Chapter 20
A young boy ran in front of them, shouting a greeting. Alastair winced as the lad urgently tugged on his injured arm.
You came! the boy cried. Then he became grave in an instant.
She isn’t good, doc. All stove up in her chest.
Don’t worry, Davy, I’ll do what I can, Alastair replied. I am sorry we weren’t here sooner. We were out of London for the day.
It’s all right; you came. I knew you would. The boy shifted his attention to Cynda. He was probably about twelve years old, though judging the age of a street urchin was nearly impossible.
Dirty face, ragged clothes, a slight limp.
Right out of one of Dickens’ stories.
The boy tapped his cap in respect. Miss, he said.
Good evening, Davy.
He waved them forward. This way. Mind the floor, he warned.
From Cynda’s point of view, calling the structure they were entering a building would be overly generous. It stank of mildew, and where the floor didn’t have gaping holes, it was covered in refuse. As she followed the pair, she stepped on something soft. Jerking away in surprise, she saw that it was a dead cat. Cynda swallowed hard to keep her supper from joining it.
Midway up the staircase, the doctor paused. Davy, you help Miss Lassiter up, and I’ll go tend to your mother.
Right, doc.
Before Cynda could reply, the doctor was on the move, dodging right and left like a climber working up the side of a treacherous mountain. As she approached, she realized why he moved in such an erratic fashion. There were jagged holes in some of the stair treads, and no railing. The remaining stairs looked spongy, ready to collapse as soon as you put any weight on them.
Mind you, don’t touch the walls. They move, Davy advised.
Move? she repeated incredulously, peering more closely at the nearest one. The boy wasn’t jesting. The wall rippled as if something were living underneath it. Lots of somethings.
Somehow, she didn’t think they were illusionary.
Oh, great, she muttered.
Here, take me hand, miss, the lad offered. I’ll help you.
Thank you. Why didn’t I stay at the boarding house?
Her skirts proved a liability, catching on the jagged boards as she ascended. The tenants were aware of which steps were sound and which were not: It was all a matter of practice. Put your foot wrong, and you fell through and snapped an ankle. Simple enough.
The landlord should fix these, she sputtered.
He don’t do nothing but collect the rent, Davy said, and offer to cut a little off if me mum would go with him. Cynda stared at the boy when she realized what he meant. She tells him no,
Davy added.
Good for her.
By the time Cynda reached the second floor, she was sweating through her dress. Davy set off like a shot for the last door at the end of a dismal corridor. As she followed, an argument rose in the apartment to the right, followed by the screeching howl of a baby.
She found Alastair sitting on a rickety chair near his patient’s bed. Davy’s mother was so pale, Cynda thought she might be carved of ice—so thin, she nearly melted into the bed. A low, rasping sound came from her lungs, like pushing air through syrup. Davy huddled near the head of the bed, holding his mother’s hand. His lip quivered, a flicker away from sobs.
When did the fever start? Alastair asked, returning his stethoscope to the Gladstone. The woman started to answer, and he shook his head. Let Davy answer. You work on breathing. A feeble nod.
This morning. She went to work ’spite of it. Said they’d give her the sack.
Cynda ground her teeth at the thought. A visual tour of the meager hovel didn’t improve her mood: a tiny table, a couple of chairs, the single bed, a pallet near the cold fireplace. Two books sat on the tabletop. She leaned over to study them. One was a Bible. She peered at the verse. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want, she whispered. A child’s primer sat open to a lesson; a grimy piece of paper adorned with writing sat in front of it, the stub of a worn pencil resting on top.
I…can’t…pay…you, Mrs. Butler croaked.
No payment required, Alastair said. Davy helps out at the clinic, and he’s a good lad. I want you to take some medicine every three hours. It will ease the pain in your chest. He looked up at the boy. Ensure she takes it. Don’t halve the dose to save it for later. Use it all. It will help her breathe. When you run low, I’ll bring more. Do you understand?
Right, doc. How much does she take? the lad asked, his voice stronger now. The task appeared to buoy him.
I’ll show you, Alastair said, rising from the bed. He beckoned Davy near the single candle on the table and demonstrated how to measure the medicine. The boy scrunched his face in concentration, nodding occasionally.
Not knowing what else to do, Cynda sat near the ill woman, taking her hand. It boiled inside hers. She looked about Cynda’s age, maybe younger.
Take…care…of…my…son.
Cynda’s heart sank. The woman knew how ill she was.
We will until you’re well enough to take care of him yourself.
A painfully slow nod. Cynda smoothed back the woman’s damp hair. What must it be like to live like this?
Alastair returned from his tutelage and administered the first dose while Davy watched intently. The bottle looked like the one they’d found in Chris’ pocket, except this label was intact. Once the task was complete, the doctor gestured Cynda to join him near the empty fireplace.
She needs nourishing food and some coal for the fire. Can you go with Davy and purchase some?
Down those stairs again? Sure. When he began to dig through his pockets, she shook her head. I’ve got money.
He looked at her feet. Best to retrieve it now than on the street.
Good idea.
If you can locate some clean linen, I’ll make a chest poultice to help draw out the infection.
I’ll see what we can find.
Alastair grew solemn. Please be very careful.
