A HAZARD OF HEARTS (44 page)

Elly, knowing the woman had lost three children
in stillbirth and barely survived herself, had readily agreed to help. This
time she made her preparations buoyed by the thought that the stork-like Doctor
Cooper actually appreciated her as an assistant. He had even adopted her
recommended practice of washing in carbolic solution, and passed on this modern
attitude to the medical students under his direction.

They arrived to find Mr Burton in a panic and
his wife on her knees beside the bed calling upon all the archangels for
protection in her coming travail. Doctor Cooper’s examination showed the birth
to be still some way off, so the stout little governor, reassured, excused
himself on the grounds of duty.

Later, with the patient made comfortable, Elly
strolled to a window above the prison yard and halted in shock. She was staring
down on a gallows and the preparations for an execution. She watched as if in a
trance as a prisoner was brought out, hands bound, both he and his squad of
guards marching in step to a drum. Other guards had lined up behind prisoners
being paraded to witness a salutary lesson, while a party of onlookers had
collected by the steps – Mr Burton, a clergyman and, of all people, D’Arcy
Cornwallis. He stood bare-headed, tensely absorbed in the scene before him.

Drums rolled, and Elly covered her mouth, unable
to drag her gaze away from Cornwallis, who savoured the poor condemned wretch’s
terror with a smile, before turning to speak to Burton. The gaoler appeared to
expostulate, gold glinted in the sunlight, then Cornwallis stepped forward past
the clergyman reading from his Bible, up the steps, and took the rope from the
hangman. He fitted the noose around the prisoner’s neck, drew it tight, all the
while staring into the man’s eyes, then stepped down from the gallows. The drum
ceased, the signal came, the prisoner dropped. Elly could have sworn she heard
his neck crack. Covering her face, she turned from the window, just as her
patient screamed and went into convulsions.

Forcing from her mind the horrible scene she had
just witnessed, Elly went to work. Puerperal convulsions were a dreaded and
serious complication occurring only too often, but Elly had never accustomed herself
to the sight. Mrs Burton’s paroxysms increased at an alarming rate until she
was constantly wracked. Her face registered terror at her body’s involuntary
spasms. Her arms and legs hit out as Elly and a maidservant fought to hold her
down so she could be bled.

Doctor Cooper panted from his exertions. He had
taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, appearing thinner and more
stork-like than ever. ‘We’ll try a cold douche to the head, Matron, and if that
doesn’t answer, a large foetid enema of turpentine.’

These, together with other remedies, including
mustard cataplasm to the legs, having failed, he turned to Elly. ‘The poor
woman is unconscious, but I fear for the child if this continues. Her movements
are too violent for me to attempt to use instruments for the delivery.’ He drew
Elly away from the bed, lowering his voice. ‘Have you by chance heard of Doctor
Tracy, a physician at the Melbourne Lying-in Hospital?’

She shook her head. ‘Does he suggest a remedy in
such cases?’

‘Chloroform, administered for two minutes at
most. It acts the more rapidly after bleeding.’

Elly glanced back at the writhing patient,
drenched with sweat, her contorted face a reproach to them both. ‘Then try it,
Doctor. If it does nothing else it will ease her pain.’

She bathed the sunken face and held the woman’s
head still as a pad with a few drops of the anaesthetic was placed under her
nose. Elly could feel the muscles begin to relax, and then, with an almost
magical swiftness, the paroxysms ceased and Mrs Burton fell into deep sleep.

Doctor Cooper wiped his forehead. ‘I wasn’t sure
of the effect on a woman in labour. I hope to God it hasn’t affected the child.’

‘The baby’s heartbeat is strong.’ Elly put down
her stethoscope. ‘What if the convulsions recur?’

‘We may have to repeat the exercise when she
goes into second stage. According to Doctor Tracy it does no harm to administer
up to an ounce of chloroform. Beyond that, no one knows.’

Twice more they repeated the dose, despite the
doctor’s obvious trepidation, and each time the incipient convulsions ceased.
Labour proceeded normally until, five hours later, a lusty boy was born, his
colour and his lungs testifying to his health. The placenta delivered easily
and Elly cleaned the now conscious mother and placed the swaddled baby in her
arms. The woman’s face as she received him was all the reward Elly needed for
her arduous afternoon.

