The Irish Healer

Chapter 26





The only words that came to James’s brain were curses, and he released one softly before the door opened to his knock. He presented his gloves and hat to Lady Haverton’s utterly proper footman and followed the man up to the bedchamber. I might never see Rachel again. Never. Never.

As had always been planned. But still . . .

“There you are, Dr. Edmunds.” Lady Haverton’s booming voice echoed down the staircase. “Come at once, sir. My daughter is in much pain and she needs your assistance.”

The urgency in her voice focused his attention. He grabbed the walnut staircase railing and propelled himself up the thickly carpeted stairs. This would be his final case and he had to do the best he could for Lady Haverton’s daughter.

Lady Haverton waited impatiently outside a door open at the end of the hallway. She led him inside. The room was stuffy, windows shuttered against the outside air, and smelled of sweat. The odor mingled sickeningly with the scent of fading roses, a bouquet of which had been left to perish on the mahogany dressing table. A monthly nurse was stacking towels alongside a basin atop the washstand, while another servant hurried past James with a pile of stained sheets. Lady Haverton’s daughter, wan and frail, was nearly lost among the snowy-white pillows and thick mattress of her curtained bed. Her face shone with perspiration, and two eyes the blue of Delft china blinked fearfully.

“Oh, Doctor. Thank the good Lord you’ve come,” she said weakly, her hand reaching for his. It was clammy to the touch.

James set down his medical bag and pulled up a chair. Dorothea Haverton Blencowe had always been a frail woman, even before she’d married. Carrying a baby had sapped whatever vitality she once had. “Mrs. Blencowe, how are you feeling?”

“Tired. Very tired. I do wish my dear husband could be at my side, but . . . but I know that’s not proper. He is in the library with Father. Maybe drinking port. He’s so afraid.” A contraction overtook her, and she gulped down a cry until it passed. “I told him to pray. For me. Rather than drink. Though . . . though it’s the wages of Eve’s sin that we suffer so.”

Lady Haverton leaned around James and gently patted her daughter’s hand. “Do not fret, my dear, and do not try to talk. The doctor does not need conversation, and you will only make matters worse for you and the baby.”

“Now, Mrs. Blencowe, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but I need to examine you a little to see how the baby is progressing. I shall feel your belly and listen with my stethoscope.”

She nodded and he pulled the stethoscope case from his bag. The sight of it recalled the day he had proudly shown the stethoscope to Rachel and she’d nearly fainted. Will everything I do from now on remind me of her? Even in Finchingfield, he wouldn’t be able to escape the memories. He would see her in the meadow, the kitchen, the library. Forever, he would remember.

Mrs. Blencowe primly turned her head aside as James lifted her chemise and rested the stethoscope on the swell of her abdomen. He found the baby’s heartbeat. It weakened, dipped too low as a contraction tightened her muscles. The fetus was in distress, and unless it was born soon, might not survive.

James ran his hands over her abdomen, the skin as hard and tight as the surface of a drum. The contractions were coming but not fast enough. The delivery might last too long. He’d attended other women like her, fragile as young birds, used to soft living and insufficient exercise. The challenge of childbirth was too difficult. As it had proven to be for Mariah.

His focus blurred and suddenly the woman lying there was Mariah, sweating with the strain of delivering Amelia. He had rushed from morning rounds at the hospital to find his father pacing the length of the Blue Room and old Hannah bathing Mariah’s forehead. She had been strong enough to deliver the child. Just not strong enough to survive the subsequent childbed fever and his ineffectual attempts to eradicate it. Had he let her die? Had he cared so little that he hadn’t thrown his whole heart into healing her?

“Do you love me, James?”

“You are a failure, James. My son, a failure.”

He wasn’t concentrating on Dorothea Blencowe. He was letting his memories clog his brain like refuse damming a sewer, and he had to stop.

Lowering Mrs. Blecowe’s chemise, he drew up the sheets and returned his stethoscope to its case.

“Well? How is the baby, doctor?” asked Lady Haverton.

“The placement of the baby is good, so that helps. You’ve not given your daughter anything except weak tea or broth, I hope? No cordials for the pain.” Cordials or any such liquors would slow the contractions. The last thing Dorothea Blencowe and her baby needed now.

“No, most certainly not!” huffed her ladyship.

“Good. I would recommend that a supply of warm, damp cloths be applied to her belly. They might help hasten the process. I’ve also found, if you have the strength, Mrs. Blencowe, that if you get up and try to walk around a little, it speeds matters.”

“Walk around?” asked Lady Haverton. “Dorothea hasn’t the strength to lift her head.”

“Mama, I shall try. If the doctor thinks I must.” Impatience showed in her eyes. That she had the strength to argue with her mother was a good sign. At least, James hoped it was.