Don’t worry, doc; I’ll watch out for her, Davy said with more bravado in his voice than boys twice his age.
Alastair patted him on the shoulder. I’m sure you will, son.
After Cynda liberated money from her boot, much to the lad’s amusement, they retreated down the stairs. The sound of pouring rain greeted them, right on schedule. She flipped open the umbrella and Davy shifted the coal scuttle in his hands to crowd underneath.
This way, miss, he said, pointing into the rain.
Jacynda, she replied.
David Edward Butler, he said proudly, and they shook hands. Sounds right posh, don’t it?
Yes, it does.
I’m named after me dad. The boy’s face lost its smile. Mum’s not goin’ to get better, is she? She has that look they have right before they go away. Me sister and me brother looked the same.
Cynda put her hand on his shoulder. Doctor Montrose will do his best.
The boy nodded sadly. He did right by me. He wouldn’t give up. Others would have let me lay in the muck and die, but not him. He’s a saint, he is, and I’ll have none say a word agin’ him.
Yes, he’s a saint, she agreed, marveling at the heart of the man.
Davy gave her penetrating look. Are you his lady?
Me? No, just a friend.
The boy brightened. I’d like him to take a shine to me mum.
She’d be all right for him.
She’s a very nice woman.
The boy gave a nod. She’ll make a fine angel someday.
Davy proved an excellent escort, despite the deluge. The rain was a mixed blessing: It soaked their clothes, but also drove the nastier folk off the street. On their rounds through some of the most desolate back alleys she’d ever encountered, they found stew, fresh bread and a couple of apples. Another stop netted them reasonably clean linens, which Cynda tucked under her clothes to keep dry. Throughout their journey, folks called to the boy by name, asking about his mother. He put on a brave front and returned the banter without revealing the truth.
Pleased with their finds, the lad’s spirits continued to rise with each step.
Mum will love the apples. She never gets to eat them. They’ll put her right for sure.
Good. Now, where do we find coal? Cynda asked, examining the sodden-gray world around them. How the child found his way in this Stygian darkness baffled her. No wonder the Queen had harped about the lack of streetlights in the East End.
This way, Davy said, pointing. He set off at a brisk clip.
Once the coal scuttle was full and covered by a piece of burlap to keep the rain off, they headed back toward Davy’s crib, as he called it. When they encountered any suspicious figures, he glowered and puffed himself up. A couple of them chuckled at his antics, but none challenged him.
Fearing she’d stumble and drop the food, Cynda made Davy climb the stairs first, provisions in hand. By the time she reached the top step, sweating and out of breath, he’d already made his delivery and raced back.
It’s good the landlord…isn’t where I can get…my hands around his neck, she gasped.
Davy stared at her in surprise. You’d strangle him?
I would, at least until he promised to fix the damned stairs.
A moment too late, she realized she’d sworn. Davy’s eyes grew wide. Sorry.
Best not say that in front of me mum, he advised. She’s got some wicked soap and she’ll use it on you.
I’ll behave myself, Cynda promised with a wink.
He winked back and took her hand, guiding her the remaining few steps to his home.
The nourishing food and warm fire seemed to revive the patient. The poultice—some gruesome-smelling concoction the doctor made from whatever was lurking in his bag—proved as helpful as all the other treatments. In time, Davy’s mother fell asleep, her breathing less labored.
Give her the medicine as I ordered, Alastair whispered near the lad’s ear, and I’ll be back in the morning.
I’ll do it, doc.
If there is any change, come for me at once. Davy gave a nod, then a long yawn. And wash your face, will you? A grin this time.
There was no conversation as the doctor and Cynda negotiated the treacherous stairs. Rain pelted the open entrance in endless torrents, sending a fine spray in their faces.
Alastair looked back the way they’d come. She has an infection in her chest. If I can break her fever, she’ll live. If not…
She’ll make a fine angel. If she dies, what happens to Davy?
Cynda asked.
He’ll either live on the streets or go into one of the orphanages.
Just like Oliver Twist, she murmured.
Alastair nodded. I intend to see that doesn’t happen. His mother and I spoke while you were out. If she passes on, I’ll support the lad until he’s grown.
She stared upward into the doctor’s rain-dampened face.
How? You have barely enough money as it is. You were living on the ‘one apple for supper’ plan a short time ago.
I will take on other work as needed.
You already work more hours in a day than––
He raised his hand to silence her. I promised the woman I would look after her son and I shall do it, no matter the personal cost. He may not seem like much to you, but given a decent upbringing he could become a doctor, or even a member of Parliament someday. All he requires is a chance.
She tipped up on her toes, placing her palms on either side of his face. He smiled at her touch.
You’re incredible, Doctor Alastair Montrose. You refuse to give up.
Much like you, Miss Jacynda Lassiter.
What I do is not important. You make a difference.
A snort. I’d debate that.
It’s too wet to argue; let’s go home. She hesitated. What time is it?
He pulled out the watch and angled it until he could read the dial.
Half-past eleven. He looked up, snapping it closed. You are very curious about the time.
Part of the job.
Alastair crowded under the umbrella. After some fumbling, they switched tasks to accommodate their injured arms; she toted the Gladstone in her left hand while he held the umbrella in the right to shield them from the deluge.
We’ll take the royal way home, he announced.