‘Why?’
‘Christmas is coming, your wife is getting fat …’
‘This,’ he reached out from under the eiderdown and stroked her burgeoning waistline, ‘not Christmas, will put a smile on my face. Although if we’re lucky we might get a whole day off provided no one breaks a leg or gets lethally drunk. Please come back to bed.’
‘Absolutely, definitely not.’ She went to the washstand, tipped hot water in to the bowl, stripped off her nightgown, and sponged herself down. ‘You going to the hospital this morning?’
‘The office first to see if the Baker-Brown-type cautery clamps we ordered have arrived, then the hospital. I want to check the flooring in the operating theatre. I’m afraid if I’m not there to oversee it, they’ll put down a wooden instead of a tiled floor. We need to be able to disinfect the place.’
‘You’re talking to a nurse, darling.’ She dried herself and began to dress.
He propped himself up on the pillows. ‘That Cossack smock suits you.’
‘Which is as well as I’ve let out my stays to the limit. She sat on a chair, rolled on a pair of thick woollen stockings, and fastened them with garters before pulling down her combi-knickers. She slipped on her shoes, laced them and returned to the window. ‘It’s beautiful out there.’
‘I’ve no doubt it is but don’t you dare open the window and let out all the warm air.’
‘I won’t if you get out of bed and look. It’s like a fairy tale. Everything is so white and clean …’
‘And nobbling.’
‘Trust you to be prosaic. Even the street looks spotless coated in snow.’
‘It was white yesterday morning and the one before that. In a few hours it will turn filthy again once people have walked on it.’
She brushed out her hair, twisted it into a knot, and pinned it into a chignon. ‘I’m ready and I’m going to have first choice of pancakes at breakfast.’
‘Tell Praskovia I’ll have eggs and ham please.’ He left the bed and moved towards her.
Smile, Peter. We’re one day closer to moving into the hospital.’
‘I suspect there will be too many days before moving in day, for one to matter.’ He pulled her close and kissed her. ‘The bed’s still warm.’
‘I’m dressed.’
‘I’m not.’
She pushed him back on the bed and slipped her hand between his thighs.
‘I’d rather I wasn’t the only naked one. But if this is all you’re prepared to give, I’ll exact full payment tonight.’
‘With interest?’
‘You can bet on it.’
Beletsky Mansion, Hughesovka
December 1870
The butler knocked softly at the count’s study door.
‘Enter!’ Nicholas looked up from the journal he was reading. ‘If there’s a household problem, solve it.’
‘The mistress is ill, Your Excellency.’
‘The countess is always ill.’
‘Not this ill, Your Excellency. Miss Smith is with her as well as her maid and the housekeeper.’
Irritated, Nicholas went upstairs. The door to his wife’s room was open. His wife’s maid was standing beside the bed alongside Miss Smith.
He clamped his handkerchief over his nose and stepped in but didn’t venture as far as the bed. His wife’s skin was damp and grey. Her was pillow soaked in foul-smelling thin grey fluid which she was vomiting.
‘What is the problem?’ He addressed the housekeeper.
‘Her ladyship’s pulse is weak, Your Excellency. As you see, she has severe stomach pains and diarrhoea …’
‘Send the groom to Mr Hughes’s office to fetch the company doctor. I want him here immediately.’
Glyn Edwards’ house, Hughesovka
December 1870
‘You’re late this morning, sir,’ Praskovia commented when Peter appeared at the breakfast table.
Peter looked at the cleared places. ‘Richard and Glyn have left?’
‘They went to the office before dawn.’
‘Sarah and Anna have gone to Father Grigor’s?’
‘Half an hour ago with Vlad in the hospital sleigh. Mrs Edwards told me to remind you Brin is making pancakes with meat sauce for lunch.’
‘Good as Brin is, she’s not as good a cook as your mother.’
‘I’ll be sure not to tell my mother that or her head will swell too big for her to walk through the door, sir. I’ll fetch your ham and eggs.’
‘Only if they’re ready and it’s no trouble.’
‘They’re ready, sir.’
