Hidden. . .
Hannah shifted her attention to the two loose covers of the portfolio. They were old and tattered and looked as if they had once bound a book. She scanned every inch of the top cover and, finding nothing, set it aside. The back cover was even more ragged, testament to her father's thriftiness. When Hannah saw that the endpaper had been neatly cut, she brought it into the light and saw that something appeared to have been tucked beneath the end sheet.
With rising excitement, she used the ivory-handled letter opener that lay on Sir Marcus's desk, and gently coaxed the item out. It was an envelope. On the back, she read three German words: Wiener Allgemeine Krankenhaus—Vienna General Hospital.
Hannah was flung back to the day a curious envelope with a foreign postmark had arrived. It was four years after her mother's death, and her father had been in his laboratory, assembling the new microscope he had recently purchased. Hannah, seventeen at the time, had been taking scones out of the oven when the postman had knocked at the front door. Hannah's father had read the letter in private, to emerge from his laboratory visibly shaken, saying he was going to the cemetery. He had been gone for hours by the time Hannah went searching for him, to find him lying face down on Louisa's grave, sobbing bitterly, the letter from Vienna clutched in his hand.
Hannah never saw the letter after that, and her father would not speak of it, but in the two years that followed, his drive to perfect the formula became obsessive. Whatever was in the letter, it had changed his research from one of inquiry to actively using chemicals on himself, to the ultimate detriment of his own health.
This must be the letter her father had spoken of with his dying breath, the one that revealed the "truth" about her mother's death. But it was in German.
I shall have it translated at once, Hannah thought as she folded the page. As she began to slip it back into the envelope, she found a second sheet of paper inside. Unfolding it beneath the oil lamp, she saw that it appeared to be a second letter, written in English. But when she compared the two, she realized that the second sheet was an English translation of the first.
Holding her breath, trying to keep her hands steady as the sheet of paper trembled in her grasp—and praying that these words contained the solution to the crisis outside—Hannah read her father's anguished words.
"My God," she whispered when she was finished.
Papunya was right! The answer had been here all along!
She ran through the foyer, but when she emerged on the other side of the main door, people in the crowd began immediately shouting questions at her, surging up the steps as if to engulf her in their desperation and fury.
"Can you cure my sister?"
"Can I take my mother home?"
"Wait—" she said, overwhelmed.
Hands reached for her. Someone grabbed at the letter.
"Stop, I can't—"
She was pushed back against the doors as the mob rushed her, shouting questions, pecking at her with their hands like a flock of starving ravens.
And then two strong arms were around her, drawing her sideways, away from the frantic mob, down the steps. Fintan.
"Where is Dr. Iverson?" Hannah gasped. "I must show this to him."
"He is with Neal, protecting the Aborigines."
"Help me to get through."
Holding tightly to Hannah, Fintan managed to force his way through the milling throng, whose shouts and cries rose to the stars as if from a single throat. At the center of the angry mass, Hannah saw Neal and Dr. Iverson trying to stave off an assault on the natives.
"Stop!" Hannah cried. "Listen to me! I have found the answers! All of you! Think of your loved ones."
Fintan joined the defense, and so did—to Hannah's surprise—Joe Turner and his brother, until the mob was pushed back, their voices dying down, so that Hannah was able to face them and, holding up the letter, say, "This is what the Aborigines came to tell us. Here is the solution to the contagion inside the hospital. You must all calm down and allow us to do what has to be done."
"Dr. Iverson," she said, turning to Marcus while the onlookers shifted nervously and exchanged skeptical looks. "I have found the answer. Please, read this. Tell me if I am right."
The crowd fell still and waited in hushed silence as the sheet of paper in Dr. Iverson's hands fluttered in the night breeze.
His black brows came together as he read, at the top of the translation, John Conroy's preface: "I wrote to learned men in several foreign institutions, explaining that a few days prior to Louisa's death from childbed fever, I had visited a farm wife who had the same childbed fever, and while I was away, Louisa went into labor. I came home in time to deliver our child. When she then came down with childbed fever, I was baffled because our residences are miles apart, we do not share a water supply with that farm, we are not subjected to the same prevailing winds. How was it possible for the two women to come down with the same contagion? Several men to whom I wrote responded that there is a radical new theory that infection can be transmitted from patient to patient by way of a doctor's hands. But the mystery is, where did the original infection come from? If I contracted it from the farmwife, how had she gotten it? And so I decided to write to the top authority of the day, the Vienna General Hospital. Here is the response."
While the crowd watched Dr. Iverson, and people at the back demanded to know what was happening, Sir Marcus read the translation of Dr. Semmelweis's response to John Conroy, explaining that he had noticed that the mortality rate from childbed fever on one ward in his own hospital was far higher than that on another ward. Herr Semmelweis said he analyzed the discrepancies and discovered that the ward with the high death rate was attended to by medical students; the other ward, by midwives. What, Herr Semmelweis had asked himself, was the difference? His discovery astounded him.