‘I knew we’d be safe if you were here,’
whispered Mrs Burton, her mouth against the newborn’s crumpled cheek.

Elly shook her head. ‘You have a fine doctor to
thank, not me. Your safety and your healthy child are due to his interest in
modern medical discoveries and his willingness to try them.’

Colour rose in Doctor Cooper’s thin cheeks. ‘I
had excellent support. Matron, you may invite Mr Burton in to see his family.’
He began to roll down his sleeves.

But seconds later Burton burst in
unceremoniously. ‘Doctor, you’re wanted urgently. A gentleman has been set upon
by thieves in an alley behind the gaol. They say he looks set to die.’

Elly grabbed the doctor’s medical bag and
accompanied him to the door.

‘Where is he?’ asked Cooper, taking the stairs
at a run.

‘In our parlour. Two of my men found him and
chased off the attackers. This way.’ Burton led them into a room at the left of
the stairs, its heavily patterned walls and window draperies creating an
under-sea gloom. Beyond the barricade of tables, chairs and screens stood a
chaise longue with a still figure stretched upon it.

‘Light the gas,’ ordered the doctor, threading
his way across the room with Elly close behind.

He bent down as light flared suddenly, and over
his shoulder Elly had a clear view of the unconscious victim’s face. It was
masked in blood, but the features were well known to her. It was Paul
Gascoigne.

~*~

Elly held the sobbing girl in her arms,
wondering what more she could say to comfort her. It had all been said.
Nevertheless, she went on smoothing the dark head, repeating her litany as if
it were some magic incantation.

‘Lucy, he’s not going to die. We won’t let him.
You will
not
lose the last person in the world you love.’

Lucy raised her head from Elly’s shoulder and
wailed, ‘How can anyone help him? He’s been brutalised. Did you see…? Did you
see…?’ Her face collapsed and she buried it again, her body shaking with sobs.

Controlling her own tears, Elly said softly into
the girl’s hair, ‘Yes, I saw. But it’s mainly bruising, my dear, and not nearly
as horrible as it appears. The head injury was more severe, yet he has
recovered his senses. Only his leg gives us cause for concern, and the bone
will eventually mend.’

Lucy wrenched herself free of Elly’s hold and
faced her, fists clenched, her voice rising. ‘I don’t believe you. I heard the
doctors say it was serious. I know I’m going to lose Paul, like all the other
people I ever loved, and I’ll be alone again. It’s not fair! It’s not fair!’

‘Lucy –’

‘Leave me alone.’

Elly caught Lucy’s arm as she whirled to leave
the room. ‘I know it isn’t fair for your life to be so disrupted again, but I’d
expect you to display more maturity in such a crisis. Paul needs you. Now is
the time to repay his goodness. He asks for you constantly, yet you refuse to
go to him because your feelings are lacerated by his appearance and you fear he
might die. How can you be so selfish?’

‘I can’t help it. I can’t bear to see him so… so
mauled.’ The girl’s face paled at the memory, and Elly forced her down on the
landlady’s best parlour chair, holding her head on her knees.

‘You’re not to faint. I haven’t the time to care
for swooning maidens.’

When Lucy had recovered she was allowed up, only
to receive a lecture delivered gently, but firmly.

‘I shall not ask you about your feelings for
Paul. I do know he loves you. Whether it is fondness for a young relative in
his care, or something stronger, he has done all in his power to make you happy
since you came to Sydney Town. He’s taken you riding, dancing, shopping for
clothes. He is not a wealthy man, yet he’s done his best. He has been kind,
Lucy, and you’re repaying him with cruelty.’ She gave her a handkerchief,
waiting while she mopped her cheeks.