Hughesovka
December 1870
Peter finished breakfast, wrapped himself in his overcoat, muffler, gloves, and fur-lined boots and tramped through the snow to the office. Richard, Glyn, and Huw were huddled around the stove.
‘Good morning, have the medical supplies I ordered been delivered, Huw?’
‘Nothing today, Peter. But now the storms have died down I’m expecting more deliveries to come through from Taganrog.’
‘Good to see you all drinking hard instead of working.’ Peter nodded to a clay jug on the counter. He’d been shocked the first morning in Hughesovka when Praskovia had set a bottle of vodka alongside the samovar and coffee pot on the breakfast table, but it hadn’t reappeared at breakfast since. He presumed Glyn had told their housekeeper the British didn’t begin the day with alcohol.
Huw raised his beaker. ‘We are working hard, planning out work schedules.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
Huw avoided the question. ‘The drink is alcohol-free and refreshing. Help yourself.’
Peter filled a beaker. ‘It’s good, what is it?’
‘Cherry cordial from Count Beletsky’s store,’ Huw revealed. ‘The first of last summer’s brewing to be opened. The cook sent the pitcher down this morning. The recipe is secret; as well as cherries, it includes lemons and honey.’
‘The Beletskys’ cook chasing you, Huw?’ Glyn suggested. ‘Hasn’t she heard about your evenings in Koshka’s with the little blonde Bohemian?’
Huw didn’t like humour that bordered on personal. ‘The cook is being neighbourly and the cordial is a thank you after I sent her up a couple of boxes of English tea. Mrs Ignatova told me the countess is fond of it and they’d run out. According to the Beletskys’ housekeeper the countess hardly leaves her bed.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Peter said. ‘Mrs Ignatova told me the countess is expecting her thirteenth child in the spring, although her last isn’t out of nappies. I sent a message offering to attend her but the count has yet to take me up on it.’
‘Is he home?’ Glyn checked.
‘Returned from St Petersburg two weeks ago,’ Huw answered.
‘We may not have a Hughesovka newspaper, but we have the next best thing: the gossip circle around Huw’s stove,’ Glyn joked. ‘Now we’ve finished assessing the Company’s collieries we can start surveying the first of the Edwards’ brothers’ pits. Ready, Richard?’
Huw glanced out of the window. ‘Your sleigh hasn’t arrived from the stable.’
‘Then we’ll just have to sit here warming our toes and drinking cherry cordial for a while longer.’
A man dressed in the outdoor livery of the Beletsky Estate galloped up as if he were charging on a battlefield. He reined in his horse, jumped from the saddle, barged through the open door, and shouted to Huw.
Huw listened to him before turning to Peter. ‘Apparently the count did note your offer to visit the countess, Peter. She’s ill and the count has sent for you, but by the sound of the invitation only because you’re closer than the doctors in Taganrog.’
‘That’s my sleigh pulling up, take it, Peter. I’ll use yours when it comes,’ Glyn offered.
‘Thank you. Ask the driver to drive past Father’s Grigor’s please, Huw? I need to pick up Sarah and my bag.’
Huw briefed the driver. ‘Good luck.’ He went to the door and watched Peter climb into the sleigh. ‘Cure the coun
tess and you’ll have every aristocrat within three days journey queuing to join your practice.’
Beletsky Mansion, Hughesovka
December 1870
Count Beletsky was pacing up and down beneath the portico. ‘I expected you sooner.’
‘I’m sorry …’
The count cut Peter’s apologies short. ‘My wife is very ill.’
Peter grabbed his doctor’s bag and jumped from the sleigh. ‘Her symptoms?’
‘Vomiting, diarrhoea …’
‘Her temperature?’
‘According to her maid her skin is cold and damp.’
Peter looked at Sarah. They’d seen hundreds if not thousands of people with those symptoms during a pandemic in London in 1866. The final death toll had stood at over four thousand in the East End alone. He entered the house.
‘Upstairs,’ Nicholas informed him.
Peter ran up the staircase.
A crowd of women, some wailing, their faces buried in their aprons had gathered outside a door on the gallery. Peter pushed through. A stern-faced woman dressed in black was hovering at the foot of an enormous bed.