When he realized, Dr. Semmelweis said, that the only difference was that the medical students attended post mortems before making their rounds, whereas the midwives did not, he could only conclude that the source of the contagion had to be the autopsy room, and that doctors came away from the post mortem with 'cadaver particles' on their hands. He went on to explain to John Conroy that the final proof was when one of the medical staff accidentally cut himself in the post mortem room, and died soon after of childbed fever.
"My God," Sir Marcus murmured as he read a notation added at the bottom. "I am called occasionally," John Conroy had written, "by the coroner in Maidstone to examine the body of someone who has died under suspicious circumstances. And what I learned when I read this letter from Vienna, is that when I went directly from an autopsy in Maidstone to the farm wife to deliver her child, that I had unwittingly infected her, for although I rinsed my hands and they appeared to be clean, they obviously were not. And it was directly after I delivered the farm wife's child that I delivered Louisa's baby."
Iverson lifted his head and looked at Hannah in astonishment and disbelief. "I hardly know what to say, Miss Conroy. When I wondered what was in the hospital that had caused the contagion, I had not thought of the post mortem tent because it is not part of the main building. Even though we isolated the female ward, doctors were going directly from post mortem to the men's ward, infecting three patients there."
Marcus Iverson massaged his stubbled jaw. "This Viennese doctor says that one of his staff died of childbed fever after receiving a cut in the cadaver room. And I recall Dr. Soames telling me that he had cut himself during an autopsy the other day."
"Molly Higgins had an open sore," Hannah said. "As did Mrs. Chappelle. And all three new cases in the men's ward are in the hospital for wounds that won't heal."
Iverson met Hannah's eyes as the crowd watched in anticipation, not comprehending the dialogue but sensing that answers were about to come, as the lady had promised. "That is the answer, Miss Conroy. The streptococcus organism enters through the blood stream. They are all suffering from a form of septicemia. We have our source. We can stop the contagion."
He a
ddressed the onlookers in a loud, authoritative voice, "The threat is gone. We have found the source of the contagion and we will eradicate it. The sickness will not spread to the city, and by tomorrow this hospital will be safe. Please, all of you go home. I promise you that our doors will soon be re-opened and access will be available to all."
But no one moved. "I ain't leaving until I see my Mary."
"And I ain't going home without my Sam."
"But there is no further cause for alarm," Marcus said. "We have everything under control."
An angry grumble rippled through the mob. This was not the message they had wanted to hear. "Prove it!"
Realizing that things could quickly spin out of control, Hannah raised her arm and called for silence. "Please listen to Dr. Iverson. The contagion will run its course and will soon be gone. There is nothing to fear."
"We ain't leaving and that's that."
Hannah conferred briefly with Sir Marcus, and then she addressed the angry mob: "We understand your concerns. Those of you with loved ones inside will be allowed in for short visits. But we must think of the patients. This will be done in an orderly fashion. There will be no pushing or rowdiness. You will line up and will be given a fair turn inside. If, after visiting your friend or family member, you still wish to take him or her home, then we will make sure he or she is free of the contagion and will assist you in the discharge."
When Hannah saw sudden suspicion in their eyes, saw how men and women shifted uncertainly on their feet, she realized that they had not expected this compromise, and now that they had won their right to enter the hospital, were suddenly thinking of the contagion within. "We will take precautions for your own health and safety," she said, her long skirt stirring in the night breeze, lamplight flickering on her face. "We now know where the contagion originates and how it infects a person. You will all be quite safe visiting your loved ones."
Finally she saw cautious smiles, people nodding in vague understanding, talking among themselves, the tension easing.
As Sir Marcus handed the letter back to Hannah, he said quietly, "Well done, Miss Conroy. I shall ask Blanche to organize the orderly admittance of visitors, and will give Dr. Kennedy instructions to seal off the post mortem tent at once."
He addressed Joe Turner, who was looking lost and bereft, laying a fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder and saying, "I am terribly sorry for your loss, son."
With a tight throat, Turner could only repeat what he had been saying all evening: "Please may I see my Nellie now?"
Marcus thought for a moment, then signaled to Fintan. Out of the earshot of the two brothers, Iverson said, "Mr. Rorke, will you please see to it that Nellie Turner's body is brought out of the post mortem tent and into a private area of the women's ward? And will you please ask one of Blanche's ladies to see to it that Nellie is clean and presentable?"
Marcus turned back to Joe and Graham and said, "Please come inside where you can wait in the lobby. I'll see that someone brings you tea."
As she watched Dr. Iverson lead the two brothers up the steps, while Neal helped Dr. Kennedy to move through the crowd and ask them for their patience, that they would soon be allowed inside, Hannah turned to Miriam, who had been silent and watchful through the whole event, and said, "Please tell your grandmother that she was right. I did have hidden knowledge, and I found it. I can indeed heal the sickness in this place."
After her granddaughter translated, the old woman held Hannah for a long moment with her enigmatic gaze and then, through Miriam, declared the sacred land healed. Planting her wooden staff firmly into the ground, Papunya turned away without another word, her companions silently falling into step behind her. Everyone watched as the Aborigines walked across the vacant lot that would soon be a formal English garden, and disappear into the darkness like ghosts returning to their supernatural realm.
