by Diana Davis
“Shouldn’t be necessary.”
Was this process not as extensive as he’d been led to believe? He’d heard other doctors slit one’s arms and placed a thread with the . . . diseased material on it inside the wound for days.
Dr. Rush set his case on an empty spot on the desk. As if the doctor had read his mind, he said, “This is the latest method practiced in London. It’s just as effective as the thread method, but less prone to other infection.” He leaned a bit closer to add, “And it hurts less.”
The momentary pain of the procedure was not Lord David’s primary concern, but he appreciated the information all the same. “So I’ll still be ill?”
“Yes, but there are often fewer pustules with this method.”
Another small victory, he supposed. “How is it done, this new method?”
“Your hand, please?”
Lord David gave it. Dr. Rush removed a lancet from his case, double-checking the sharp ends. With a quick jab, he inserted the blade just under the skin on the back of the hand at the base of Lord David’s thumb. He removed the lancet and gestured for the other hand.
“That’s all?”
Dr. Rush repeated the procedure with the other end of the lancet. “That’s all.”
“Hm.” That had only stung.
“The hard part is what comes next. Try to avoid any places of infection — in fact, best to stay in. It could take up to two weeks for the illness to begin its course.”
“And if it fails?”
Dr. Rush dropped the lancet in his case and snapped it shut. “Then we try again.”
“Thank you.” He held out his hand to shake but hesitated. “No bandages?”
“No, best to leave them open.”
Interesting.
“I shall be back to check on your progress regularly,” Dr. Rush promised on his way out, “but should you need anything in the meantime, your valet knows where to call.”
“Yes, thank you.” Lord David stood as he left and settled again at his desk.
As soon as Westing returned from showing Dr. Rush out, he looked at Lord David with solicitous concern. “Do you mean to lie down, sir?” he asked.
“I mean to finish my work.” He picked up a quill pen but found holding it was awkward with the fresh slice in his skin. At least it wasn’t making a mess.
“Could I be your scribe, sir?” Westing offered.
“That would be excellent, thank you.”
He had never had to give much thought to how much he paid his staff — his father’s domain — but he vowed to make sure he was paying Westing above the going rate.
“You’re certain you don’t wish to convalesce?” Westing asked.
“Thank you, no. I’m certain I shall have plenty of time for that soon enough.”
Westing nodded.
“You’ve had the smallpox, haven’t you?”
“The inoculation, yes, sir.” He tapped his upper arm in the same spot Lord David had expected to receive the cuts.
“Good, then.” Relieved he wouldn’t be losing his valet, Lord David scanned the papers on his desk. Before he selected one, however, he looked up again. “Is it . . . bad?”
Westing’s grimace spoke volumes. After a moment, he schooled his features into a braver expression. “’Tis worth it.”
“Let us hope so,” Lord David murmured. He cleared his throat and turned back to sifting through more businesses to approach. He picked up the profile of the city’s new silk filature. Doctor Franklin himself had helped to start the silk industry in the environs.
Lord David hadn’t found a suitable silk to send to Cassandra Crofton yet, and Dr. Rush had just charged him to stay in. Ah well, she’d like the gift as well once he was recovered.
He looked back to the business profiles. They’d widened the net in the last few days. Although several of these businesses did not appear as lucrative as the first batch of prospects, several of them severely needed help. Westing helped him sort those into a pile all their own and stack them neatly on the corner of his desk. He didn’t dare meet with the owners while he was in the inoculation process, but perhaps it was a start.
Cassandra jolted awake when the coach came to a stop. The ride over the rutted streets outside of town and the pebbled street within the city limits was anything but comfortable, but the warmth of the afternoon and simply being off her feet had lulled her to sleep.
She tapped Helen’s knee, waking her as well, and they dragged themselves into the house. The Kaufmann family had been terribly grateful for their help, and their little girls had been much more comfortable by the time they’d left.
Still, it didn’t feel as though they’d done enough when they knew ten other houses had the smallpox, not including their own cousins.
When they walked in, Temperance sprang up from the couch, exaggeratedly motioning for them to keep quiet. “You’re back,” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Mama is sleeping.”
“Ah.” They both glanced at the green paneled ceiling, as if they could see their aunt up there.
“You must be exhausted. Did you sleep there?”
“Some,” Cassandra said, though the answer was closer to very little.
“And you must be hungry. We have bread and leftover beef on the table.”
“How are Verity and Mercy?” Helen asked.
“Sleeping as well.” Temperance’s murmur betrayed her resignation. Two weeks after they’d begun the inoculation, the girls had both taken sick. That was good — desirable, even — but keeping them comfortable without overtaxing their mother had required all three of the older sisters, and frequently Helen and Cassandra, if they were home.
Temperance looked at the two of them. “You should get some rest as well. After you eat.” She gestured to the kitchen.
Helen sighed, a deep, bone-weary sigh. “I think I shall rest first.”
Cassandra caught her sister’s hand and then her gaze, silently checking to make sure she was well. Helen offered a smile that seemed only weakened by lack of sleep and patted her fingers, so Cassandra let her go.
