A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  Her hands slowed as she pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet. Hannah was laying out the meal on the kitchen worktable. “What’s this? We’re eating in here?”

  “It’s just you, me, and Fanny today.”

  “What about Thomas?”

  “Left in a rush this morning not long after you. Mumbled something about having to return to Somerset.”

  Would he ever be able to settle things with that tenant? He really should get Lord Turner involved. What was the point of that? He soon would be too far away to do anything useful.

  Hannah handed her a letter. “Came for you this morning.”

  Good. She could use the distraction. She read the front and opened it as she sat down at the worktable. It was a response from Miss Oliver’s sister in Southampton. She had written to her after hearing of the old woman’s run-in with Matron Talbot. Had she got there safely?

  Dear Miss Howard,

  I am so very glad to receive your letter. My sister wrote to me almost a fortnight ago to say she would be coming to stay, and I have not heard from her since. I am at a loss as to what to do since I have no direction for anyone else in Woodley. Has she been taken ill? Any news you could send me would be—

  “Oh no,” Penelope gasped.

  Hannah stepped over. “What is it?”

  “I have to go.” She crumpled the letter in one hand and snatched up her bonnet and reticule in the other. There was no other place Miss Oliver would go, was there? She strode down the hall to the front door.

  Hannah followed close behind. “Miss Penny, what is it? What has happened?”

  “I must get to Woodley immediately.” Where was the cart? Of course. It wouldn’t have been brought out this soon. She headed to the stables. She would help ready it herself if she had to.

  At the stables, she found Bessie between the shafts while a lad fiddled with the harness. She stuffed the letter in her reticule and climbed in.

  Hannah grabbed her arm. “Here now, you can’t go running off with no proper explanation—”

  “I haven’t any time to explain. I’ll send word as soon as I can.” She snapped the reins the instant the stable boy finished and raced down the drive with as much speed as she dared. As she neared Woodley, she altered her course. The cottage hospital. She would stop there first and fetch Arthur. He could help her get into Miss Oliver’s house. Perhaps she had left a clue as to where she had gone. That was the only explanation. She couldn’t have been ill all this time without anyone else knowing about it. Unless … No— that did not bear thinking about.

  Penelope pulled up in front of the hospital. She rushed through the doors and stopped. Something was wrong. The front hall was strangely quiet. She took a few more steps. Matron Talbot’s office was empty, the door hanging open. At that moment, Arthur appeared from the direction of the men’s ward, jacketless, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and only a few buttons of his vest fastened. His tie was as haggard and sagging as his eyes which widened when he saw her.

  “Miss Howard. How can you be here so soon? Dr. Royston only just sent someone to fetch you.”

  Before she could reply, the doctor appeared. He looked as worn as Arthur, but he wore his coat and hat, and his medical bag was in hand. “She’s here already?”

  “I need to borrow Arthur.” Penelope held up the letter. “I’ve had word that Miss Oliver is not with her sister. My brother is away, and I need help getting into her cottage.” The two men looked at one another. “What is the matter?”

  “Miss Oliver’s neighbor found her this morning,” Arthur said. “There was a smell coming from her cottage.”

  She raised a cold hand to her mouth. No. It couldn’t be. Why hadn’t she forced her way in before?

  Doctor Royston’s face was grave and dark as he regarded his feet. “We should have listened to her.”

  “Cholera? But how? How did she get it?”

  “I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I can understand how the smell from her corpse could have permeated the air. Many of those who have fallen ill were her near neighbors.”

  “What about Prudence, her maid? Can she tell us anything?”

  “She’s gone,” Arthur replied. “No note or anything. She must have gotten scared and run away.” He looked at the doctor. “Sir, what about the bottle of water we found?”

  Doctor Royston raised his hand, and the sharpness of his gaze cut his sentence short. “Enough. I will not hear anything else on the subject. Surely you can understand how the smell from her corpse could have permeated the air. And now it has spread here. There is too much to do to waste time on useless theories.”

  Arthur set his jaw.

  Penelope’s gaze slid from Arthur back to the doctor. “Spread here?”

  “The matron and Nurse Campbell fell ill yesterday evening,” Dr. Royston replied. That explained their haggard appearances. Those were the only two nurses the hospital employed. “Most everyone in the men’s ward has fallen ill, and those who were Miss Oliver’s near neighbors have been sending word for me to come since early this morning.” Dr. Royston looked at his watch. “That is why I sent for you. Someone needs to help Arthur until I can return.”

  “Of course. Have you sent for anyone else? What about Mr. Martin?” Woodley’s elderly apothecary was known to help them on occasion.

  “He is one of those I have to go see, and I haven’t had time to send word elsewhere.” He met her eye. “There is only one doctor who could get here quickly enough to help us, and we both know he will not come.”

  “I will do all I can,” she replied.

  “Thank you,” the doctor called over his shoulder as he strode out the door.

  Penelope turned to Arthur. “How many more in the women’s ward are ill?”

  “To be honest, nearly everyone is.” Arthur grasped her by the elbow. “Mrs. Travers passed away late last night.”