When Neal joined Hannah, to wearily inform her that the crowd was being cooperative, she said, "With his dying breath my father told me that I needed to know the truth about my mother's death, that it was in a hidden letter. I didn't know that I had had it with me all this time."
She brought the translation into the light and, in the glow streaming from one of the hospital windows, read her father's final note at the bottom: "And so Dr. Semmelweis has informed me that I killed Louisa. Although it was the streptococcus that made her ill and caused her to die, she died by my hand, for the microbiotes were on my hands, they were the weapons I brought into my home. I killed her as surely as if there had been a pistol in my hand and I fired it. May God have mercy on me."
Now Hannah knew why the letter from Vienna had driven him to the cemetery to spend hours at her mother's graveside. It was to beg Louisa's forgiveness.
In the foyer, as Marcus Iverson saw to it that Joe Turner and his brother were placed in Margaret Lawrence's capable and motherly hands, he went in search of Blanche Sinclair, and he found her in the women's wing, where already she was readying patients for visitors, and informing such visitors as were already there that they must leave and allow others their fair turn. It was so like Blanche, he thought in admiration. She had overheard what was being said outside, and had immediately gotten busy preparing for a parade of hospital visitors.
When he looked at her, wearing a homespun apron over her stylish gown, her red-brown hair caught up in a washer woman's kerchief, Marcus thought of his fleeting attraction to Hannah Conroy, and he realized now that those feelings had been a way of suppressing his desire for Blanche. But that desire had never really gone away, no matter how much in this past year he had tried to convince himself that she had betrayed him. He had heard that Miss Conroy and the American were engaged to be married, and he wished them much happiness.
He kept his eyes on Blanche, who was unaware of being observed by the man she loved. Marcus had seen her work wonders in these past twenty-four hours, organizing her friends and patients' visitors into an efficient team of bedside attendants. Blanche had even asked if any knew how to read and write, and those women were given the job of recording all bedside tasks, such as feeding the patients, emptying bedpans, at what time dressings were changed, or patients turned on their sides, so that no one went hungry or neglected.
Blanche Sinclair was a woman with an amazing mind. He wondered if she would care to listen to his ideas for change and progress in the hospital, and perhaps offer a few suggestions of her own.
He turned away, remembering poor Dr. Soames.
Blanche glanced up in time to see Marcus Iverson turn and walk away from the ward, his back still erect, his shoulders square despite lack of sleep and taking almost no food. She felt love and admiration flood her heart, and excitement at the thought of the days to come.
She could not believe how alive she felt, despite having taken only brief naps in the past twenty-four hours, and nibbled on biscuits hastily washed down with tea. She was more than alive, she was filled with purpose. For the first time in her life, Blanche Sinclair felt as if she were exactly where she was meant to be. It amazed her to realize how there had been nothing to fear in the hospital after all, and she wondered now if perhaps it was not the hospital itself that had frightened her, but the unknown. In her child's mind, a hospital was a place of chaos, an environment out of control. But Blanche was in control of things now, and the fear was gone.
As she gave instructions to her ladies—"Remove those chairs, otherwise newly arrived visitors will be less inclined to leave and not allow others to take their turn."—she decided that after she had time to reflect on what she had done here, what she had seen and learned, she would sit down and put ideas to paper. And then she would present to Marcus the proposal that had been born and flourished and grown in her mind as she and Alice and Margaret and Martha had bathed patients, dressed their wounds, fed them porridge, changed their sheets—all in a much more efficient manner than when it was left up to family and friends.
A fresh new idea that made Blanche nearly giddy at the thought of it. Proper b
edside attendants. Not the floor moppers who were illiterate women trained to do little more than keep oil in the lamps, or the infamous "nurses" of London hospitals who came from the lower rungs of society and were notorious for being alcoholics and stealing from vulnerable patients. No, Blanche's staff would be trained and educated ladies of good breeding.
I shall establish the criteria myself, she decided. There are many gentlewomen in Melbourne who would welcome taking up a profession, especially as I will see to it that this will be a respectable one. I will personally screen applicants and make sure they are of high morals and good character.
She marveled that she had once wondered what it felt like to have a calling, to know what one was meant to do in life, because she realized now that she had known it all along, ever since she was a child and had taken charge of the other children in the nursery, supervising the games, making sure everyone played fair, acting as mediator between hurt feelings.
I will inform Marcus that we will want structured hours, I shall want an office of my own, and that I am to be paid. I might be wealthy in my own right, and not in need of money, but it is the wage that makes one a professional. It is how I shall be taken seriously.
Outside on the lawn, Alice found Hannah looking at a small piece of notepaper while Neal asked the visitors to line up, people who now cooperated and looked forward to being reunited with loves ones they had feared dead.
"That was a brave thing you did, Hannah," Alice said, giving her friend's arm a squeeze. "You probably saved us all." Alice gave her friend a quick hug, then said, "Have you seen Fintan?"
Neal came up and gestured toward the unfinished children's wing. "I saw him go that way. He said something about finding scrap wood to cover the broken window."
As Alice lifted her skirts and hurried away, Neal said, "She looks like a woman in love."
"I know how she feels," Hannah said with a smile. "What now, Neal? Will you go back to the Cave of the Hands?"
This Golden Land Page 45
