Another Country (22 page)

“It’s been safe on the squirrels and rats,” Wells
replied with a little shrug.

“Yes, but...” Ian’s mouth was dry. The dangers of an
unauthorized procedure were manifold. Besides the obvious danger to
Dr. Wells, Ian knew his own medical license could be revoked. He
would be force to retire in shame and ignominy.

“If you prefer, I could administer it to you,” Wells
continued, his eyebrows raised, a shrewd look on his face.

“I honestly don’t know which I prefer.”

Wells leaned forward. “Do you
believe in this, Dr. Campbell? Because if you don’t, you are
wasting my time and I am wasting yours.”

Ian thought of what ether promised... surgeries
performed without a patient needing to be subdued, writhing in
agony or falling into unconsciousness because of the pain. New
operations could be attempted that surgeons merely shook their
heads at, because it was too painful, too impossible, would take
too long. ‘Better they die,’ Ian had heard a cynical, or just
weary, doctor remark more than once.

“I do believe in it,” he said in a low voice and Dr.
Wells sat back, satisfied.

“Well, then.”

Safely ensconced in the stage coach, Ian still had
to suppress a shudder of raw fear when he remembered the procedure.
He’d agreed to administer the ether, holding the glass ball and
flute above Wells’ face, so as only to give him the few crucial
drops.

His hand had been shaking, he’d been scared he would
grip the flute too tightly and shatter it. Dr. Wells had quickly
become insensible, muttering and seemingly delirious.

Wells had instructed Ian to make an incision on his
arm, to see if he felt the pain. Ian had not wanted to do it... a
needless cut, pointless injury! It went against everything he
believed in as a doctor.

And yet... this experiment represented all his hopes
and ambitions in the medical field.

He’d made the incision and stitched it, then waited
apprehensively for Dr. Wells to come round again.

It took at least half an hour,
every minute feeling like an age, until Wells’ eyes fluttered open
and he smiled sleepily. Ian sagged with relief.

Dr. Wells had been ebullient. “It worked! I felt
nothing... perhaps a small scratching. It was as if I were
dreaming. Almost pleasant, really.”

They spent the rest of the evening discussing the
experiment, and planning for Ian to present their findings to the
board of surgeons at Massachusetts General Hospital.

At this thought, Ian’s mouth went dry. He was a
young doctor, considered by many to be untried. He’d already been
warned by his superior. If Dr. Collins discovered his journey to
Hartford was not the pleasure trip he’d indicated, he could be
dismissed, never to work again.

Would anyone, he wondered bleakly, welcome his
findings? How else would medicine advance?

Wells had been adamant. “If you do
not present these findings, the opportunity will never arise!
People--doctors especially it seems--have to be dragged into this
new dawn. Just think, Campbell--if you operate on me at the
Bulfinch theatre! What a coup for medicine, and your own career.
Your fortune, sir, will be made.”

“I’m not a surgeon,” Ian protested. His mind
whirled. He saw the sense of Wells’ suggestion; if they did not
take their research forward, it would be in vain. He just didn’t
want to sacrifice his position and livelihood to do it.

Yet Ian knew he would take the
risk. If he didn’t, he would be ashamed of himself, of failing to
stand by what he believed, and Wells would be unbearably
disappointed.

The stage coach rumbled forward, jostling him as it
made its way across southern Massachusetts’ rutted roads.

Ian’s thoughts drifted again to Caroline, and he
felt the mingling of trepidation and excitement. He had left her
nearly a month ago, declaring his intention to court her. What
would she think, when he’d virtually disappeared immediately
afterwards?

He’d sent her a note, of course, as he had to the
hospital, but he wondered if a scribbled missive would appease her,
if it had even reached her.

Ian knew all too well what her uncle was capable of,
and keeping a letter from his niece would be the least of his
sins.

If he were truthful, Ian thought, he’d stayed away
in part to test Caroline... to see if her feelings changed, or if
his did.

He knew the appearance she lent to the world... a
scatterbrained girl, beautiful but flighty. He believed there was
more to her than most would think, yet how could he be sure? She’d
not been tested. She’d not had to prove her strength or
courage.

