A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

“He’s going to blow up the new well west of the village.” George led the way. They had been riding hard for roughly ten minutes when an explosion caused their horses to rear. John and George struggled to stay in their saddles.

  “Blast it! He’s gone and done it!” John shouted.

  They calmed their mounts and urged them on. Soon, they rode into a dust cloud, and John coughed as grit coated his throat. A small group of people turned as they approached. John and George dismounted, and the crowd parted as the two of them rushed forward.

  Arthur and Charlie Milford stood next to a pile of rocks. The smile Arthur gave his old boss disappeared as John walked up.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “What should have been done days ago,” Arthur replied.

  “It was that new stuff of Mr. Nobel’s,” Charlie interjected. “The gardener at the Hall uses it for gettin’ rid o’ stumps. I think we might have used a bit much though, Arthur. But it did the trick.”

  John glared at them. “You’ve destroyed property, and people could have gotten hurt.”

  “People were already getting hurt because of this blasted well.” Arthur stepped forward, hands clenched.

  Charlie laid a hand on his shoulder and, far from his normal, jovial behavior, narrowed his eyes at John. “Now, now, Lord Turner, we warned ’em off. And it seems to me destroyin’ property is a small price to pay to keep people from dyin’.”

  “But there’s no way of knowing if this is the solution or not.” He waved at the dust that settled around them. “If it did have something to do with this well, you might have made it worse. Who knows what gases you may have released into the air?”

  “No more people will get sick after this,” Arthur stated.

  “But where will we get water now?” someone from the crowd called out.

  There were murmurs of assent. Had Arthur thought of that? Some of these people had no way to get to the pump in the village green.

  “I will make sure you all have a way to get to the village pump until other arrangements can be made to re-dig the well.”

  There was a scuffle of gravel behind him. Charlie held fast to Arthur’s arm. But he couldn’t hold back the murderous glare the young man shot him.

  John dispersed the crowd, then confronted both of them. “I should have you both arrested, but I have enough to deal with now. Arthur, don’t come back to the hospital.” He flicked his gaze to Charlie. “You and I will discuss this later.”

  Charlie gave him a curt bow of the head. “Yes, my lord.”

  Now both of them were angry with him. Fair enough. He was as angry with them, if not more.

  He and George headed back to the hospital. When they arrived, he thought he might sink to the ground when he got off his horse. The ride had not been kind to his leg. He leaned against the animal for a moment, then pushed away and followed George inside, sending him off to help Parker, and went to the doctor’s office.

  Miss Phillips, Miss Abbott’s maid, waited for him. “Lord Turner?”

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Is Miss Abbott doing well?”

  “Yes, my lord. She is responding to the treatment. I was looking for Mr. Wilcox. Is he here? I have something of importance for him from Miss Abbott.”

  The letter she held was thick. Miss Abbott must not be doing too badly if she had the strength to pen a love letter.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here,” he said. He held out his hand. “I will make sure he gets it.”

  She hesitated. “I was told to deliver this into his hand, sir.”

  “As I said, I will make sure he gets this. I’ll give it to him when I return to the Hall. That is where he is. For now.”

  Thanking him, she gave a quick curtsy and left. John walked back to the doctor’s office and, tossing the missive on the desk, collapsed onto the cot and finally slept.

  “Lord Turner.”

  John opened his eyes and blinked at Parker standing over him.

  The butler stepped to one side as he sat up on the edge of the cot. “I trust you are now more rested.”

  He nodded. He did feel better, physically at least. Pushing more recent events aside, he stood and rubbed the stubble on his face. “Why does this feel longer than it did an hour ago?” He hadn’t slept any longer than that, he was certain.

  “My lord, you slept the rest of the day and all through the night. It is now mid-morning.”

  John stared at him. “That can’t be. What about the patients? Who else has passed? How many new cases do we have?”

  “Everyone is quite well, sir,” he replied. “No one else has died, and word is, as of this morning, no more people have become ill.”

  That no one else had succumbed was good news, but he had expected to hear that the number of sick had tripled, considering the dust and grit rising into the air due to the blast.

  Parker continued, “Mr. Wilcox was here not long after you fell asleep.” He frowned. “He gathered a number of things.”

  The letter Miss Phillips had given him. He walked toward the desk. “There was a letter here for him. Did he get it?” When Parker didn’t answer, he asked, “What?”

  “He read it but did not take it with him. Rather, he left it and asked that you read it at your leisure.” He raised his chin as he spoke. “Mr. Wilcox opened it right here at the desk, my lord. The look he gave you when he was finished was most disrespectful, and I made sure he understood my displeasure.”

  John rubbed his chin as he moved to stand behind the desk. The pages of the letter lay strewn across it. He gathered them and read the contents. The more he read, the more blood he felt leave his face and extremities. He was almost shaking as he laid down the last page.

  Parker stared at him, concern etched on his face. “My lord, are you all right? What does it say?”

  “It says that I’m a fool.”

  All John could do was wait.