‘Elly, don’t berate me. I don’t mean to be
cruel.’ Lucy hiccupped, swallowing her sobs. ‘I love Paul truly, but blood and
injuries make me feel sick. That day of the coach accident I admired you so
much for helping the injured people, but I couldn’t have done it. I shut my
eyes when I held the candles for you, then afterwards I went behind the trees
and was sick.’ She hesitated, eyeing Elly diffidently, then went on. ‘It sounds
wicked, I know, but if I’m to lose Paul, I don’t want to see him any more. I
don’t want to… to invest any more of myself in someone who will leave me. It
hurts too much.’

Elly had a short struggle with herself, and the
better half won. ‘I understand what you mean, although I can’t accept it. My
sympathies are always with the distressed, and Paul is suffering terribly, both
in mind and body, while you try to protect yourself from future pain.’ She
sighed as she got up. ‘I don’t suppose there is much I can say to change your
mind.’

Lucy shook her head miserably. ‘Please don’t
hate me, Elly.’

‘I don’t hate you. It’s just… Will you write to
him?’

‘I… Perhaps. Do you truly believe he’ll live,
Elly?’

‘If I have anything to say about it, he will.’
Elly left the room before she said anything she might regret. She knew Lucy
would be well cared for, with the Widow Brockenhurst fluttering around her like
a mother hen, and Jo-Beth promising to take the girl on an outing to the
Botanical Gardens that afternoon. Elly would be on duty until late, but she intended
to call on Paul at his home before she retired.

Doctor Hart, the district surgeon, remained
cautiously optimistic about Paul’s recovery, two weeks having passed without
him succumbing to pneumonia, while most of his injuries had healed. On the
evening when he was carried into the gaol governor’s residence Elly had
believed, like Lucy, that he would die. His pulse had been almost
indistinguishable, his clothes soaked in blood from his injuries. Elly had felt
like dying herself as she worked alongside Doctor Cooper on Paul’s poor
battered body. The head wounds had worried her most, but Paul had recovered his
senses over a period of days.

It was assumed that his attackers were thieves
who had been interrupted before finishing their work. However, Elly had a
disturbed feeling that Cornwallis had arranged it. Having witnessed for herself
the kind of sadistic enjoyment his nature craved, she knew it would be only a
matter of time before he struck again.

She cursed herself for not handling the
confrontation in Hyde Park more tactfully. All she had done was add to
Cornwallis’s desire for revenge, and Paul had suffered for it. He would go on
suffering, too. She knew that. She was not as happy about his condition as she’d
told Lucy. His gashed leg would not heal. Proud flesh had been cut away more
than once and all possible remedies tried, but still the wound festered over
the crack in his shinbone. Along with Doctor Hart, Elly feared gangrene.

That night the hired cab dropped her outside the
narrow brick cottage that Paul rented. Overlooking the water in Balmain, it was
one of several new developments on half-acre lots, close to the city yet
retaining a feel of the countryside. It had proved popular with merchants
anxious to spend their wealth on houses worthy of their new estate, and with
investors who saw the possibilities of increasing property values as Sydney
spread into the suburbs.

When Elly arrived she found the door had been
left on the latch, and she let herself in quietly. As on the few previous
occasions when she had visited Paul’s sanctum, she was impressed. He’d taken an
ordinary room and turned it into a tranquil haven, offering a wing chair by a
fire, a convenient footstool nearby, glass-fronted bookshelves within easy
reach, and a rack of pipes. A massive desk stood under the sitting room window.
It was covered in papers, a cedar and brass inkstand, several pens and books of
cuttings from journals lying loose, waiting to be glued in.

The rug had faded to muted reds and turquoise,
the walls to a dull dusky rose. Over the timber mantel hung a portrait of
Pepper; and below it squatted a pretty green and gold lacquer clock. The only
other object which could be classed as ornamental was an oil lamp on the desk –
a large affair of brass and crystal with an elaborate painted bowl. This pooled
light on the leather couch where Paul lay, his injured leg propped on a
cushion.

He sat up when he saw Elly, his smile weary but
welcoming.

Her heart lurched at the sight of his worn,
vulnerable face. Furrows between his brows and newly hollowed cheeks were
indication of how much he had endured. But he had brushed his hair carefully
and arrayed himself in a Chinese silk dressing gown which had seen better days.