by Karen Odden
I halted in mid-step. “Do you mean we can’t go home?”
He shook his head, and then motioned to the doorway of the sitting room. “May we speak for a few minutes?”
My heart lurched, and with a knot forming in my stomach, I followed him into the room. He turned to face me. “Miss Fraser, does your mother take an opiate?”
I hadn’t expected him to be so direct, and I felt a wave of shame for her weakness. “Laudanum, for her nerves,” I admitted. “How could you tell?”
“By her eyes.” His expression was sober. “The Italians call laudanum ‘belladonna,’ you know, for the way it makes women’s eyes look so dark and beautiful. But it can be a dangerous habit. How often does she take it?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Only on occasion? A few times a week? Or every day?” His voice was pragmatic and without judgment, as if he were only gathering facts, and I felt some of my embarrassment fade.
“Usually at night, before bed, to fall asleep.” He waited expectantly, and I continued, “Sometimes when she wakes. And then other times, when she’s nervous. She took an extra dose yesterday morning because she’s frightened of trains.”
“What is she like when the laudanum wears off? Is she easily upset? Fretful? Anxious?”
“Yes. All of those.” I swallowed. “She’s irritable and—well, nothing pleases her.”
I saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes—and something else that came and went before I could name it. But he said only, “So she missed her dose last night and again this morning.”
“Yes.” The knot in my stomach tightened. “Is that a problem?”
“If she’s been taking it regularly, suddenly depriving her of it can be just as dangerous as taking it in the first place. You don’t have any with you?”
My thoughts darted back to the moment when she had tried to pull her reticule off the spring in the railway carriage and I’d told her to leave it. Had I held a secret hope that we could leave her habit behind so easily? I felt a stab of guilt, and anger at my stupidity. “No. She usually carries a bottle with her, but we—I—left it on the train.”
He frowned. “I don’t have any to hand. I can obtain some, but I fear dosing her without knowing how much she’s been taking. Do you have any idea? Does she take a teaspoon at a time, or two, or—”
“I’m not sure. She’s always kept the bottles in her bedroom, in different places.” I felt the embarrassment return as I realized how this sounded.
“Always,” he repeated. “How long has she taken it?”
“On and off, for the last fifteen years or so,” I answered reluctantly. “There’ve been times when she stopped, but lately, it seems she needs it more.”
He walked over to the window and looked out onto the alley. His hands were deep in his pockets, and though I couldn’t see his face, I could sense tension in his whole frame.
“Why does this matter so much?” I could hear the tightness in my voice. “Isn’t it better if she isn’t taking it?”
“Her nerves have become used to it,” he said over his shoulder. “Without it, she’ll develop tremors, and eventually there could be nausea and vomiting, as well as agitation and trouble sleeping.”
“But she slept last night,” I protested. “You saw her just now—she was sleeping until you woke her, even without her usual dose.”
“Because she’d had extra yesterday.” He turned toward me. “This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered opiate use in railway patients. What I’ve found is that an accident excites the nerves, so laudanum patients temporarily need more than usual to sustain their normal level of calm. The problem is that at higher doses, laudanum can cause diminished breathing and heart rate. Not knowing her usual use, we will just have to be careful.”
My fingers clenched at the fabric of my skirt.
His expression was pained. “I’m sorry, Miss Fraser. I know I’m frightening you. But I think it’s best you know. We must keep her quiet and calm for the next week, or possibly a fortnight. She shouldn’t be moved; she needs plenty of rest; and I’ll administer the smallest amount of laudanum possible to keep any symptoms at bay. If we do all this and watch her closely, I’m sure she’ll be all right.”
I took a deep breath, relieved at his words. “Of course. I’ll do everything. I’ll write home at once to send for our things—”
“Before you go, I have a few questions. They won’t take long.” He drew out a small pocketbook and a pencil from his pocket. “Has your mother ever had whooping cough?”