  Penelope bowed her head. A moment for grief was all that could be afforded. She laid a hand on her forehead. Who had she attended the last time she filled in for Nurse Campbell? Her hand dropped along with her stomach. “What about Sally?”

  “She’s fine except for a mild fever. We sent her home.”

  “Good.” She drew in a deep breath. Cholera. It had been a long time since her training days, but she still recalled with unfortunate clarity what to expect. “What were you about to suggest to Dr. Royston that made him so angry? Where was the water from?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” His flat tone drove away any further questions.

  “Then I will go to the women’s ward in a moment. I should send word to Fairview and have Hannah send my uniform.” As she walked into the matron’s office, she pulled off her cloak and hat. She sat down at her desk. “I will also send word to Hartsbury to see if they can send any of their servants to help us.”

  Arthur rooted himself at the doorway. “I was able to send word to them.”

  “Through Miss Abbott?”

  “She’s sending who she can.”

  “And the Hall?”

  “You heard the doctor. He won’t come.”

  “He is still the patron of this hospital and needs to be notified.” She slapped another sheet of paper in front of her. “And he will certainly be able to at least send someone to help.” She paused and softened her brisk tone. “I still have hope for him, Arthur.”

  “I don’t.” He backed away from the door. “I’ll fetch Dr. Royston’s groom to take those for you.” His footsteps echoed in the hall. She stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. Arthur might be right. Lord Turner was leaving in just a few days. And she hadn’t heard from or seen him since that day at the ruins. Her face warmed. She would write only to Fairview for help. Hannah could come and perhaps a few of the stable boys. A simple notification would suffice for Ashford Hall.

  But despite her practical thoughts, her hand chose to listen to her heart. The note Dr. Royston’s groom left at the Hall was less than formal.

  The hou
rs and minutes seemed to have a mind of their own, coming and going as slowly or as quickly as they wished and never in any semblance of order. Penelope looked out the window as she pulled it shut. Was it evening or morning?

  “I hate to shut up all this bad air, but I can feel a chill coming on.” She had already done as much in the women’s ward.

  Arthur said nothing. He merely slipped a sheet over yet another patient and looked at her with haggard eyes. It was the apothecary. Dr. Royston had him brought in only hours ago. Some of the younger patients were holding on, but the older ones like Mr. Martin were slipping into Death’s grasp far too easily.

  “Help has arrived from Hartsbury,” she said as she walked over to him. “You should go rest.” She’d had cots set up in both the doctor’s and the matron’s offices some time ago, but neither of them had made use of them.

  “So should you.” Arthur rose. “You look worse than me.”

  She shook her head. She did feel off, but that was inconsequential. Dr. Royston had sent only the worst cases to the hospital, and their twelve beds were full. She looked at the sheet that clad Mr. Martin. It had been full.

  Arthur followed her gaze and then snatched up the empty bottle of castor oil on the bedside table. “I’ve been giving this to him and everyone else in here exactly as Dr. Royston told me.” His knuckles whitened as they gripped the bottle. “What good has it done?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I could tell you. But he has much more experience than either of us. We must trust that he knows best.” She covered her nose. Thick, rancid sickness coated the room now the windows were closed. “I’ll send for someone to clear the buckets. And when Mr. Gregory returns, I will tell him about Mr. Martin.”

  Arthur set the bottle back down and glanced at the buckets next to each bed. “All of them are just expelling liquid aren’t they?” he asked so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

  “Yes, but—”

  The door to the ward opened, and Mrs. Richards, Dr. Royston’s housekeeper, walked in. Her lips curled at the smell, and she raised a handkerchief to her nose. They guided her into the front hall.

  “What is it, Mrs. Richards?” Penelope asked.

  The housekeeper took two great gulps of fresher air. “It’s the doctor. He’s sick. Mr. Gregory just brought him.”

  “No vomiting or”—Arthur paused as he attempted to be delicate—“anything else?”

  “No, I mean, I don’t think so. He’s only just arrived. But he’s burning with fever.”

  “Then it’s not cholera.” Fever wasn’t a symptom. Penelope looked at Arthur in partial relief.

  “But now we have no doctor.” He buttoned his vest and rolled down his sleeves. “You’d better take me to him, Mrs. Richards.”

  As they left, Thomas walked in with two more of their laborers. Thank the Lord, more help. She guided them to the men’s ward to empty the buckets, warning them of the smell.

  Lord, please don’t let the bad air sicken them as well.

  When she returned, Clara stood in the hall, her arm linked with Thomas’.

  Penelope rushed to her. “Are you well? Why are you here?”

  “Mr. Howard brought me. I came to help,” she said.

  Why did Clara look up at Thomas with fear in her eyes as she took off her cloak? But of course, she was afraid. Anyone of her age and inexperience would be. What had Thomas been thinking?

  Penelope stilled the girl’s hands. “Thomas.”

  “She insisted.”

  “You must take her home this instant.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she shouldn’t be here in her condition.”

  Clara’s eyes flew to hers.

  He glanced at Clara, then back to her. “Her condition?”

  Quick, say something, anything. “Can’t you see she’s not feeling well? We have enough to deal with here.”

  He shrugged. “Hannah is here, isn’t she?”

