New World, New Love

by Rosalind Laker

  An hour later she had collapsed on to her bed, shivering violently with fever, her headache almost unbearable. She slept and woke again to shooting pains in her head. Although desperate for a drink of cold water she did not have the strength to move until she remembered that her door was locked and when Charles came he might think he had missed her along their route.

  Slowly, stopping to rest in exhaustion on the way, she crawled on her hands and knees across to the door and unlocked it. Sweat was pouring from her and it took her even longer to get back on to her bed. She realized how ill she was and the thought crossed her mind that if Charles had an emergency to deal with she could lie there and die, for there was nobody in the rest of the house who would realize anything was wrong.

  Whenever she managed to lift her head to look at the wall clock, she cried out involuntarily in pain. The hour when she should have been meeting Charles came and went, the day creeping on until she realized he was not coming. By that time she was drifting in and out of the many strange shapes and colours floating all around her and it was a relief to slip away through their patterns into oblivion.

  It was at that time that Charles finished an exhausting day after an interrupted night’s sleep. He had been called out twice to what he had diagnosed immediately as yellow fever. Although he had no previous experience of the contagion he had read about it and discussed the symptoms and treatment with an American doctor at one of Richard’s gatherings. He was told that in the last bad epidemic in New York, which happened many years ago, those afflicted were moved out of the city into hastily erected canvas shelters to avoid the spread of it.

  ‘A sensible precaution in some ways,’ Charles had acknowledged, frowning.

  ‘That’s what has been done during epidemics in the South, where the hot and humid climate fosters an outbreak. It can spread like wildfire. There’s no cure. Bloodletting is all that can be done. The terrible thing is that there have been occasions when a suspected victim of the fever, becoming ill in the street, has been stoned by panic-stricken crowds to drive the poor creature out of town.’

  ‘What of the sick in the tents?’

  The doctor hesitated. ‘I regret to say they die like flies and, most of the time, so do any family members who’ve had the courage to go with them.’

  ‘What of medical aid to ease the suffering?’

  The doctor hesitated. ‘There are always one or two of our profession who will risk their lives in a hell of pestilence.’

  It was obvious to Charles that this doctor would never be one of them. The conversation had been in his mind when he had left his Sunday morning breakfast at the summons of a wild-eyed little boy.

  ‘Please come, doctor! Two of my brothers are very sick. One’s turned yeller and Mom don’t know what’s wrong!’

  He had grabbed up his medical bag with his herbal potions and pills and followed the child into the next street. He found both boys suffering the early symptoms of yellow fever, with painful heads, vomiting and shivering chills. One already showed a more advanced stage, with the first yellow in the skin, which came from the affected liver. He knew there was no hope. He had to tell the woman what the contagion was and she turned ashen. But she straightened her shoulders.

  ‘I shall do my best for my boys,’ she said bravely, tears swimming in her eyes. The fact that her five siblings were used to sleeping together in the same bed made him despair of the other three boys’ chances of escaping the contagion, but he told the mother to keep them away from the two sick children.

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ he asked. ‘He must help you swab the patients with cool water to get their fevers down.’

  ‘He’s far away on a whaling ship, but my spinster sister lives along the street and she’ll help me. We’ll manage. We’ll have to, because nobody else will come near, as it’s the yellow fever.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll look in later. The potion I gave you should ease the patients’ head pains.’

  By the end of the morning he had attended three other cases of the dreaded fever and two suspected ones. Then he was called to a fatal case when a man dropped dead by the dock gates. He had great difficulty in getting the body moved, as everybody was afraid to come near. Charles was left in no doubt that he was dealing with a serious outbreak of the contagion even if it was not yet an epidemic.

  He pondered over how it had come to the city. Was it by ship? That seemed the most likely conclusion. Heat in itself could not create the contagion. Why was it more prevalent in the South? What was there that hibernated the fever until it burst forth? It was something he’d like to investigate in time.

  On the chance of being called out again he wrote a note to Louise, telling her what had happened and instructing her to leave immediately, adding that he would contact her soon. He pinned it to his door and returned to his desk again, writing out a report on his yellow fever cases, being duty-bound by the authorities to do it. He had almost finished when a woman came to see him. She was big and strong-looking, with straggling grey hair tucked up under a linen cap, and clad in a faded multicoloured dress.

  ‘You’ll be wanting my ’elp now, Doctor,’ she said, folding her arms in front of her ample waist. ‘I knows more about t’yeller fever than anyone.’

  Charles sat back in his chair, quill pen in hand. ‘How is that?’

  ‘I nursed my pa and ma and the whole family through t’ great epidemic of thirty-odd years ago when people was dying everywhere. Cooled down the fever and drove it out. So, I’ll nurse for you now, but you’ll ’ave to pay me.’

  He was interested in spite of himself, having used the same method with certain fevers in France. In spite of her rough manner and unprepossessing appearance, her cap and apron were clean as well as the nails of her work-worn hands. On a closer look he judged her to be no more than fifty, but a hard life had left its mark on her features. As for her speech, her tongue was caught up in an English dialect that he found difficult to understand. ‘What’s your name and where are you from originally?’