“Not that she’s ever mentioned.”
“Smallpox? Diphtheria? Pleurisy?”
I shook my head after each.
“And you are her only child?” When I hesitated, he raised an eyebrow. “She had a miscarriage?”
I winced. “No. But it was a difficult birth, and he—Henry—died shortly after.” The weeks following Henry’s death still pained me to remember.
“When was this?”
“Fifteen—no, sixteen years ago. I was four.”
He wrote several lines in his book.
“Could something that happened so long ago be important?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Not always.” He put away his notebook. “The most important factors to her recovery are resting her nerves and managing her laudanum. Do you know of a trained nurse you could hire? It might be best to have one stay with her for the time being.”
I was already thinking of Jane Grace, a nurse who was cousin to our housekeeper, Mrs. Ellsworth. Kind and intelligent, she had been with Miss Nightingale in the Crimean War and worked afterward in one of the large hospitals in London. After Henry had died, she had come to take care of my mother for several months. She’d been utterly unruffled by my mother’s fits of ill temper, and Mama liked her well enough.
I nodded. “I know a nurse who might be able to come. And if she’s unavailable, I’m sure she can suggest someone else. But I’ll take care of Mama until she arrives.”
“Very well. I should have the laudanum to you by tomorrow, I hope, but for now…” From his bag, he drew a small glass jar, which he handed to me. “This is a special salve. It smells peculiar, I know, but it will help reduce pain and increase blood flow to the muscles and nerves, so they can retain their usual tone. Apply it two or three times a day onto your mother’s back, arms, and legs. Not the sprained ankle, of course.”
He was reaching into his bag for something else, so I opened the jar and took a sniff. The contents set fire to my nostrils.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It isn’t meant to be inhaled.”
I tried to stop gasping.
He handed me a small packet. “This is tea. It’s a special blend that will help keep her stomach calm. See that she drinks four or five cups daily.” I nodded, and he removed a small bottle with a dropper and set it on the table. “Do you have a pocket watch?”
“Yes, upstairs.” I had one in the buttoned pocket of my cloak.
“Have you ever taken a pulse?”
I shook my head.
“Then I’ll show you how.” He reached out his hand. “May I?”
Hesitantly, I gave him mine. He’s a doctor, I told myself, for god’s sake. Be sensible! He brushed back the long sleeve on my dress, and touched his fingers to the inside of my wrist, below my thumb. His fingers were warm against my skin, and my heart jerked into an unsteady rhythm that I hoped he couldn’t feel. “Do you see how I am placing my fingers?” he asked, then let go of my hand. “Now, you do it.”
I placed my right fingers over my left wrist.
“No, do it on me. I need you to be able to find it on her.”
He positioned my first and second fingers near the base of his thumb. I held my breath, stilling my entire body, so that I could find the faint pulse of his blood. There it was, steady as a clock.
I was glad he could no longer feel mine.
“Can you feel it clearly enough to count?” he asked quietly.
I nodded and met his ga
ze. The light was brighter now, and I could see his eyes weren’t brown as I thought, but hazel.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he turned away to pick up the small bottle and dropper. “The sudden withdrawal of the laudanum can cause her pulse and blood pressure to rise, so until I can get you more, I want you to take her pulse at the top of every hour. If it rises above one hundred and five beats per minute, you should administer this.”
“What is it?”
“A mild sedative. It will bring her pulse back within a healthy range and help soothe her nerves. Put six drops in some broth, or even water, to help her swallow it.”
“All right.” I watched as he began to close his bag. “Are you going to bleed her?” That’s what our physician had done sometimes to ease Mama’s nerves after my father died.
“No.” He slid the straps into the buckles. “Usually railway injuries require an influx of fluids, not a loss of them.” He fastened the last clasp. “But you’ll want to keep the room dim to minimize excitation.”
