‘Alexei, I forbade you this house. You’re filthy …’
‘My apologies, sir. I hadn’t time to change. Mr Hughes sent me to fetch Dr Edwards. Mr Edwards, Mr Thomas, Richard Parry, and two of the clerks are ill.’
‘Sweats, vomiting, stomach cramps?’ Sarah asked.
‘Violent vomiting and flux.’
‘Peter can’t attend them, he has the same symptoms.’
‘Where are they?’ Catherine asked.
‘The Company Office.’
‘Tell Mr Hughes to convey them here.’
‘Do that, Catherine, and I’ll move into the hotel,’ Nicholas threatened.
‘Excellent idea, Nicholas. Then the servants can concentrate on caring for the patients instead of looking after you. Alexei, send for Nathan Kharber.’
‘I’ll have no Jew under my roof,’ Nicholas thundered.
‘As you won’t be here, it won’t make the slightest difference to you whether Nathan Kharber is here or not. Alexei, fetch him.’
‘The builder?’ Sarah asked Catherine.
‘He studied medicine in Paris. He’s a qualified doctor,’ Alexei explained.
‘Are there any nurses?’ The countess, her daughters, Peter, Huw, Glyn, Richard, the clerks … How many more would be struck down? ‘We need trained nurses.’
‘If any of the women in the shtetl are even halfway trained, bring them, Alexei.’ Catherine wrung out the cloth she’d been using to sponge her daughter’s face, handed it to Sarah and said, ‘I’ll see to that brandy and ammonia.’
Sarah crouched over Peter, monitoring his breathing. Alexei had ordered the servants to move more beds into the room and Glyn, Huw, and Richard lay alongside Peter. All four were desperately ill, but the last time she’d checked, Huw’s pulse was the weakest.
‘Any change, Mrs Edwards?’ Nathan Kharber had entered and she’d been too concerned by Peter’s condition to notice.
‘Not since the last time you examined the patients, Dr Kharber.’ She wondered if it was her imagination or if Nathan had smiled when she’d addressed him as ‘doctor.’
‘Have you had much experience of cholera?’
‘I nursed through the 1866 pandemic in London. Everyone in the hospital worked twenty-hour shifts. Despite our best efforts, more than three-quarters of our patients died.’
‘You’ve had more experience of the disease than me.’ He leaned against the wall.
‘You haven’t seen many cases?’
‘A dozen mariners in Paris who sailed up the Seine on a boat stocked with infected water barrels, and fifteen cases in Vienna who drank from a contaminated well. I’ve studied the available papers but theory can never match experience. In your opinion what’s the most successful treatment?’
‘I’m a nurse, not a doctor, Dr Kharber.’
‘A nurse who’s treated more cases than anyone within a hundred miles. I need help, Mrs Edwards. I’ve already been accused of killing one man who was at death’s door before I reached him. If the locals hear of more deaths they can blame me for, they’ll burn me at the stake.’
‘That’s a poor joke, Dr Kharber.’
‘It’s not a joke, Mrs Edwards. There was an outbreak of cholera in Russia in 1852. A million died and over a hundred Jewish doctors were murdered for not saving their patients. The doctors favoured the aperient method of purging the patients to rid them of the poison, but doctors in Vienna believe the astringent method aimed at stopping vomiting and the flux, and conserving the body’s fluids, to be best. The latest thought suggests that the hot bath, injection of saline solution, and morphine and chalk can give relief.’
‘We tried everything in London; injections of saline solution, hot baths, electric shock, opium and chalk mixtures, brandy and ammonia. We kept records but found the application of different treatments had little effect on the death toll. As many patients died who’d been given laxatives as morphine and chalk. Some died within hours of exhibiting symptoms, some days after they appeared to make a full recovery. That was the hardest. Facing parents who’d seen their child responding to treatment, and believed they were out of danger.’
Peter moved restlessly. Sarah wrapped her hands around his.
Alexei stole in.
‘Your sisters?’ Sarah didn’t relinquish her hold on Peter’s hands.
‘Ruth, Miriam, and Anna are with them. There’s no change.’
‘Your mother?’ Nathan moved away from the wall.
‘My grandmother is with her. I think it’s possible the infection originated in the cherry cordial the cook made last summer. She opened the first of the bottles this morning. The kitchen maid said the cook put a pitcher of the cordial on my sisters’ breakfast table. A glass was taken up to my mother on her breakfast tray. The maid couldn’t say how many of the servants drank it, other than the cook and the girl who served breakfast and she’s just collapsed.’
‘That doesn’t explain Peter, Glyn, Huw, Richard, and the clerks.’ Sarah turned to Huw. He looked so close to death she watched until she could be certain she’d seen his chest move.
‘The cook sent a pitcher to the company office this morning as a thank you to Mr Thomas for the gift of a box of English tea for my mother. I’m guessing Mr Thomas shared it with the others.’
‘Wouldn’t the cook have made the cordial with water from the well in the kitchen yard? We know that’s not contaminated,’ Sarah said.
‘She would have also used cherries and lemons. I remember an argument in the spring between the head gardener and one of his assistants after the man used human waste to fertilize the fruit trees in the hot houses. The man was dismissed. The head gardener ordered the trees to be potted in clean earth. It’s possible some weren’t.’