  Penelope raised a hand to her eyes. He was acting so oddly, and she had no time to sort out why. “Please take her home.” She pulled Clara’s cloak snug about her shoulders. “Thomas will make sure you are safe. Go home and rest.”

  “She’s right, Miss Bromley,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry, old girl. I shouldn’t have brought her.”

  His expression was contrite as he took hold of Clara’s arm and guided her toward the door. She glanced back at Penelope, and he patted her hand. “Don’t worry, you are quite safe with me.”

  A headache pricked behind Penelope’s eyes. The soft gleam of moonlight slipped through the door as it shut behind them. It was nightfall then. Turning, she swayed a little. Steady there. She allowed herself a second to lean against the wood-paneled wall before she pushed on to the men’s ward to supervise those she’d sent in a few minutes earlier.

  CHAPTER 25

  Miss Howard’s note hung from John’s hand as he stared into the fireplace. He’d sent what supplies he could, but nothing else. His own people were too busy preparing for his departure and, according to Mrs. Lynch, could not be spared if he still meant to leave tomorrow. Tomorrow? Or was it today? He’d stayed up so late staring at Miss Howard’s soft, elegant handwriting that he didn’t know what time it was.

  She had not asked him to come. She had simply notified him of the epidemic and then penned the following:

  My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.

  Unlike Mr. Fletcher’s words, they didn’t reverberate against his heart. They clanged and pummeled it and burned themselves into the walls of his mind until they were almost all he could see.

  My grace is sufficient …

  My grace is sufficient …

  My grace is sufficient …

  He shot up from his chair, crumpling the note in his hand.

  “What do you want from me?” The prayer came out in a savage growl. “I’ve already fallen from Your grace. Do you want me to go even faster?”

  And not only that but give Miss Howard a front-row seat as well?

  He grabbed fistfuls of hair. A grim laugh slipped past his lips. Maybe he should. Because the look that he would see in her eyes when he failed would kill him or drive him mad. At this point, either was preferable.

  Near the back of the library, a door opened with a bang. John shot around the corner to find Arthur raising the wick on a lamp. He strode to the shelves, using the pool of light to rifle through books, pulling down the bound back issues of The Lancet one by one. After flipping through a few pages and not finding what he wanted, he tossed them to the floor.

  “Where is it?” he muttered.

  “What are you doing?” John asked, striding forward.

  “More than you are at the moment.” Arthur opened another volume and checked the date. “I know I saw a treatment in one of these.”

  “For cholera? There are dozens of treatments.”

  “And none of them work.” Arthur threw yet another book on the floor and pulled another one. He opened it and seeing the date thumbed to a section a third of the way in. A gleam lit his eye, and he snapped it shut, holding it up in front of John’s face. “I’ve found it.”

  John tore it from his hands. “There is no one answer, Arthur. No sure treatment.”

  “And how would you know?” Arthur yanked the book back. “When was the last time you even looked at these, let alone read any of them? All you do is sit in that chair of yours and bore yourself to death with running the Hall.” Arthur grabbed him by the edge of his vest. “Do you have any idea what Miss Howard and I have been dealing with?”

  John pushed him away. “Of course I do. I’ve seen cholera before.”

  “Then you know without a doctor to help us, things are only going to get worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Dr. Royston is ill. He can’t even rise from his bed. Miss Howard and I are practically on our own. You are the only doctor within fifty miles of Woodley.”

  John launched himself at Arthur and g
rabbed him by the collar. “And you left her there alone to fend for herself?”

  Arthur shoved him away. “No, you did.” He picked up the book and backed toward the door. “I would give my last breath to help the woman I love. Not supplies.”

  He turned on his heel and kicked books out of the way as he left. The windows shook as he slammed the door.

  John ran to the bell pull in the front of the library, giving it more than one vicious yank. He then strode into the front hall, not waiting to think over what he was about to do. All that mattered was helping her. Where was everyone?

  “Parker! George!”

  The next instant, both of them strode into the hall, tying their robes as they came. Parker took one look at John’s face and quickened his pace.

  “My lord?”

  “Rouse Mrs. Lynch and have her wake two of the oldest, most experienced housemaids, then call for a coach and have them meet me out front in ten minutes. My trip has been postponed. I’m needed at the cottage hospital.” He made for the stairs and motioned for George to follow. He would need to change into older clothes. And fetch his medical bag.

  “Very good, sir.” There was a smile in Parker’s voice as he spoke. “Shall I send a telegram to Mr. Worth, the surgeon? If he cannot come, perhaps he will be able to send someone else who can help.”

  John agreed and climbed the stairs two at a time.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, medical bag in hand, he led Mrs. Lynch and the two housemaids into the hospital’s front hall. He continued on around the corner and passed the women’s ward until he came to the doctor’s office. Arthur sat behind the oak desk, poring over the book he’d taken from the library. His head shot up, and his eyes grew as John turned the book toward him and began reading.

  “The article by Dr. Latta. Good thinking, Arthur.” He pulled out another book from his bag. “But you missed this volume by Dr. Girdwood. It’s more recent.” Arthur took it and began to read while John set down his bag and shrugged out of his coat. “We’ll need water from the village pump.”