A dim room, the salve, the tea, and the sedative drops. I could manage that. “Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Your mother will need distraction, something to keep her mind off the accident.” He gestured behind me, and I turned to look at the cabinet of books. “Is there anything in there that she might find amusing?”
I opened the glass door and glanced through the volumes on the top shelf.
“Nothing too sensational,” he said, a smile shading his voice. “I wouldn’t choose Mr. Collins or Mrs. Braddon.”
Most of the books were inexpensive copies of sermons or sensational penny dreadfuls, none of which Mama would enjoy. My eyes were drawn to the one fine leather-bound volume on the second shelf. I pulled it out, and to my surprise it was a title I recognized. “It’s the first volume of The Eustace Diamonds,” I said aloud. The very same book was in one of our trunks, somewhere in the wreckage.
“You didn’t like it?” he asked.
I looked up.
“You had a peculiar look on your face just then,” he said.
“Did I? I was thinking about how our copy was in our trunk. On the train.” I ran my fingers over the seams in the binding. “The heroine’s name is Elizabeth too—only they call her Lizzie and she’s rather wicked. Have you read it?”
“No. I haven’t seen it at Moody’s yet.”
I flushed. Stupid of me. Of course he would read it by subscription. A surgeon didn’t have the money to spend on gilt-edged volumes of novels.
If he saw my embarrassment, he didn’t let on. “Once your nurse arrives, I don’t want you to spend more than an hour or so in the sickroom, for the sake of your own spirits. But I think it would be good for you to read aloud to your mother. Your voice, being familiar, may help reassure her, and the story itself will redirect her mind from the accident.”
“I’ll try some when she wakes.”
He looked carefully at me. “There’s one other thing. There may come a time when she wishes to speak of the accident. If it doesn’t distress you to listen, try to let her.”
“But I thought you wanted me to distract her from thinking about it.”
“Yes, for the first day or two. But eventually, if she wants to speak of it….” He hesitated. “I’ll be frank, Miss Fraser. Plenty of medical men will tell you that talking about the accident is a form of brooding and only causes their patients more harm. But that hasn’t been my experience. I find it’s more like an infection. Just as the pus has to come out of the body before it can heal, the words have to come out of her mouth before the horror of the memory will go away.” He gave a wry look. “It’s an unorthodox notion, I know. Most people will tell you I’m spouting utter rubbish.”
Mama didn’t speak to me about much of anything these days, but for all I knew, she might want to talk about the accident, seeing as I was the one who had been with her. “All right,” I said slowly. “If she wants to talk about it, I’ll let her.” I paused. “Should I be worried that she hasn’t spoken since the accident?”
A frown creased his brow. “It’s not unusual in railway cases. Speech often comes back in a day or two. Try not to worry.” He shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I need to go. I have patients to see over at the Polk Hotel.”
“Don’t you need to sleep?”
He smiled and shrugged. “I’ll be back this evening.”
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “For everything you’ve done.”
He put out his hand for mine, and this time I gave it to him without hesitating. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another one of those half-smiles, and he was gone. My hand felt cold after the warmth of his was withdrawn. I heard the hotel door open and close, and I stepped to the window to watch him leave.
But he didn’t appear on the front steps. Instead I heard his voice again, in the hallway: “Why, Tom! I thought you were in London.”
“I just got in,” came another voice, low and hoarse, as if the speaker had a head cold. “Took me half the damn night to get here, what with the accident. Just spent an hour on the back of a bloody horse. God, I hate horses. My arse is about raw. Where were you when it happened?”
“On my way to the station, so I was close, thank god,” Mr. Wilcox answered. “I spent a few hours in the field, and then I followed the wagons back here. Have you seen the wreck?”
“Yes—it’s bad.”
“Well, Palmer said it would be. He knew.”
“That’s what I need to tell you.” Tom’s voice dropped. “Palmer’s dead. He was thrown off a train two nights ago at Chumnley Bridge.”
I caught my breath. Had I heard him correctly?
