pulled out a large, colourful silk handkerchief from another pocket.
‘Ah,’ he said again once the convulsive expulsions of air had passed, a beatific gaze covering his face.
‘Now you know why the Pope endeavoured to ban snuff-taking and threatened to excommunicate all who used the demon powder,’ said Sir Alan. ‘He knew that sneezing and conjugal ecstasies were all too similar!’ He laughed delightedly, slapping his knee in emphasis, his good cheer following the sunlight around the room.
James stood in the doorway, taking in the glittering scene before him as Sir Alan made his way through the guests, heading for the drinks tray held aloft by his butler, smiling at all he passed.
The sparkling jewels in the candlelit room and the loud babble of talk and laughter made James feel a little out of place, until he saw Catherine and he thought her beautiful once more. She flitted from guest to guest, eyes twinkling, lit from within, resplendent in a dark green gown with matching feathers in her hair like an exotic bird of paradise plucked from a tropical island and deposited in the Cavendish drawing room. She saw him, and smiling, beckoned him to her side.
Across the room a dark stab of jealousy penetrated deeply into the heart of a handsome, brooding spectator. He gazed on with morbid curiosity as Catherine’s soft ruby lips whispered much too close to James’s ear.
Edward Burlington, the Earl of Drumaline’s son, would dearly love to be in James Quinn’s place, to win such a beautiful prize. He breathed out loudly and walked from the room. Having his cousin Catherine as his wife would certainly make his life easier, and her dowry would pay off his gambling debts as they arose. He resolved to set his hand to wooing her more thoroughly before she became entangled with the Irishman.
As the setting sun bathed the room in the last of its golden glow, Catherine and James stood close together in the bay window.
‘May I be so bold as to enquire about your gaming with Papa?’
‘Billiards and then man talk, oh, and looking under skirts.’
Catherine arched her eyebrows in pretence of annoyance.
‘There you go again, teasing me so! Have you settled on a dowry as yet?’ she quipped.
‘Yes my dear, half of the family estate in Sussex,’ James bowed, took her hand and kissed
it.
‘Ah, so it was that kind of man talk – my father is very fond of you, Doctor Irish man-midwife.’
‘And I am fond of him,’ James replied.
‘Perhaps we should return to our guests; I feel the eyes of the room are upon us,’ she said, and James let her hand go.
As they turned, the butler arrived with an ornate silver salver balanced on his arm, its surface strewn with an array of snuffboxes. ‘Should we be bold and try some snuff, James?’
Catherine turned to him once more, enquiring humorously, ‘I am told that snuff sneezing is so pleasurable, a gift from the gods for mere mortals to share.’ She smiled up at James but the laughter died in her throat as she looked over and caught the gaze of Edward, who had entered so silently that she had not heard him.
The mercury liquid raced around the curved inner surface of the mortar, living up to its quicksilver name, as James stood, feet planted on the scarred, solid wood that made up the floor of William’s apothecary, and rotated the vessel to and fro.
‘A night time with Venus but a lifetime with Mercury,’ under his breath he quoted the passage related in numerous medical texts regarding the treatment of venereal disease.
‘We will require sufficient ointment for a number of applications,’ said William, frowning in concentration, thinking ahead to tomorrow’s work.
James had poured a half ounce of the thick liquid into the mortar, heeding the instructions from William that the mercury be well cleansed by passing it several times through double linen. To the silver liquid he added four ounces of hog’s grease and beat the substances until, under his host’s tutelage, they were fully mixed.
The resulting ointment was spooned into containers of two drams, the smallest amount required for an application to an infant, while an adult required a number of the containers appropriate to their size.