The Irish Healer

Chapter 15





James!” Sophia’s voice boomed down the hallway, followed by the crisp rustle of her heavy skirts drawing near the office. Flustered, Peg scrambled to get ahead of her so that she could be properly announced. “I must speak with you immediately.”

James stuffed his pen back into its holder and rose, tugging his waistcoat flat. It was not a good sign that Sophia was in such a rush she was willingly ignoring customary manners.

He waved off the maid. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit, Sophia? I would offer you dinner, but I have a previously arranged engagement with Dr. Calvert in an hour and can’t—”

“I am not here to be fed, James.” With a huff, she dropped onto the settee tucked against the wall. “Miss Castleton came to visit me. She informed me that she is leaving town. Not that I care to know her whereabouts, frankly, but she was rather distressed. It seems her brother has told her there are fresh cases of the cholera, near St. George’s,” said Sophia, naming a church a few short blocks from her house. Her hands clenched at the waist of her dress. She sounded as calm as a minister reassuring his faithful, but her fingers told another story. “She has insisted on leaving London, even though he advised her there was no need.”

Thaddeus hadn’t sent James the news about these latest cases. He must have deemed them irrelevant, even if Miss Castleton did not.

“I’m sure there’s no reason to be alarmed, Sophia. They must be isolated cases. I will look into them in the morning. I’ll stop in at the hospital and see what’s happening, if it would reduce your anxiety.”

“It would.” The sort of smile one gives to feign valor lifted the corners of her lips but did nothing to soften the anxious lines fanning out from her mouth like patterns of frost along a window. “However, I confess to being a trifle upset with Agnes, in light of this news. Yesterday, she came back from a walk with Amelia claiming to feel rather fatigued. She sent Amelia to bed early and retired shortly after. I have already had the doctor in, and he says it’s just exhaustion.”

“Symptoms?”

“Agnes felt vaguely unwell, she claimed, and frightfully tired. Her condition worries me because, just a few days ago, she’d gone to see her sister who lives near Soho Square. Not the best part of town anymore.” Sophia’s knuckles looked white against the black of her skirts. “She took Amelia, too, without informing me first.”

James pulled his gaze off her hands. He wouldn’t let her agitation affect him. “Agnes must have overexerted herself. It’s been very warm lately. She simply needs rest.”

“So you do not think . . .?”

“No,” he reassured, understanding what she was asking. It couldn’t be the cholera. “I don’t think that at all. Agnes is getting on in years and tires easily. By the time you return home, you’ll find her up and good as new.”

“You are undoubtedly right, but I very much dislike hearing that the cholera is moving closer to my house.”

“Isolated cases, as I said before. However, if you’re concerned about contracting the cholera, stay out of the city and keep the household from going as well. Especially Amelia.”

Especially her.

James had a sudden memory of Amelia’s tiny, round face peering back at him from the comfort of Agnes’s bony arms as the nurse carried the baby away from the house, off to Sophia’s, where she was to be cosseted, tended by a loving aunt who had replaced the mother she’d lost, always safe.

“I would propose we leave London,” Sophia was saying, “except we’ve nowhere to go. Other than Finchingfield House,” she added, hopefully.

James shook his head. “The house isn’t ready to be occupied. I am heading there in two days, but from what I understand, it’s in terrible condition. There is water damage to the north rooms from a leak in the roof and most of the bedchambers on that end need repair. I intended to stay there no more than a day myself, this trip.”

“Then Amelia and I have to stay in town.”

“If you stay within the neighborhoods of Mayfair or Belgravia, you won’t come to any harm, Sophia. Trust me. Everything will be all right.”

He didn’t blame her for the skeptical look she shot him. He didn’t feel much more optimistic himself.





Through the drawing-room blinds, Rachel peered at the top of Mrs. Woodbridge’s head, the gray feathers of her bonnet fluttering as she ducked to enter the hired carriage, Dr. Edmunds’s hand at her elbow. Had Rachel heard correctly? She had been heading for his office to consult with the doctor on what to do with a duplicate travel memoir she’d found in the library when the sound of his sister-in-law’s voice had stopped her. Rachel had no desire to face Mrs. Woodbridge. The woman clearly despised her. Rachel had begun to turn away when she heard the word which had stopped her in her tracks—cholera. She had only eavesdropped in the hallway for a few moments before hurrying off, but it had been long enough.

Letting the slat fall, Rachel retreated from the window The cholera was spreading in London, alarming Mrs. Woodbridge, her voice so taut with anxiety it had affected Rachel. She shuddered and rubbed her hands over her arms. Mrs. Woodbridge should be alarmed. They should all be alarmed. The cholera was a disease to be feared. Rachel could think of a dozen possible cures, but would any of them work against such a rapidly wasting illness? Chalk and laudanum, linseed tea or maybe beef broth, or both. Perhaps her mother’s tonic. She didn’t want to have to discover what worked, though. If she contracted the disease and succumbed, who would help Mother and the rest? Should they even come to London if the cholera was spreading through town?

There was always the possibility, however, that Mrs. Woodbridge was mistaken. She seemed the sort of woman who might panic. There was only one way to be certain. Mrs. Mainprice would know.

She found the housekeeper out in the garden, clipping chives for the evening dinner.

Mrs. Mainprice straightened from her task, kneading the small of her back. “Och, Miss Dunne. This is a sad excuse for a kitchen garden.”

“The garden will be better at Finchingfield House, I expect.”