  ‘I’m Joan Townsend and I was born in Suffolk, England. I came to this country when I was a girl. Don’t say I sound as if I’m just off t’ boat, because everybody does and I wouldn’t change even if I could.’

  ‘Very well. Tell me where you live, Mrs Townsend. If nursing is needed anywhere, I’ll let you know.’ He would have returned to his writing, but she sat down on a chair like a hen settling on eggs and arranged her skirt neatly.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ she said calmly, linking her fingers together on her lap. ‘And you can call me Joan.’

  Losing patience, he was about to order her out when there came a hammering on his door. He went to open it and found a distraught young man on his doorstep.

  ‘It’s my wife, Doctor! She has a high fever! And she’s turned a yellow colour!’

  Charles hurried back into his surgery and again grabbed up his medical bag.

  ‘You see,’ Joan stated complacently, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No!’ he roared, losing patience with her. ‘You’ll leave now!’

  He set off at a swift pace with the young man, whose home was not far away. He found the young wife as her husband had described and hoped it was not too late to save her. He ripped away the heavy bedcovers that had been piled on top of her to drive out the fever.

  ‘There’s no need for these blankets! She must be cooled down. Get some cold wet cloths for her forehead.’ He gave the same instructions as he had in the homes of other patients that day. ‘I’m afraid it’s yellow fever. Get her to drink as much clean well water as possible. She will be extremely thirsty.’

  He had great faith in the qualities of good water for flushing impurities out of the body, a theory not supported by any of his profession known to him. But then, neither did he believe in bleeding a patient for almost everything. As he left the young wife’s sickroom, her husband, his expression desperate, caught at his sleeve.

  ‘I’ve heard that one of those terrible f
ever camps is to be set up outside the city. They won’t try to take my wife, will they, Doctor?’

  Charles answered calmly. ‘It’s not officially an epidemic yet. But if it is declared, I shall go with my patients to the isolation tents and tend to them there.’ It was a decision he had made when he had first heard of the outbreak elsewhere in the city.

  When he came out of the house, Joan was waiting for him expectantly. He gave a nod. ‘Very well. Go in and help that young husband. He’s out of his head with worry.’ He shook a warning finger at her. ‘And don’t disregard any of the rules I’ve laid down with him for the treatment of his wife.’

  She grinned, showing gaps in her teeth. ‘You’ll find I’m worth my weight in gold.’

  It was five o’clock when he reached home after checking on the patients he had seen earlier. The note was still on the door with no sign that Louise had been there, but he knew she would have taken notice of his warning.

  He felt tired, but he made himself a meal and would have gone to his desk to record the new case if he had not started wondering about Louise. Perhaps she had not come at all, something unexpected having happened. He wanted to see her and if today should be the start of an epidemic it would be many weeks before he could meet her again. If he went to her home now he could talk to her at the window from a little distance away, because for all he knew of the contagion the infection could be hanging about his clothes.

  Going out to the stable, he saddled up his horse and rode off. Before long he drew level with her living-room window. Still in the saddle, he reached out with his riding crop and tapped on the glass. When Louise did not appear he tapped again without result.

  On her bed Louise, her head clear for a few lucid moments, heard the tapping. Somebody was at the door! She must get there and ask for help! In her confused state she had no thought of Charles. Forcing herself to sit up, she cried out again at the pain that the tremendous effort sent shooting through her head. Rolling herself from the bed, she fell sprawling on to her face and lay there unable to move.

  ‘Help me!’ she croaked from her dry throat. Then she drifted once more into enveloping darkness.

  In the street, Charles tried tapping on the bedroom window just in case she was dozing. Then, disappointed at not finding her at home, he swung his horse round and started back the way he had come.

  But he had not gone far when he decided that he should have left a message in case he was too busy tomorrow to make another visit. Riding back again, he dismounted and took a pad and a stub of pencil from his pocket. Outside the door of her apartment he set the paper against the wall and wrote. Then he bent down to push it under the door, but a wooden draught-excluder, fastened by some previous tenant, gave no space for it. Without hope, he tried the door and to his surprise it was unlocked. This was not a district in which to invite intruders.

  ‘Louise?’ he called out as he entered. There was no reply and he put the note down on the table where it would be easily seen. It was as he was turning to leave that his attention was caught by the rumpled end of a quilt lying on the bedroom floor. Curious, he pushed the door wider and then he saw her. In a rush of fear, he dropped to one knee beside her, turning her limp body towards him. Her eyes were closed and her luxuriant hair tumbled about his supporting arm. He had seen enough cases that day to know just what the danger was. Somehow he must get her home with him, but there were too many people about outside for him to take such an obviously sick woman on his horse. The cry of Yellow Fever! would go up, and that could result in a general panic. He and Louise could be pelted with missiles to drive them out of the district, as had happened to others in the past, and he would not risk any further harm coming to her.