‘I’m Dr Edwards.’ Peter turned. His host was nowhere in sight. ‘Does anyone here speak English?’
‘Yes.’ The woman in black answered. ‘I am the count’s governess. Miss Smith.’
Sarah went to the bed. The countess was lying on a damp sheet. Two women in maids’ uniforms were sponging her face, neck, and arms. Their sponges dripped, soaking the bed, but the countess lay staring at the ceiling, apparently oblivious to discomfort.
One of the women spoke in Russian.
‘The children’s nurse is asking if you wish to have a hot bath prepared or if you intend to apply electrical stimuli, Dr Edwards.’
‘Neither until I’ve examined my patient. Ask the countess if she’s in pain?’
Miss Smith clamped her handkerchief over her nose before stepping closer to the bed. The countess drew up her knees and screamed.
Sarah picked up Olga’s hand and checked her pulse. ‘Weak and thready.’ She ran her hands over the sheet that covered the countess’s abdomen. ‘Five, maybe six months pregnant.’
Peter examined the countess’s eyes and felt her skin. ‘Is anyone else ill in the house?’
‘Five of the count’s daughters,’ Miss Smith volunteered.
‘They have the same symptoms?’
‘All have been vomiting but not as violently as the countess. The youngest, a baby, is well.’
‘Sarah, prepare a hypodermic of morphine and pass my bag.’
Sarah gave the bag to him and Peter removed his stethoscope.
Sarah saw to the syringe. ‘Miss Smith, order all the water used for cooking, drinking and washing in the house to be boiled. That applies to the water used for washing vegetables and fruit as well as clothes and personal use. Take me to the count’s daughters. I’ll need salt …’
Miss Smith glared. ‘And you are?’
‘Mrs Edwards, Dr Edwards’ wife. Matron of the hospital when it’s finished.’
‘You need hot water for baths?’
‘I need every drop of water used in this house to be boiled,’ Sarah reiterated. ‘Please make a list of everything that needs to be done so nothing is forgotten. Is there anyone else in the house who speaks English?’
‘The count.’
‘Could I speak to him please?’
‘I have no idea where he is.’
‘Find him.’
‘I’m not in the habit of enquiring after my employer’s whereabouts.’
Sarah barely managed to keep her exasperation in check as Miss Smith led the way along the gallery.
‘You wanted to see the count’s daughters, Mrs Edwards. This is their bedroom.’ She opened the door.
Maids were sponging down the girls. They curtsied when they saw Sarah and the governess.
‘This struck suddenly. The girls and the countess were quite well at breakfast. Do you know what it is, Mrs Edwards?’ Miss Smith remained outside the door.
‘Yes. The children’s nurse who asked about electrical stimulus and hot baths recognised it. It’s cholera. It’s vital we track down the source of the infection before anyone else succumbs. Pass on the directive about boiling all the water in the house immediately.’
‘Cholera!’ Nicholas looked up at Peter from behind his desk. ‘That’s impossible unless …’
‘You were about to say, sir?’ Peter had been surprised to find the count reading in his study. He recognised the cover of his book. Pornographic novels had littered the medical students’ common rooms in London.
‘The Jews. They’ve killed Christians for centuries, especially aristocrats. They’ve obviously broken into the house and poisoned the water supply.’
‘I’ve made enquiries, sir. The water used in this house is drawn from an outside well behind the kitchen. Everyone has drunk from it, yet the only people exhibiting symptoms are your wife, five oldest daughters, and your cook. You, your baby daughter, and the rest of your servants appear to be unaffected. The only way of contracting cholera is by ingesting contaminated water or food. It’s imperative we find the source.’
‘The Jews. You may not have come across them in Britain but everyone in Russia knows that they carry disease and delight in spreading it.’
Peter was tempted to tell the count his mother had been a Sephardi Jew, but saw no point in inflaming him more than he already was. ‘Have any Jews visited in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘They wouldn’t come here openly. They know I’d order the servants to set the dogs on them.’
‘Then how could they poison your water supply?’
‘By sneaking into the kitchen yard when everyone’s in bed.’
‘But not everyone in the house is ill.’