‘That could be the source,’ Nathan agreed, ‘we know outbreaks can be caused by contaminated fruit and vegetables as well as water. Thank you, Alexei.’
‘What about the remaining bottles of cordial?’ Sarah asked.
‘I’ve asked the servants to stockpile all the wine and cordials the cook brewed last summer in one of the pantries. Is there some way of testing the contents for cholera?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. The bottles will have to be disposed of well away from the water table and river. Until we can be certain the cordial is the source, tell Miss Smith to be vigilant and insist the servants continue boiling all the water until they’re ordered not to,’ Sarah reminded.
‘I will, Mrs Edwards. Mr Hughes is downstairs. He’s unpacking the morphine and medical supplies we brought.’
‘Where’s the maid who’s been taken ill?’ Nathan asked.
‘In the cook’s room. Mr Thomas’s clerks are next door to them.’
‘I’ll look at her before I check your mother and sisters.’ Nathan went to the door. Alf Mahoney was hovering, cap in hand outside.
‘Excuse me, sir …’
Sarah heard his voice. ‘Alf?’
‘I brought Praskovia here, Mrs Edwards. She wants to help. I heard Dr Edwards, Mr Edwards, and Mr Thomas are ill.’
‘If you’ve come to help, you’re very welcome, Mr?’
‘Mahoney. Alf Mahoney.’ Alf saw the stethoscope and added, ‘Dr, sir.’
‘I’ll be back after I’ve checked on our new patient, Mrs Edwards.’ Nathan left.
‘You didn’t go to the office this morning, Alf?’ Sarah asked.
‘No, Ma’am, I haven’t been to the office in weeks. We’ve been that busy in Mr Edwards’ colliery …’
‘You haven’t drunk any cordial?’ Alexei questioned.
‘Cordial? No, sir, only beer and that white stuff that looks like water but blows your head off.’
‘You’re not feeling ill, Alf?’ Sarah persisted.
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘If you want to help, take an apron from that pile. The beds will need changing soon.’
‘And me, Mrs Edwards?’
‘Check with Dr Kharber and Mr Hughes, Alexei. If they don’t need you I can find a million and
one things for you to do.’ She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s time to monitor the patients’ vital signs.’
Sarah busied herself for the next few hours, giving orders, taking care when delegating responsibility not to entrust any of her untrained helpers with tasks beyond their capabilities. But, no matter which patient she was tending, she couldn’t stop thinking about Peter or gravitating to his side every spare moment, although John and Alf had taken it upon themselves to watch over the men’s room.
She was sitting next to Peter’s bed at three in the morning when Alexei came looking for her.
‘Nathan needs you. Mr Thomas’s clerk is having trouble breathing.’
‘Any change, Mr Hughes, please send Alf to fetch me or Dr Kharber.’ Sarah followed Alexei down the landing to a door set discreetly behind a curtain. The servants’ quarters were very different from those of the family, with narrow grey passageways and plain deal doors. There were no pictures on the walls to brighten the Spartan atmosphere. Alexei led her to an open door. Nathan was checking the pulse at a patient’s neck. Sarah took one look and knew they were about to record the first death.
She waited until Nathan covered the man’s face with the sheet. ‘Did you know him, Alexei?’
‘He was German. Mr Thomas took him on six months ago. His name was Horst Mulder.’
A footman was sitting next to the second patient in the room. Nathan checked the man’s pulse and spoke to the servant in Russian before joining Sarah and Alexei.
‘Alexei, Mr Mulder needs to be buried quickly, in high ground away from the water table.’
‘I’ll ask Mr Hughes if he’s made plans for a cemetery for his workers.’ Alexei left.
‘How are Dr Edwards and the other men?’ Nathan enquired.
Sarah rubbed her eyes. They felt gritty and ached from lack of sleep. ‘I’m concerned about Huw.’
‘I’m concerned about all of them.’ Nathan led the way back to the guest wing. ‘Our first death.’
‘I would like to believe it will be our last, but experience suggests that would be optimistic.’
‘Four of the countess’s daughters are very ill.’
‘You don’t think they’ll recover?’ Sarah’s blood ran cold. As a nurse she was accustomed to death but she always found it difficult to accept the untimely curtailment of young lives.
‘Their fate is in God’s hands more than ours.’ Nathan entered the men’s room.
Alf was sitting beside Huw’s bed ‘Mr Hughes went downstairs with Alexei to check maps.’
Sarah went to Peter, picked up his hand, and automatically checked his pulse.
‘It’s a nurse’s lot to check someone’s vital signs before talking to them,’ Nathan commented.
‘Especially when a doctor is watching.’
‘Mr Hughes made an excellent choice when he appointed you matron of his hospital. You’re not only a capable nurse but have first-class organisational skills. The two don’t always go together.’
‘Why didn’t you tell Peter you were a doctor?’
‘After a few months back in the shtetl I’d almost forgotten my qualifications.’
‘No doctor would consider working as a builder in England. It would be regarded as a waste of his studies.’
‘Even if he was Jewish?’