Mr. Wilcox gave a low sound that might have been a curse.
“The papers are saying it’s an accident,” Tom continued. “But his wife said two men came to the house a few nights ago and warned him to stop asking questions about what happened to his report. They told him if he tried to contact anyone at the bureau or the commission, they’d make sure he never worked again.”
“My god.” Mr. Wilcox’s voice was strained. “That poor man. And his poor family.”
“I know.” A gravelly cough. “But with him gone, we’ve got to be damn sure we keep Michael safe. Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“He’s upstairs. I assume he’s sleeping.”
“He can’t stay here, Paul. We need to get him to London tomorrow. Can he use your rooms? No one will look for him there.”
“Of course. I have to be back home in a day or two, but I’ve a couch he can use as long as he likes.”
Their voices were quieter now, and I moved toward the door to listen.
“What about your housekeeper?” Tom asked.
“She won’t ask questions. Tell him the key is on the ledge above the window.”
“All right. But you know what this means. Palmer was probably right about Malverton too.” Another cough. “We’re going to have a look on Monday morning. You’ll come, won’t you? To help?”
“I can’t, Tom.” Mr. Wilcox’s voice was regretful.
“What?” Tom’s voice rose again. “For god’s sake! We only have until Tuesday. You know that if we don’t find tangible proof that we can bring back and show them, more people are going to die—dozens of people—”
“You think I don’t know that?” Mr. Wilcox’s voice sharpened. “But I’ve got fifty patients right here—some of them in critical condition—not to mention half a dozen in London.” A pause. “We’re on the same side of this fight. Remember?”
A deep sigh and Tom’s voice flattened. “I know. Sorry. Where’re you going now?”
“The Polk Hotel. I had them bring the worst cases here, so I could see them straightaway. I haven’t even been over there yet.”
“Then I’ll walk with you. There’s more I have to tell you.”
The door opened and shut. I stepped hastily to the window and peered out fr
om behind the curtain. Mr. Wilcox’s back was to me, but I could see his companion in profile. Tom was shorter and stouter than Mr. Wilcox and appeared to be a few years older. His brown hair was cropped close to his head, and he had a round face and a small, turned-up nose. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his coat as they stood at the curb, waiting for a hansom cab to pass. Tom was talking quickly, his eyes fixed on Mr. Wilcox. Then they stepped between two carriages, crossed the street, and were lost to view.
I stood for a few minutes, staring at the corner the men had vacated and mulling over what I’d just heard. Had someone truly been thrown off a train? And who was Michael, and why did he need to hide in London? What was happening on Tuesday? And what did Tom mean about more people dying?
The rain had let up, and there was only wind—wind that came through the cracks in the window leading and made a hollow sound as it whirled around the chimney. I shivered. I was beastly cold and my head ached, and I was suddenly so tired that the words Mr. Wilcox and Tom had exchanged were becoming jumbled in my memory.
At first I tried to hold them in place. But with a pang of guilt, I realized that what I should be doing was trying to forget them. I wasn’t supposed to have overheard any of that, and I certainly shouldn’t have strained to eavesdrop, especially once I realized that their conversation was private and important.
Besides, I had plenty to worry about, looking after my mother and myself.
I started toward the kitchen to find someone who could supply me with some stationery and a penny-stamp. I had to send a letter to Mrs. Ellsworth to let her know where we were and that we were safe, to have her pack up a trunk of our things for Martin or Timothy to bring, to see if she had news of Miss Rush or anyone else we knew on the train, and to ask if Jane might be available to come.
In the kitchen, I found Mrs. Mowbray, who—despite having been up most of the night and being in the process of receiving the morning deliveries from the butcher—was wonderfully kind. She found me some writing paper and a pen, and, when I’d finished my note, said she’d send it straightaway. She also told me there was one last bed in the attic; Jane, or whomever Jane sent, could stay there until another room opened up on our floor.