And yet, he acknowledged, it was unfair to
administer such a test himself. He wouldn’t blame her if she turned
her back on him, declared him unworthy. He was unworthy! Yet he
longed to see her again, even to hold her in his arms...

All he could do was wait. Ian closed his eyes,
resigning himself to the journey. He would wait... wait and
hope.

Eleanor ran the damp cloth over Margaret’s flushed
face, trying to cool the fever that raged within her, rendering her
weak and often unconscious.

It had been nearly a week since the doctor had made
his dreadful announcement that Margaret had contracted typhoid.

Eleanor thought she would never forget Henry’s
stance of bleak despair as he stood, silhouetted by the drawing
room’s curtains, his face drained of all color.

“You will need to nurse her,” the doctor continued
with ruthless detachment, “preferably around the clock.”

Henry’s mouth was working, as if he were trying to
form a response, yet could think of none but outright denial of the
diagnosis. Eleanor had never seen him at such a loss.

“I’ll do it.”

The doctor turned to her in surprise. “It is not
generally considered the responsibility of a gently bred lady,” he
said repressively, and Eleanor raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, you would prefer a woman of questionable
morals? Or a sluggard?”

His face reddened. “Of course not.
I am merely suggesting that you might find it beyond your
abilities.”

“I see, you don’t consider me up to the task.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed even as she nodded in apparent
understanding. “I feel no need to assure you that I am.”

“Eleanor...” Henry protested, glancing between her
and the doctor.

The doctor gave Henry a significant look. “Of
course, it is your decision,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you have
quite a vested interest in who nurses your wife.”

Eleanor looked down; she hadn’t meant to start an
argument with the doctor, especially with Henry looking on. She
wasn’t even sure why she was so angry; she wasn’t normally this
shrewish. Her worry about Margaret seemed to have manifested itself
as anger; her fists were clenched.

She realized she wanted to do more than simply
occupy herself; she wanted to help, even to change things. To have
a purpose, no matter how short the time.

“I believe Eleanor will make an admirable nurse,”
Henry said quietly. His face was still pale, but he managed to
smile at her. “I think that’s what Margaret would have wanted.” As
if realising how he spoke of his wife, he said quickly, “she does
want it, I mean to say, she will...” He trailed off, turning away,
and Eleanor felt a swift pang of sympathy--close to pity--for the
naked pain twisting his features.

The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Moore. I’ll come tomorrow to see how she fares.”

After the doctor had gone, Henry went to sit with
Margaret. He’d sat there every day, for as long as he could, before
Eleanor forced him to eat, or sleep, or at least get some fresh
air.

Her admonitions about getting the disease himself,
or becoming too worn out to be of any use to anyone, fell on deaf
ears. Henry sat by his wife, holding her limp hand as if he could
somehow transfer his own health and well being to the woman he
adored, lying feverish and unconscious in her bed.

The doctor had been as good as his
word, and come every day to check on Margaret’s--and Eleanor’s
progress. She’d grudgingly won his respect with her diligence,
although he warned her that she was at risk of contracting the
disease as well.

“I’ve always had a strong constitution,” Eleanor
replied briskly, but inside she felt a lurch of fear. She did not
want to be ill. No matter how bleak her prospects sometimes seemed,
she did not yet want to die.

Now, the doctor gone, Henry downstairs for the
moment and Margaret sleeping, Eleanor wondered what the future
held... could hold. It had been a week, and though Margaret’s fever
had diminished at times, it had never truly broken. The future, for
her at least, was frighteningly uncertain.

As Margaret dozed, Eleanor’s thoughts turned to the
immigrant neighborhood where the typhoid raged, and the school
which had been forced to close since Margaret’s illness.

They must keep the school open, Eleanor thought. She
knew it instinctively. If the school failed the people now, the
pupils wouldn’t come back. They would feel betrayed, their trust
taken and stamped on.

It was what Margaret would want, could she frame the
words.