‘As I said to the girls when I offered them positions as ward maids, what difference does religion make?’
‘My sister said she found it difficult to explain to you what being a Jew in Russia entails.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Ruth.’
‘She told me she was a Jew, but I fail to see the importance of someone’s religion when it comes to working in a hospital.’
‘You will if you stay in Russia.’
She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Almost four.’
‘The witching hour when the devil leaves his lair and hunts for souls to reap. Or so, a nun in Vienna informed me.’
‘I’ve noticed most deaths occur during the darkest hours.’
‘And most births.’ He smiled at her and she realised that behind the forbidding exterior was a warm, humane man. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Mrs Edwards. Let’s pray the devil doesn’t walk abroad to harvest any more souls this night. Stay with your husband. I’ll check the ladies.’
‘Matron … Matron … Mrs Edwards … Mrs
Edwards …’ Sarah could hear someone calling her but the pull of sleep was too great. She didn’t want to surface. The heavily accented voice persisted. She forced open her eyes. She was lying, slumped forward, her head resting on her arms on Peter’s bed.
She looked anxiously at him. His skin was cold, damp with perspiration. His face grey.
‘Matron?’
Ruth was standing over her. ‘Mrs Ignatova needs help in the countess’s room. Miriam is fetching Nathan.’
Sarah leapt to her feet and ran. Praskovia and Catherine were hovering at Olga’s bedside. The countess’s face was pinched, her mouth slack. Her eyes glazed.
‘Ruth, Praskovia, look after the countess’s daughters. Mrs Ignatova and I can manage here.’ She folded back the sheet and laid her hand on Olga’s chest.
‘Will she lose the child?’ Catherine asked.
‘I’m more concerned about the mother than the child,’ Nathan walked in with Alexei.
‘Mother …’
‘Alexei, please go and sit with Alf,’ Sarah ordered. ‘If there’s any change in the men’s condition, fetch me.’
Sarah and Nathan both knew it would only be a matter of time before Olga Beletsky breathed her last, and as the child she was carrying was too small to survive outside of her womb it would die with her.
Sarah washed Olga, dressed her in a clean nightgown, and helped Catherine change the bed linen. When Olga looked as presentable as they could make her, Sarah pulled the sheet up to her chin.
‘Time for my son-in-law and grandson to say their goodbyes?’ Catherine was dry eyed but her voice was hoarse.
‘Would you like me to fetch them?’ Sarah asked.
‘My grandson, please. Send a servant to the hotel. Count Beletsky should be informed. It will be his choice whether he attends Olga’s deathbed or not.’
Alexei was at the door of the men’s room. ‘I sent a footman to the hotel. He’s already returned. My father said he’ll come in the morning.’
‘He’ll be too late.’
‘My mother?’
‘I’m sorry, Alexei. It won’t be long.’ She watched him walk down the corridor.
‘Mr Thomas and Richard both look very ill,’ Alf said after Alexei left.
‘They can’t have another dose of morphine for an hour. Please, keep sponging them down, Alf. That’s all we can do for them at the moment.’ Sarah returned to the countess’s room. After a whispered conversation, Nathan picked up Peter’s doctor’s bag and went to the men’s room.
Alexei sat next to his grandmother. Olga tossed and turned, occasionally moaning and crying out. Catherine closed the connecting door to the girls’ room and warned Ruth to use the door that opened into the corridor lest the girls see their mother in pain.
When Olga finally fell quiet Sarah watched the life ebb from her body. It was sight she’d witnessed many times but always found hard to bear.
Catherine leaned close to her daughter watching every breath grow more laboured, until eventually they ceased.
Alexei released his hold on his mother’s hand. ‘I’ll get Nathan.’
‘He won’t be able to do anything, Alexei, sit with your mother and say your goodbyes. I’ll be back to help you lay your daughter out, Catherine.’ Sarah went outside and bowed her head lest anyone see just how close she was to tears.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Mrs Edwards?’
Alf was in front of her. ‘That would be kind of you. Do you know where to go?’
‘I’ll ask Praskovia.’
‘She’s busy in the girls’ room. If you go downstairs the night porter sittin
g by the door will show where the kitchens are. Take a cup to show him what you want.’ She lifted one from a tray that had been left on a side table.
Sarah entered the men’s room. Nathan had covered Huw’s face.
Three deaths! She turned to Peter.
‘No!’
Her scream was silent. She fell to her knees and fumbled blindly for Peter’s hand. It was warm.
She knew the temperature of cholera patients rose before death and their corpses continued warm, sometimes for hours. But that didn’t stop her from hoping Peter would breathe again. Turn and smile at her, sick as he was, to let her know he was alive and would continue to live.
Something tore within her. A sharp pain felled her to her knees. When she looked down and saw bright red blood coating her shoes and legs she screamed.
She’d not only lost Peter, but the last vestige of him. Their child.
The Tsar’s Dragons series
by
Catrin Collier
For more information on Accent Press
titles, please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
CATRIN COLLIER
Requiem in the Snow
ISBN 9781783755943
Published by Accent Press 2014
Copyright © Catrin Collier 2014
The right of Catrin Collier to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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