Temperance led Cassandra to the dining room, and Constance got up with her mending to join them. Patience remained in her chair, poring over a book.
“She could read law at the rate she goes,” Constance murmured. Cassandra wasn’t sure whether her tone was meant to be impressed or disdainful.
“She would love that.” Temperance was clearly on the impressed side. “Besides, I know you’re not teasing anyone for reading.”
Constance blushed a little, hiding her ink-stained fingers. “That’s not the same.”
Temperance dished up a plate for Cassandra and settled across the table from her. “How are the children?” Temperance asked.
“How did you know there were children?”
“Every family you’ve helped has children. I think you have a soft spot.”
Cassandra laughed softly and tucked a stray strand of hair back under her lace cap. “Perhaps so. Two children today. They are quite ill.”
Temperance frowned in sympathy, casting her eyes toward the ceiling again. “It’s so warm,” she lamented. “I wish we could have done this in April so they could have the cold air they need.”
“The rags seem to be helping,” Constance assured her sister. She tied the final knot in sewing the patch beneath one arm of a blue striped cotton gown and switched to the second sleeve. Both of the sisters’ usually mercurial natures were much subdued, but then, when there was sickness in the house, it was hard to be as buoyant as they normally were.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Constance said.
It was a moment before Cassandra realized her cousin was addressing her. “Do what?”
“Help those people. I love my sisters, and I would do anything for them, but I can’t imagine helping someone else that way, especially if I had just come from an estate —”
Temperance waved her off. “Hush.”
“I don’t mean anything ill, it’s simply — it
’s hard work. You know that.”
Cassandra couldn’t disagree. It was hard work, every minute. And no, a year ago, she couldn’t have imagined doing this, let alone feeling so . . . fulfilled by it. “It is hard, but it’s good work,” she concluded aloud.
They had started with Ginny’s cousins, and now they went wherever they were needed in Germantown. They even slept there occasionally when the children they were helping were very sick, as they had been last night. They tried to feed them broth, to ease their fevers, to keep them from picking at the pox and to occupy their minds, giving their parents a few minutes’ peace. Three times, she’d held the children’s arms for bloodletting, which she’d never believed she could have done. The first children they’d helped were already beginning to recover.
The front door opened, and all three women turned toward the sound.
“Papa?” came Patience’s voice from the drawing room. “Did you walk home?”
“Yes. How are the little girls?”
“Sleeping.”
“And your mother?” The note of urgency in Uncle Josiah’s voice was new to Cassandra.
“Also asleep.”
Footsteps approached the dining room, and Cassandra turned with her cousins to wait for Uncle Josiah to appear. Patience trailed after him.
“Oh, Cassandra, you’re home. Where is Helen?”
“She’s just gone up to sleep. It was a long night.”
Uncle Josiah pressed his lips together, grim.
“What are you doing home, Papa?” Temperance asked.
His mouth worked a moment before any words worked their way out. Cassandra had never seen her uncle speechless.
“It’s Lord David,” he concluded. “His valet has taken sick — not the smallpox — and he has no one to nurse him.”
The four women in the room studied one another. Uncle Josiah had stopped short of asking them, but could any of them refuse Lord David? Surely Temperance and Constance would leap at the “romantic” opportunity to nurse a nobleman back to health.
Instead, Cassandra found that all the eyes in the room were now upon her. “Surely not?” She’d just returned from nursing half a dozen strangers. Why on earth would she run to help a man who hated her, and with good reason?
“I’m tending Verity,” Temperance said.
“And I Mercy,” Patience said.
“Mama,” Constance said. “And Helen.”
Cassandra felt every gaze settle on her again. “Have you brought a doctor? Has he been bled?”
“Yes, this morning. I’m afraid to try again.”
The weight of their gazes still rested on her shoulders. Was this really her responsibility? After the way he’d treated her?
After the way she had treated him, perhaps she should take any opportunity to make amends.
“Cassandra,” Uncle Josiah said, his voice gentler. “I know you’ve worked so hard with the Germans. I know I can trust him to your care.”
Uncle Josiah had confidence in her? Somehow, that meant more than anything.
“Fine, I’ll go.” She shoved two more bites of beef into her mouth, checked her working jacket and petticoat — clean enough — and took a slice of bread.
Temperance fetched fresh rags for her basket. Constance wrapped up the rest of sliced bread, leaving the loaf. Patience brought over a bottle, stuffing in a cork. “Beef broth,” she said, tucking it alongside the bread and rags. “I’ll warm more for the girls.”
Cassandra thanked each of them and turned to leave. Uncle Josiah stood there, beaming at her with pride shining in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
It was terribly unfitting for a gentleman’s daughter to eat on her way to the coach. It was terribly unfitting for a gentleman’s daughter to run about in working clothes. It was terribly unfitting for a gentleman’s daughter to never once check a mirror to set the rest of her hair to rights.
And most likely, it was terribly unfitting for a gentleman’s daughter — or anyone else’s daughter — to nurse a man who was not a member of her family.