And yet... how? Eleanor was not willing to
relinquish her role as Margaret’s nurse. She knew others could
perform the service capably, but it seemed a matter of honor to
her, to be with Margaret, to see her through this. She believed
Henry took comfort from it as well, thankful he did not have to
trust his wife’s care to strangers. He would do the job himself,
she thought wryly, and often did, until Eleanor told him to
rest.

As for the school, the only other option then, she
told herself with forced practicality, was to find a new teacher.
But who would be willing to take the risk...?

“The doctor’s just left.” Henry
stood in the doorway, pale and haggard as he had been since
Margaret fell ill. “He says it’s still up to Providence, of
course...”

“Something we all know,” Eleanor replied
bracingly.

Henry’s smile flickered and died.
“I asked him... he said he had some hope that she might pull
through yet.” He paused, thoughtfully. “
Some
hope. What do you think that
means, Eleanor?”

“It’s better than none.”

“It’s not much.”

“Henry, you must keep your spirits up.” Eleanor kept
her tone purposely severe. “You cannot fall into self-pity now.
Margaret needs you strong. We all do.”

“I know.” Henry swallowed, choking back emotion.
“Thank you, Eleanor, for what you’ve done. If Margaret knew...”

“She will, quite soon, I think,” Eleanor replied
briskly. “When the fever breaks, she’ll come out of her
delirium.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am certain.” But Eleanor averted her eyes, for
she did not want Henry to see the shadow of doubt within them. The
truth was, she didn’t feel certain at all... about anything.

“I’ll sit with her,” Henry said, his voice bleak.
“You need a rest.”

So did Henry, but Eleanor did not argue. He drew
some comfort from being with her, she knew.

Eleanor made to leave the sick room, the wave of
exhaustion that she’d held at bay now sweeping over her. She was
tired, dirty and sweaty, and terribly hungry. She hadn’t slept,
eaten, or bathed properly in days.

With a sigh, she took off her apron and hung it by
the door, making a mental note to remind the housekeeper of the
need for a fresh one.

Although most doctors would insist dirt didn’t
matter to an ill person, Eleanor could hardly believe this was
true. There had to be some reason diseases such as typhoid bred in
crowded, squalid places. She didn’t hold with the belief that it
was the immigrants themselves that caused the disease.

She was just coming down the stairs, tucking a stray
tendril of hair back into her bun, when the front door opened and
Rupert stood there.

Eleanor’s heart bumped in her chest even as she
fought to keep her face impassive, indifferent even. If only she
didn’t look so disheveled! But that could hardly be helped when
she’d spent the last week in a sick room.

“Eleanor!” Rupert looked up at her, a smile breaking
through the worry shadowing his face.

“Hello, Rupert.” Eleanor forced herself to sound
calm, unconcerned. “Are you here to see Henry?”

“Yes...” Rupert admitted. “Though I wanted to see
you as well. You’re still nursing Margaret?”

“Yes.” Eleanor smoothed the front of her dress, a
futile gesture, she knew, to improve her appearance. “As long as it
needs to be done...”

“I don’t think you should do it,” Rupert said
abruptly, a deep frown on his face, and she stared at him in
astonishment.

“Is that so? Then I’m glad your opinion is not my
concern.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Rupert retorted
irritably, and Eleanor had trouble to keep herself from gaping at
him.

“And don’t treat me like a wayward child! I shall do
as I please, and in this instance, all I can to help Margaret.”

Rupert turned away, his shoulders hunched as if he
were struggling with himself. Eleanor stood there uncertainly,
unsure whether she should smartly leave, or wait for Rupert to say
something, perhaps even apologize.

“Eleanor,” he finally said, his back still turned to
her, “I’m not saying this because I think you are like a
child...”

“And very glad I am to hear it!”

He turned around, his eyes blazing. “Would you
please stop snapping at me and listen? I fear for your own
health.”

“I assure you, my constitution is strong.”

“You needn’t shoulder the burden alone,” Rupert
insisted. “There are others who could take over, give you rest. You
will help nobody if you work yourself into the ground.”