“Indeed, it will.” She bundled her clippings and stepped onto the gravel path. “You’ll be able to see for yourself, miss. Glad to hear you’re coming with us.”

“So am I.” Not that she could have refused Dr. Edmunds’s somewhat brisk request.

Mrs. Mainprice handed Rachel the chives, green as fresh lichen and spicy smelling, and descended the stairs leading into the kitchen. Rachel followed her into the dim recesses of the kitchen, hot and sticky from the laundry hanging suspended before the fire. In Ireland, the linens would be hung to dry outside on a day as fair as today. In Ireland, the air wouldn’t turn freshly cleaned bedsheets black from soot and smuts in a half hour, however.

“So what were you needing, child?” the housekeeper asked, peering at Rachel as she took the bundle of herbs and spread them on the table.

“I wanted to know if something were true.”

“If what were true?” Mrs. Mainprice slid a knife from its block and began chopping the chives.

“That the cholera is spreading through town.” Rachel crossed to the other side of the table so she could see the housekeeper’s face. “I have heard that the Castletons are leaving London out of worry. Mrs. Woodbridge came to talk to Dr. Edmunds about it.”

“Och.” The knife flashed in her hands. “I’ve heard the disease is bad in St. Giles parish, miss. And that’s none too far from where Mrs. Woodbridge lives. She should be worried. Poor lass.”

Lass? Sophia Woodbridge? “But do you think it will spread further?”

Mrs. Mainprice’s attention stayed fixed on the herbs, rapidly being reduced to a pile of chopped green. “There’s those who claim ’tis just a matter of time. Heard from the housekeeper down at Mr. Pratt’s that the newspapers one day claim it’s the Lord’s vengeance, then the next they’re tamping down any rumors that we’ve got ourselves another epidemic.” She swept up the herbs and dropped them into the iron pot suspended over the fire. “You’ll be safe while you’re in Finchingfield, Miss Dunne.”

“I shall only be there for a day.”

The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder. “You could ask the master if there is a position in the house and stay with us. Until the disease passes. Or longer if you’d like, and he’d agree.”

And be a servant forever, Peg glaring, Molly hateful . . . Dr. Edmunds close but ever out of reach? Her only true choice was to stay in London and hope for the best. “My family is depending on me. I will make more money as a teacher here in London, helping children as I have always intended.”

Mrs. Mainprice clucked her tongue and nodded. “I will pray for you every day, Miss Dunne. Know that I will.”

Rachel rolled her lips between her teeth. She would need those prayers.





“So you’ve had no cases of the cholera, Peterson,” James repeated.

The man at his side, robustly officious in his doctor’s dark coat and trousers, jiggled a thick chin in affirmation. “As I’ve said, Edmunds, I had heard of the case near St. George’s, but that fellow had, shall we say, unclean habits. An older gentleman who was a bit of a drinker, and you know how that weakens the system.”

“Nothing here, though.” James took in the length of the hospital ward, the lines of spindly-legged beds on each side, the ward mistress moving among her charges like a dog overseeing the flock, a medical student accompanying her, notes in hand. A man groaned in his laudanum-induced sleep. Another was losing a battle with pleurisy, the burbling wheeze of his breath a telltale marker. The smell of vinegar, rising off the floorboards, failed to escape through any open windows, stagnated in the close air, and burned James’s nose.

“Not a single case. A fellow at the end down there,” the doctor paused to gesture with his head, “has acute diarrhea, but it’s not the Asiatic cholera. I know the difference.”

How could he sound so positive? Had any of them seen enough of this new breed of disease to be able to tell?

“I had a patient, a Mr. Fenton-Smith, die from what I believe was the cholera, but that must have been an isolated case as well. He has offices along Holborn. Always a little questionable over there.”

“Which makes me ever grateful to have a practice located near Hyde Park,” said Peterson smugly.

A patient at James’s right cried out, a twisting scream of agony, and he clutched his abdomen. The ward mistress hurried over to calm the man.

Peterson’s quick glance dismissed the fellow. “Kidney inflammation from the stones. Screams like that every ten minutes.” He stopped and stared at James. “You’re not really bothered about this cholera nonsense, are you? A sporadic outbreak is to be expected, but we’re not dealing with an epidemic.”

“I would be more at ease if I had a clue how to cure it.”

“As I tell my students here, chalk mixture and opium ought to take care of the cholera. Simple enough.” He patted James’s arm. “I’ve got to be off—shouldn’t even be here on a Sunday. The wife is furious, but what’s to be done? Disease doesn’t respect the Lord’s Sabbath. You know, Edmunds, if flare-ups of the cholera bother you, be thankful you’re not a physician on the East Side. Take comfort in your little corner of lovely Belgravia. Speaking of which, if you change your mind about giving your practice over to Dr. Castleton, I would always be interested.”

Not likely to ever happen . . . “I shall keep that in mind.”

The other man winked. “See you out?”

Slapping his hat atop his head, James accompanied Peterson out of the hospital. He sucked in the outside air to clear his lungs of the smell of disease. He had learned what he’d come to find out—the cholera hadn’t reached the western parts of London, so far spreading only to those who had been exposed through poor habits or poor choices. There was nothing to worry about, just as he’d told Sophia.

“Fine day” Peterson glanced around at the passing traffic. “See? Everyone looking healthy, life proceeding as normal among the upright and the strong. Not logical to be concerned about the cholera. Not logical at all.”

“I know it isn’t logical.” James frowned. “But now to convince my gut.”