Catherine sailed into the room. She’d tied a servants’ apron over her silk gown and rolled up her lace-trimmed sleeves.
‘About to scrub the kitchen floor, Catherine?’ Nicholas baited.
Catherine ignored him. ‘Dr Edwards, your wife needs you. My daughter’s worse.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ignatova.’
‘Please, call me Catherine. Is there anything I can do? I feel useless. Seeing your wife ministering to my daughter and granddaughters makes me wish I’d taken up nursing instead of embroidery.’
‘How about detective work?’ Peter felt odd. One moment he was hot, the next cold. He was having difficulty focusing. Nicholas and Catherine appeared to be at the end of an elastic rope, pinging backwards and forwards …backwards and forwards …
‘Are you all right, Dr Edwards?’
Peter heard Catherine but didn’t answer her. ‘I’m trying to track the source of the infection.’ He quoted from a textbook. ‘Cholera is waterborne and can only be contracted by drinking from an infected supply or eating fresh food that’s been washed in contaminated water.’
‘You think the water supply in the house is poisoned?’
‘If it was, everyone would be ill.’ Peter knew he was slurring. ‘Please question the servants and the patients who can talk. We need to isolate …’ He put one foot in front of the other and staggered.
Catherine steadied him. ‘Sit down, Dr Edwards?’
‘I’m tired, that’s all.’ He stumbled and fell.
‘Dr Edwards …’
‘Fetch my wife, Catherine, please.’
Chapter Seven
Beletsky Mansion, Hughesovka
December 1870
‘I’m sorry, Catherine. ‘I’ve been ordering you about as if you’re a ward maid.’ Emotionally and physically drained, Sarah sank down on a stool beside Olga’s bed. The five Beletsky girls had been moved into the adjoining dressing room. She could hear one raving in delirium.
‘Don’t trouble yourself about my feelings, my dear.’ Catherine patted Sarah’s hand. ‘I’m grateful there’s someone in the house who knows what has to be done. The butler’s moving Dr Edwards into a guest room in this corridor so w
e can keep all the patients in one wing of the house. Tell me what I can do?’
Sarah went through the mental check list she’d made. ‘Miss Smith is ensuring that all the water in the house is being boiled. The assistant cook is making salt poultices, a parlour maid is mixing laudanum and starch for enemas, another combining turpentine and mustard to bind over the abdomen for counter-irritation.’ She reached down for Peter’s doctor’s bag, opened it, and checked the morphine phials. ‘We need to send someone to the Company Office to find more medication. Is there anyone here who can mix ammonia in brandy? Four drops to half a glass. It will help alleviate the patients’ cramps.’
‘Olga will have ammonia and brandy in the house. I’ll give orders for the mix to be made.’
Catherine watched Olga draw her knees up to her chest.
‘She can have half a glass of brandy and ammonia. I dare not give her any more morphine for four hours.’
The door slammed back on its hinges and the count materialised in the doorway. ‘Catherine, I demand an explanation.’
‘Quiet, Nicholas. Olga and the girls need rest.’
‘You’re giving my servants orders as if you’re the mistress of this house.’
‘Someone has to take control, Nicholas.’
‘You’ve turned my home into a hospital.’
‘It makes sense to nurse the patients in one place. You have rooms, servants, and Miss Smith is on hand to interpret Mrs Edwards’ orders.’
Nicholas glared at Sarah. ‘You’re in charge of doctoring the patients?’
‘I’m a nurse, not a doctor, Count Beletsky.’ Sarah hadn’t felt so inadequate since she’d begun her training.
‘Quite! Yet you’ve set everyone in my household charging around as if there are half a dozen bears loose.’
‘There’s worse, Nicholas, there’s cholera,’ Catherine countered. ‘Mrs Edwards has experience of treating the disease, which is more than anyone else.’
‘I wish we could call on a doctor, Count Beletsky, but Peter’s in no condition to give advice.’ Sarah felt the count’s criticism of her professional capability justified.
Alexei, dressed in a fur-lined cape and mud-stained riding boots appeared. He was risking more than inciting his father’s wrath at his presence. Dirty boots worn indoors were a cardinal sin in the count’s eyes.
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