“I shall observe for a while and then we’ll see,” he said. “Thank you for being courageous.”

James smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Blencowe, who attempted to return the expression. She had to hold on and work hard. If she didn’t, he would have to send for a surgeon to save the baby. Mrs. Blencowe, however, probably wouldn’t survive the cesarean.

Warm cloths arrived and were placed on her belly. Feeble contractions came and went. Time ticked by, the mantel clock chiming musically, regularly. The baby made no progress.

Sweating from the heat of the room and his own nerves, James stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, rolling them up out of the way. “It’s time to walk, Mrs. Blencowe.”

Taking hold of her shoulder, James assisted her to sit up. Her breath came in labored gasps, sweat beading on her forehead. She can’t do it. I’ll have to send for the surgeon and I’ll lose her . . .

“If you feel faint, Mrs. Blencowe, you must tell me immediately.” He hoisted her onto her feet. She groaned in response. “Most importantly, you have to concentrate on bringing that baby into the world.”

“Doctor, really,” Lady Haverton protested. “She is too weak for this.”

“She must walk, m’lady.”

A maid rushed into Mrs. Blencowe’s bedchamber. “Dr. Edmunds, sir, there’s someone at the door to see you. Says it’s most urgent.”

“I can’t leave Mrs. Blencowe at the moment.”

“Most urgent, sir,” the maid repeated.

“Make her walk, Lady Haverton,” he said, letting her take control of her daughter.

Mrs. Blencowe sagged against her mother’s supporting arm. “Please hurry back, Dr. Edmunds.” Air wheezed between her clenched teeth. “I . . . I . . . will keep trying to concentrate.”

“I’ll be only a minute. Please excuse me.”

He bolted down the stairs and found an agitated Mrs. Mainprice waiting. James’s steps slowed as he crossed the hallway to where she stood by the front door.

“Dr. Edmunds!” she cried. “You must come. It’s Miss Amelia, sir. She’s sick again. Worse this time. Much worse.” She glanced over his shoulder and whispered to prevent the footman from hearing, “Oh, sir, I do think it’s the cholera for certain.”

The brick wall James had feared now reared up to slam him in the face. “But she was better this morning.” Had he misread Amelia’s symptoms intentionally? Blindly?

“She isn’t any longer, sir.”

“I can’t leave Lady Haverton’s daughter right now There are serious complications.” Sweat slipped along his collar, suddenly tight enough to choke him. “She might perish.”

Mrs. Mainprice’s eyes widened with disbelief. “So you won’t come now, sir?”

“Send for Dr. Castleton, Mrs. Mainprice. He’s seen far more cases of the disease than I have and he’s often tended Amelia in the past. Besides, she will be more comfortable with him than with me.” Heavenly Father, let Thaddeus be able to heal Amelia, because I don’t know that I could. I might only fail her . . . “And send Joe to bring Dr. Hathaway here immediately. He can tend to Mrs. Blencowe. I will return to the house as soon as he arrives.”

Her mouth twitched with reproach she dare not voice. “Aye, sir.”

“Mrs. Blencowe is in a critical state, Mrs. Mainprice. I can’t leave her. You must understand.”

Her pitying gaze nearly undid him. “Aye, sir.”

Nodding, he spun on his heel and vaulted up the stairs. “Send for Dr. Castleton and Dr. Hathaway.” He called over his shoulder. “I will be home as soon as I’m able.”





After Dr. Edmunds had left for Lady Haverton’s, a few pence and some useful instructions from Joe enabled Rachel to take the omnibus to the lodging house to introduce herself to the landlady. The woman scowled and tutted during Rachel’s visit, her small dark eyes skittering over Rachel like a pair of frantic bugs—she only took ladies of “select character” and had to be most careful—but was happy enough to accept eleven shillings as advance payment on the first week’s rent. The rent of a tiny furnished bedchamber and miniscule sitting room with a smoky chimney-piece and cracked plaster walls that made Rachel glad she would not be living there in the winter months.

Rachel had then stopped to post a letter to Claire to inform her of the news concerning Mrs. Chapman and the school. Not that Claire could do much from Weymouth, but her cousin would want to know. While she’d been posting the note, Rachel recalled the name of another charity school Claire had mentioned in her letter. She would inquire there about a position later today, once she’d had a chance to collect her thoughts and have a bite to eat. Rachel was not in a rush to hurry back to Dr. Edmunds’s. Nothing remained for her to do at his house except chance coming face-to-face with him.