  With Dr. Royston now recovered and the epidemic under control, John and his servants had returned to Ashford Hall. Parker explained to him they all needed to rest before they could resume his plans to leave. It was altogether possible the man was trying to put him off and give him a day or so to reconsider leaving Woodley. In light of how hard his staff had worked, he had consented.

  In the meantime, he would wait.

  Sleep came in bits and pieces. Otherwise, he wandered. The evening of the third day found him haunting the gardens. The sun set in a flaming ball of red as he made his way back to the Hall. As darkness shrouded him, he ambled to the side door that led into the library. Arthur’s door. He opened it. The oil lamp the young man had lit the night he’d returned looking for answers still sat on a side table. Someone had long since extinguished the flame.

  A dim light came from his study. His dinner. He’d requested a tray be sent there last night. The kitchen staff had probably concluded he’d want to eat in there again. He’d ring the bell and tell them to take it away. He wasn’t hungry. Sighing, he started toward the front of the library.

  “You look exhausted.”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, he stopped short. “Robert!”

  His old friend leaned against his desk. The curl of his mouth suggested he was no longer angry with him. The quick yet hearty bear hug confirmed it.

  John pulled away. It seemed odd to smile. “What are you doing here?”

  Robert’s brow rose. “I might ask you the same thing. Do all English lords wander into their grand homes through a side door?”

  If smiling felt strange, a chuckle, however short, felt even more so. “No. I was just out for a walk.”

  “In the dark?”

  “It was light when I started,” John said. “You never answered my question.”

  Robert clasped his shoulder. “I was invited to a medical conference in Vienna. Sarah convinced me to leave early so we could stop and see you.”

  “You brought Sarah? Where is she?”

  “London. She wasn’t feeling up to a tra
in ride after our voyage over.”

  “Rough crossing?”

  “In a way. Sarah was sicker than she usually is at the beginning of a sea voyage.” He bounced on the balls of his feet a little as he spoke. “She’s due next summer.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m sorry to not see her, but I’m glad she stayed behind.” He winced. “We’ve had sickness here.”

  “Yes, your butler, Parker, told me.” His mouth twitched. “About time you got back on the horse.”

  “Oh, yes. Back on and fell right off again.” John walked to the other side of his desk.

  His friend sighed. “Dare I ask what that means?”

  “It means, as usual, I have made a mess of things.”

  “Again, huh? What now?”

  “First I refused to help, causing more people to die than should have. And when I did finally decide to help, my arrogance nearly cost more lives because I refused to see the answer right under my nose.” He told him about Arthur finding first a treatment, then the cause of the epidemic. “He even has proof. Look at this.”

  He swept up Arthur’s letter from his desk and handed it to Robert. Other papers flew about in his wake, but he’d straighten them later. He lowered himself into his chair.

  Robert ambled as he read. After a few minutes, he came to a stop next to John’s desk. “This is good work. So it came here in the bottle of water found in this Miss Oliver’s home?”

  “Yes. They found packaging. It had been shipped from her sister in Southampton. Apparently, her sister thought the water from her street pump would be good for her.”

  “Mr. Wilcox has an interesting hand.”

  “That’s not his handwriting. It was written by a woman, a Miss Isabella Abbott. She also sketched the picture you see there.” He described Miss Abbott and her situation, refraining from mentioning her relationship with Arthur.

  “Yes. She’s saying it’s the same organism a Filippo Pacini found in the intestinal tract of a cholera victim. Fascinating.”

  “Apparently she has a microscope,” John said. “Before she fell ill, she was able to compare the water samples she was given from the bottle, the well, and the village pump. She found the organism in the bottle and the well but not the pump.”

  “And did you do as Dr. Snow did? Cut off access to the well?”

  “No. I wouldn’t listen. Arthur took matters into his own hands and did it himself. And I threatened to have him arrested. I told you I made a mess of things.” He’d sent a letter Hartsbury, but it had come back unopened. And Arthur could not be located.

  Robert handed the papers back to him. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Leave. The arrangements are all made. I would have been in London already if it weren’t for all this. I’m giving the household staff another day or two of rest, and then I’m shutting up the house.”

  He dropped the letter onto his desk. A paper flew off and landed at Robert’s feet.

  “So you’re running away? Again?” Robert picked up the paper and glanced at it.

  “I need to go someplace where no one knows who I am.”

  “And where no one knows you’re a doctor.” Robert worked his jaw. He waved the paper he held. “Who is this Penelope Howard? She seems to understand what you need better than you do.”

  John stood. Miss Howard’s note. Someone must have tidied the library and placed it on his desk. He reached for it, but Robert pulled it away from his grasp.

  “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness,” he quoted.

  John lunged forward and tried to take it again, without success. “Don’t start on me, Robert. There’s not enough grace in the world sufficient for what I’ve done.”

  “John, you’re human. We all are. Or don’t you think I’ve made mistakes too? Mistakes I’m not proud of.”

  “That’s different, Robert. You’re—”

  “I’m weak.” He took a step back and spread his arms out. “I’m not ashamed to admit it. Because that’s when God is strongest, when His grace is at its strongest. When I make mistakes. Especially the ones I can’t fix.” He held the note out to him.

