by Lauren Royal
“With more practice, it will,” Corinna said. “You need to practice to become good at anything.” She pointed her needle toward an easel set up by the large picture window. Even in the dim rainy-day light, the scene on the canvas—a man pushing a laughing lady on a swing by a gleaming lake—conveyed movement, vibrancy, a sense of life. “My first painting didn’t look like that.”
Still patiently working her own needle into the little cap she was making, Alexandra smiled. “As I recall, your first painting was a willow tree that looked more like a haystack.”
“We’re none of us expert seamstresses, Miss Emily.” Aunt Frances squinted at her own handiwork through her spectacles. “I’ve only ever done samplers and embroidery. After a few more practice blankets—”
“This isn’t practice,” Juliana interrupted. “Every single item will be used.” If she was lucky, today’s efforts would produce five or six finished garments. And she needed two hundred and forty! Although it was a bit early to panic, she realized already, less than an hour into her first sewing party, that she was going to have to host many more of them than she’d anticipated. “Where is Amanda?”
Just then the knocker sounded in the foyer.
“That must be her!” The tiny frock fell to the floor as Juliana jumped up and rushed from the room.
Though their butler, Adamson, was nearly as short as she, he always managed to look dignified. “Good afternoon, Lady Amanda,” he intoned as he opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Adamson,” Amanda replied formally.
“Where on earth have you been?” Juliana asked.
“Playing chess with Aunt Mabel. I couldn’t leave in the middle of such an exciting game.”
“Exciting?” Juliana could think of little she found less exciting than chess. Even sewing was more fun. “Come into the library.”
Amanda peeked through the open door across the way. “Isn’t everyone in the drawing room?”
“Yes. That’s exactly the point.” Juliana took her in the opposite direction, closing the door behind them and ushering her friend toward two leather wingback chairs. “We must keep your engagement a secret. I’ve devised a plan to break it.”
Amanda sat and clasped her hands in her lap, suddenly looking nervous. She blew out a breath. “All right. What’s the plan?”
Picturing her sisters listening at the door—after all, she herself had instituted the practice—Juliana lowered her voice. “We shall arrange to have you compromised by a nice, eligible young man. Once the public has seen you together in a compromising position, your father will be forced to let the two of you wed.”
“A compromising position?” Amanda’s laugh, an awful guffaw like a donkey braying, made Juliana wince. “I’ve never even been kissed!”
“I haven’t been kissed, either,” Juliana said. “I’ve always warded them off.” She wished for her first kiss to be with someone she cared for, and so far, nobody had been up to snuff.
“Well, no one’s even tried with me,” Amanda said mournfully. “There’s no chance of a suitable gentleman compromising me. Not willingly, anyway.”
“I didn’t mean unwillingly—perish the thought!” Anyhow, such a thing wouldn’t be necessary. When she was finished with Amanda, gentlemen would be falling all over themselves trying to compromise her. “Don’t fret on that matter.” She leaned closer to squeeze her hand. “Are you free tomorrow and the day after?”
“To be compromised?”
“To be fitted for a few ball gowns. You’ll require a new wardrobe, among other things. We’ll need to visit a seamstress and comb the shops.”
Amanda appeared both dubious and hopeful, which was an impressive feat. “My father did give me leave to assemble a trousseau.”
“Excellent.” There was little Juliana relished more than transforming an ugly duckling into a lovely swan. “We have a lot of work to do before Lady Hammersmithe’s ball on Saturday.”
“I cannot attend Lady Hammersmithe’s ball.”
“Of course you can. I shall summon Madame Bellefleur to trim your hair—”
“My hair has never been cut.” Amanda’s hands went protectively to her head. “And I cannot attend—”
“Ouuuccch!” The howl was so piercing, it shot from the drawing room, across the foyer, and through the library’s closed door.
Juliana bolted from her chair. Lifting her skirts, she dashed out the door. “Emily!” she shouted, running through the foyer and bursting into the drawing room. “Emily, what’s happened?”
And there she stopped, a sudden sickness in her middle, her head suddenly swimming.
Emily was bleeding.
“It hurts,” the girl wailed, bent over her hand. Tiny red spots dotted her pink skirts. Although the injury clearly wasn’t serious—they were just tiny spots—Juliana knew she should hurry to help. To comfort. To make everything all better.
But she couldn’t. Because the sight of those red spots seemed to make it hard to breathe.
Thank goodness everyone else was helping. Well, maybe not helping, precisely, but at least they weren’t riveted in place. In the scant seconds Juliana stood there—because that’s all the time it was, really—her sisters and Aunt Frances leapt up and surrounded Emily, making assorted clucking, compassionate noises.
Thankfully, that hid the sight of Emily’s wound. But all the sympathy seemed to make her sob harder. “M-my needle s-slipped. It-it didn’t just poke me this time, it caught—”
“For goodness’ sake!” Amanda snapped, pushing past Juliana and into the little cluster of females. “It’s just a little blood. Here, someone take the snake.” While Corinna moved to do so, Amanda reached for some linsey and tore off a strip, then drew Emily to her feet. “Let’s clean it up and bandage it, shall we?” she said, leading her from the room.