  Gathering her up, he laid her gently on the bed. ‘I’m leaving you for just a few minutes, Louise,’ he said, even though she did not hear him.

  Outside, he looked one way and then the other along the street. Women were gossiping in doorways, others sat with their men outside the nearby tavern and children were playing everywhere. Taking his horse, he went along to poor-looking stables, where the only vehicle for hire was a rickety old cart. It would be a rough ride for Louise, but he had to get her to safety. His horse snorted and reared its head, nostrils flaring at being harnessed up, only used to a rider, but Charles patted its neck and spoke encouragingly until it quietened down. Then he led it back to the house.

  In the apartment he ripped the linen from Delphine’s wall-bed and carried the mattress out and dumped it in the back of the cart. A bundle of pillows and another of sheets followed. Those watching him were used to people taking their belongings in flight from a creditor or a landlord wanting overdue rent. By the time he appeared with a long roll of blankets, those around had lost interest and none noticed the care with which he laid this final bundle down. Then he locked the apartment behind him and set off on foot, leading the horse.

  The cart lurched drunkenly over the ruts in the street, shifting its cargo from side to side, but Charles did not risk stopping to check on his new patient until he turned down a deserted alley. To his relief as he drew back the blanket, Louise opened her eyes for a moment and murmured his name before her lids closed again.

  Seven

  For five days Charles fought to save Louise’s life, Joan giving him able assistance. When he was out, visiting other patients, Joan seized the opportunity to give Louise a spoonful of a concoction from a bottle she kept hidden in her apron pocket. It was mainly herbal, but as it had a couple of ingredients in it that her old grandmother had advised for any life-threatening fever, she was certain that Dr Noiret, with his decided notions about clean water and his other strange ideas, would throw it away if he found out about it.

  Yet she knew from past experience that, if the contagion was in its first stages, her concoction helped people to recover. Although it had been too late to save the young wife and three other of his patients, Louise was holding her own and Joan thought that with a few more doses she had a good chance of pulling through.

  Every day Joan marvelled to herself over the diligence of the young French doctor, whose face was constantly wrenched by anxiety over Louise and who, in spite of his physical tiredness, never turned anyone away or failed to go to a house where he was needed.

  The fever had been declared a minor epidemic. Through some quirk of fate it had not claimed more than one more person in the two streets where it had first been reported. Instead it had located itself fiercely in the district near the docks. With so many important commercial interests at stake, an isolation camp was hastily erected at a safe distance from the city and the evacuation of the sick from the infected area began to take place. Louise, although thin and bedridden, was through the crisis of her fever. Lying in an upstairs room, she heard the first rumble of wheels as the evacuation began. As the only doctor in the area, it had been Charles’s responsibility to organize it.

  When he came into the room, a travelling bag slung over his shoulder and his medical bag bulging with extra supplies, she tried to keep a smile on her face.

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ he said, grinning cheerfully for her benefit. ‘But I know you’ll soon be completely well again.’

  Although she had been prepared for his departure, it tore at her heart to see him go. His earlier reassurance that if he had been going to catch the fever it would have happened already held no weight now that the time of parting had come.

  ‘I’ll be looking forward to our Sunday afternoons together when you’re back again,’ she managed on a light note.

  ‘So shall I. Then we’ll make up for lost time. As I believe you’re no longer infectious, Joan will soon take you to Mr Hoinville’s house. Everything has been arranged. He’ll see that you’re cared for until fully recovered. Then Joan will come to assist me at the camp.’ He took her hand, kissed it and then her brow. ‘Au revoir, Louise.’

  ‘God be with you,’ she said in a choked voice.

  His gaze lingered long and warmly on her before he clamped his t
ricorne hat on to his head and went from the room to clatter away down the stairs. Joan, who had tactfully kept her distance, even though they had spoken in French, as they usually did on their own, came into the room when the front door banged after him.

  ‘Help me to the window!’ Louise implored, pushing aside her bed cover. ‘I want to see him leave.’

  Joan almost carried her to the window, for her feet dragged weakly. Then she looked down into the street, but he was not expecting to see her and did not look up. She saw him set his hands on to the back of a cart full of sick people and leap up on to it to sit with his legs dangling. Even as she watched, he turned to comfort a sobbing child.

  Three days later Joan brought the horse from the stable to the mounting block by the house. Then Louise, supported by the woman’s strong arms, took each stone step slowly until she managed to sit sideways on the saddle.

  Joan looked up at her almost accusingly. ‘I hope you realize how much t’ doctor loves you.’

  Louise met her eyes. ‘I do,’ she replied quietly.

  It was true, she thought, as the woman began to lead the horse at a gentle pace. She and Charles had formed a bond between them that was more than friendship; a warm love that would stay the rest of their lives. But they each had their own paths to follow. Whether those paths should ever merge to become one was something only the future could reveal.

  To shorten the journey, Joan led the horse through narrow streets. She also wanted to avoid being seen by the guards, who stopped anyone leaving the infected area, other than those on the sick carts, which had to keep to a specific route.