A small meat pie purchased, and the stretch of lawns and lime trees that marked Green Park beckoning, Rachel strolled to a secluded location. She dropped onto the grass, heedless of the damage she might do to her dress. Equally heedless of the well-dressed ladies strolling nearby that sneered at her. Let them deride her poor clothing and common man’s meal; she was getting used to being judged and found wanting.

She finished her pie and discreetly wiped the crumbs from her fingers. The weather had continued fair since the funeral, and Rachel let the fading early evening sun dance on her cheeks, warm her face. If she closed her eyes and shut out the noise of the city that rumbled past on distant Piccadilly, she might pretend she was in Ireland, the ground cool beneath her, a bird trilling in a tree.

Folding her arms around her shins, Rachel rested her chin on her knees and stared at a tangle of children throwing a ball near a reservoir, the water of its fountain splashing brightly. So happy and carefree, like she had been when she was their age, seeing life through a sparkling prism. Before reality had dimmed the glass.

Rachel swiped a tear from her face. She would not cry. She would be strong, because she had to be strong. For Mother, for Nathaniel, for Sarah and Ruth. No matter how hard life continued to be, she must hold up her spine and work hard. For them.

“You are strong, Miss Dunne. I envy you for it.”

If Dr. Edmunds only knew how fragile her strength really was, he would not have bothered to envy her at all.

“Cor, miss, ’ere you are!” Joe shouted across the lawn.

Rachel shielded her eyes with her hands. “Joe? Why are you here?”

“Been lookin’ everywhere.” He slid down from the doctor’s mare and started striding toward her, pulling the horse behind. “Went to the school, the lodgin’ ’ouse—what a queer hen ya got there, miss—yer cousin’s ’ouse, come back down ’ere and, cor! ’ere you be. Mrs. M sent me to come fetch you back ’mediately.”

“Whatever for?” She jumped up, brushing grass from her skirt.

“Miss Amelia is sick. Poor lass ’as got the cholera. Mrs. Woodbridge ’as gone and fainted in her bedchamber, an’ it’s all Mrs. M can do to ’elp the child. She needs you bad and right now.”

“The cholera?” Rachel’s stomach danced like she had swallowed a flock of frantic moths. Would Dr. Edmunds stop believing in God if He took Amelia away? “I do not understand why Mrs. Mainprice has to tend Miss Amelia. Is not Dr. Edmunds caring for her?”

“Dr. E’s still at Lady H’s place, tendin’ the daughter. Had Mrs. M send for Dr. Castleton, but Dr. C is too sick with the cholera ’imself. Then, right afore I left the ’ouse, that rummy cove Dr. Calvert come on behalf o’ Dr. Castleton.” His thin lips pinched tight.

“No doubt he will tend to Amelia properly,” she answered, willing herself to believe what she said. “I do not know why you expect I could do better than Dr. Calvert.”

“Dr. Calvert’s told Mrs. M that ’e’s goin’ to purge the girl, get all the illness outta ’er, and I don’ think I’ve seen a little tyke look sicker than that lass.”

The moths in Rachel’s stomach transformed into geese flapping frantically. Purging was not what her mother would do at all, but Rachel knew too many doctors and surgeons thought it proper. Help the body rid itself of the poison, they reasoned, when all they were truly doing was draining away life. It might work for a normally healthy adult, but for a little child?

Rachel marched up to Joe. “He cannot purge her. You and Mrs. Mainprice must stop him.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, miss, but no. Dr. Calvert’s not goin’ to listen to me. You hafta come.”

“What makes you think he will listen to me?”

“For one, you talk prettier than either Mrs. M or me,” he pointed out. “An’ you look a whole lot prettier too. That bowl-o’-puddin’s a soft touch around women.”

“I am sorry, but I cannot help.” Rachel clutched her skirts to stop her hands from trembling. “Truly, Joe, I am sorry.”

“‘Sorry’?” Joe released a stream of curse words, the first time she had ever heard him utter anything stronger than ’cor.’ “’Scuse me, miss, but you can be bloody stubborn. You ’ave to come right now.”

“Have you forgotten what happened to Mr. Fenton-Smith? To Molly? I could not heal her. How could I help Amelia?” A child. A little child. She killed little children. Joe could just ask Mr. Ferguson.

“Forget Moll! What you done for ’er was care when she was beyond ’elpin. So no more feelin’ sorry for yerself, miss.” He jabbed a finger into her shoulder. “No more feelin’ sorry or tellin’ me ‘sorry.’ You ’ave to help Miss Amelia. Do it for me and Mrs. M. Do it for Dr. E, if nobody else. C’mon. C’mon, you silly . . . jes’ c’mon!”

He was breathing hard as he stared at her. Joe believed in her still. She would have to believe too.

Be strong.

Rachel released her grip on her skirt. “All right. I will come.”