Cassandra didn’t particularly care.
Her suspicions about propriety seemed confirmed when Uncle Josiah ordered the coach to pull to the back alley behind his law office. He directed her to the stairs up to the apartment above, making sure she was unseen.
“I’ll be right below you if you need anything.” He searched her face, making sure his meaning was clear.
“Thank you.” She’d witnessed firsthand how weak the disease and even the inoculation could make one, so she wasn’t terribly worried Lord David would be a threat to her person.
Uncle Josiah handed her the key, and she stole up the alley stairs. She knocked before she entered, but there was no response. She didn’t bother to check the study, the only other room she’d visited before. The other doors off the hall led to a dining room and a drawing room, all furnished with modest necessities. The last door led to a bedroom dominated by a large but plain bed and an oppressive heat.
The sparse accommodations were probably not what Lord David was used to, but there he was under the coverlet. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of his face was pale beneath dark stubble.
She closed the door behind her, and he stirred. He focused on her, blinking for a moment. “Is this a dream?”
“Do you often dream of me?” Cassandra asked.
“Don’t dream of anything right now.” He closed his eyes and seemed to sink deeper into the pillows, though he hadn’t sat up in the first place.
She crossed the room. “How are you?”
He opened his eyes again, still languid. “Wonderful. I think I shall go to the Royal Governor’s ball tonight.”
“You’ll be the toast of the town.” If that was not a joke, she had better check his fever. She reached for his forehead but pulled back. “May I?”
He squinted at her. “May you what?”
She’d hoped after his joke that he was a little more lucid than that. “May I touch you?”
Lord David’s eyelids drifted closed. “Why are you here?”
“Uncle Josiah said you needed a nurse, that your valet was ill.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“You’re in luck; I’m not a nursemaid.”
He groaned in response, and Cassandra finally pressed her fingertips to his forehead. Burning hot.
“Why are your windows closed?” she asked.
“I’m perfectly frozen, aren’t you?”
She checked the temperature of his neck, equally hot and clammy. “That’s the fever talking.”
“Westing says it does that. I do that.”
“Then today shall be entertaining.” Cassandra was already across the room, throwing open the sashes. She was relieved the windows opened on the alley and that the alley stood vacant. “Have you eaten?”
Lord David vaguely shook his head and his shoulders twitched. She’d take that for a no. The beef broth Temperance had given her was still warm. After a quick search, she found a bowl and spoon in the kitchen and poured in the contents of the bottle.
When she returned to the room, already the oppressive heat had lessened. She set the bowl on the night table. “Let’s sit up.”
“What?”
Cassandra had to kneel on the bed and use both hands and all her weight to pull him forward enough to wedge another pillow behind him. His head was a bit more elevated now, enough to drink broth at least. “Let’s get some broth in you.”
“Where did —” He paused to grimace. “Where did a gentleman’s daughter learn to nurse the sick?”
“By nursing the sick. With my mother.” She retrieved the bowl and settled herself on the bed facing him. “Open up.”
Lord David obeyed and swallowed five spoonfuls of soup before he spoke again. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“I think you have that backwards.”
“Who is feeding whom?”
Cassandra smiled. She painstakingly spooned the rest of the broth between his
lips. A little of his natural color had returned by the time he finished the bowl. She checked his forehead again, still very hot.
She returned the empty bowl to the kitchen. She hoped the water in the bucket on the sideboard was fresh enough. It smelled fine and seemed clean once she ladled it into a laver. She took that back to the night table and threw in the rags Temperance had given her.
“You needn’t do this,” Lord David said.
“I know.” Cassandra wrung out one of the rags and laid it across his forehead, then wrapped a second around the back of his neck.
“Am I a good patient?”
“I don’t know yet. Before now I would have said you were quite impatient.” She wasn’t here to insult him further. “At times,” she added, though she doubted it did much to soften the blow. “Do you think you can eat now?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll let you rest for a while.” She started from the room.
“Stay?”
She turned back. “Was that a command or a question?”
“A question. It’s very . . . quiet.”
Cassandra hesitated a moment. She hadn’t come here to spend time with the poor man, but that sounded very lonely. She dragged a striped side chair over to sit by the bed. For once, she wished she did know how to knit.
She should try to take his mind off his suffering, as she did with the children. Though she doubted her somewhat embellished stories of a grand house on a grand estate in grand Surrey would be half so grand to Lord David.
“I should be used to the quiet,” he murmured. “But I hate it.”
“Was your home in England quiet?”
“Yes. My brothers were away at school by the time I was old enough to be of any interest to them.”
“You have only brothers?”
Lord David grimaced. “I had a sister. Georgette. But she died long before I was born.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Smallpox.”
No wonder his family had been so cautious of miasmas. How had he consented to the inoculation, then?
It was better than the alternative.
She checked the rags. Already they were warm. She changed them for fresh ones. Unlike so many of the children in Germantown, his face wasn’t riddled with pox. Her cousins’ pox were concentrated near their incisions as well.