  John snatched it back. The smallest glimpse of her elegant hand was enough to make him catch his breath. And it was impossible not to imagine the tenderness on her face as she wrote it. He laid it face down on his desk, refusing to meet his friend’s eye.

  “She means something to you doesn’t she?” Robert crossed his arms. “The woman who wrote that? I’ve never seen you react like this. Even over Maggie.”

  John stared at the back of her note. “Yes.”

  “Then she’s one in a million. Like Sarah. And you’d be a fool to leave her.” He strode to the door but paused. “If you decide to be a fool, we’re staying at the Westminster Palace Hotel in London. Be sure to come see Sarah. But don’t count on seeing me. I’ll more than likely be out.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Are you sure you’re feeling up to going out?” Hannah sat on Penelope’s bed as she stood in front of her mirror doing her hair.

  Penelope looked at her through the glass then regarded her own reflection. It had been four days since she had come home from the hospital. Exhaustion no longer lined her face, and the circles under her eyes had disappeared. Physically, she felt well rested.

  Her heart was another matter altogether.

  Self-control was paper thin. It was taking everything she had. She needed to get away, for an hour or so at least, and release her pent-up emotions.

  She lifted her chin as she finished securing her chignon.

  “I’ll be fine, Hannah. A walk and fresh air will do me good.”

  “Yes. A walk will certainly help what’s ailin’ your heart.”

  Penelope’s hands froze. How could she know? “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Wish I did. I’ve known you since you were a babe, and I can tell when somethin’s wrong. You act like you were bein’ held together with spider silk.”

  Penelope took a deep breath. “I’m going to visit Clara Bromley.”

  She walked down the stairs to the hooks where her cloak and hat hung. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “I’m prayin’ for you.”

  Hannah’s voice was softer, gentler than she’d ever heard. She reached out and gave the woman a quick embrace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She pulled away and cleared her throat. “On second thought, I might be a while. I think I might stay and help Clara with her students.”

  As she made her way down the lane that led from Fairview to the main road, she pressed a hand to her chest. The tears that she had held back for days fell freely. She stopped and looked up. God would work this out for good. Somehow. Even if it wasn’t in the way she wanted.

  He was still leaving.

  Thomas had said as much yesterday. If leaving meant God would help him find the path to grace, then so be it. John Turner’s soul was more important than the yearnings of her heart. It no longer made sense to deny she loved him. He wasn’t like Edmund. No matter what he’d said. He’d only pushed her away to protect her, and she loved him all the more for it. A love that plumbed to a depth that almost scared her, it was so strong.

  She had never felt this way for Edmund.

  Leaves crunched under her boots as she moved on, and an autumn breeze fingered her cloak. Her courtship with Edmund played through her mind. She had seen what she’d wanted to see in him. Not the lecher that he was. If her uncle had succeeded in making him marry her, would she have been happy? More than likely not. He would have placed himself above her needs, and she would have found herself in a loveless marriage. And that would have been far worse than her situation now.

  The breeze had dried her earlier tears, but she had to reach for her handkerchief to dry the ones that now slipped down her cheeks. She couldn’t allow Clara to see her sad.

  She managed to compose herself and was soon walking up the little lane to Clara’s cottage. She knocked o
n the door. No answer. The windows were open. Penelope angled herself toward them but didn’t quite look in.

  “Clara? Are you there?” She wrinkled her nose at the scent of mint. Had her morning sickness returned? If so why was she still drinking that horrible tea she had obtained at Mr. Brown’s? She’d had Thomas take her their blend.

  She knocked again, and when Clara still didn’t answer, she peered in the window. Clara lay on the floor, a small bottle lying empty nearby and the contents of the room in utter chaos.

  Sleep was still somewhat elusive. John rose early, ate little, and once again took to wandering the Hall. Sometime mid-morning, Parker approached as he stared out a window in one of the upper floor rooms.

  “Yes, Parker?”

  “The staff is more than sufficiently rested, my lord. Are you ready to leave? We can have everything ready by early this afternoon.”

  “Charlie Milford hasn’t left us, has he?”

  The pause before Parker’s answer marked his surprise over the question. “No, my lord. Mr. Milford is still here. He’s in the stables, I believe.”

  “Good.” He started down the hall toward the stairs, then stopped. He hadn’t answered his question. “I’m sorry, Parker. I don’t want to leave.”

  The butler raised a brow at him.

  “Not today, I mean. Not yet. I—”

  “John.” Parker’s straight back and cool gaze were undermined by the softness of his voice. “Take your time.”

  He nodded and made his way down the stairs and out the front door.

  Indecision worked at him. One minute he was ready to turn his back on the Hall and all that William had entrusted to him, and the next he wanted to stay. Stay and see if it was possible to live again. Stay and see if she were possible, even after everything he’d said. My grace is sufficient … Every time the hope of that verse rose in his heart, he pulled it back down. How could he hope? What right did he have? Was he really still falling for eternity or had he stopped? And if he had stopped, how could he pick himself up again? What foothold could he use? How could he stay there?

  A stillness lingered around his soul.