Juliana collapsed into a chair, her knees giving out. Which was absurd, as she well knew. Corinna teased her mercilessly on this point. How silly it was for any woman past puberty to find the sight of blood distressing. But her own monthlies never bothered her. That sort of bleeding was natural; other bleeding wasn’t.
Fortunately, Corinna and the others hadn’t seemed to notice her foolishness.
Corinna held Herman at arm’s length, looking almost as ridiculous as Juliana felt. “Why didn’t you bring Amanda straight in here?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk to her about Lady Hammersmithe’s ball on Saturday. Talk her into attending, I mean.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Alexandra asked.
Juliana shrugged—casually, she hoped. “She’s rather shy around young men. I’m helping her with a new wardrobe, which I hope will raise her confidence.”
“That’s kind of you,” Alexandra said.
Corinna looked suspicious. Or perhaps just wary of the snake. “Whyever did you feel the need to talk privately? We could have assisted in persuading her—”
“Here she is, all repaired,” Amanda announced, returning with Emily.
Emily sported a neat little linsey bandage wrapped around her finger. When she reached for Herman, Corinna didn’t hesitate to hand him over. Juliana’s sister still looked wary, though. Or suspicious.
Drat.
“Shall we get back to work?” Juliana asked cheerfully.
Emily shook her head. “I’m not sewing anymore.”
“You can start cutting the clouts,” Juliana suggested, handing her a bundle of cotton fabric, a pair of scissors, and a simple pattern. She hoped that when the cut rectangles were folded and sewn, they would turn out the right size to cover a baby’s bottom. Refusing to even think about doing that a hundred times, she gave Emily’s half-finished blanket to Amanda. “Here. This is almost done.”
It wasn’t, of course, and Amanda proved to be no handier with a needle than the rest of them. Not only was Juliana going to have to host more sewing parties, she would also need to invite more friends—ideally some who had sewn more than samplers. “I hope you’ll all help me recruit more lad
ies at Almack’s tonight.”
“I’m not attending,” Alexandra said. “Since Parliament isn’t sitting, Tristan wants to stay home, just the two of us.”
Juliana was looking forward to dancing, of course, but still, she envied her sister. Since Almack’s was essentially a matrimonial bazaar, Alexandra could afford to skip the mayhem and spend a pleasant evening at home instead. At the rate Juliana wasn’t finding a husband, she began to wonder if she’d ever have that luxury.
Corinna looked up from the petticoat she was stitching. Suspiciously. “Amanda, you’ll be attending Almack’s, won’t you?”
“No,” Amanda said. Juliana held her breath, half expecting her to blurt out the news of her engagement. Instead, Amanda added, “Aunt Mabel isn’t feeling up to chaperoning me these days.”
“Is it the asthma again?” Aunt Frances sighed. “Poor Lady Mabel. I shall have to pay her a call.”
“She’d appreciate that very much,” Amanda said, hemming her blanket almost as crookedly as Emily.
If anything, Corinna looked even more suspicious. “But Juliana said you’re going to Lady Hammersmithe’s ball.”
“As I tried to explain to her, I don’t expect Aunt Mabel will be well enough by Saturday, either. The London air—”
“Aunt Frances can chaperone you along with us,” Juliana said.
Amanda’s needle slowed—not that it had been moving especially quickly in the first place. “There’s no point in going. No one will ask me to dance anyway.”
“Oh, yes, they will.” Alexandra smiled down at her handiwork. “Juliana will teach you the look.”
Now Amanda’s needle stopped. “What look?”
“Allow me to demonstrate.” Juliana looked up from her little frock. “First you choose a fellow you wish to entice—”
“Entice?” Amanda’s cheeks were pink.
“Enticement is the objective of the look. Trust me, should you do it properly, men are guaranteed to fall at your feet.”
“Are they?”
“Positively,” Alexandra declared.
Amanda looked from one sister to the other. “I’m listening.”
“Excellent. First you choose a fellow and command his gaze.” Juliana focused on Amanda, a beguiling look in her eyes.
The older girl swallowed hard. “And then?”
“Glance down, bowing your head a little to display your lashes against your cheeks. Then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at him full on again, and slowly—very slowly—curve your lips in a smile.”
Amanda’s forehead crinkled. “Show me again.”
“Watch closely.” Juliana took her time with the second demonstration.
Corinna snickered, but Amanda and Emily both sighed. “Can I learn, too?” Emily asked.
“It’s never too early to begin practicing. Amanda, give it a try.”
Amanda stared hard at Juliana, closed her eyes, popped them open, and stretched her mouth into a wide grin.
Juliana suppressed a sigh of her own. This was going to be harder than she’d thought.
SIX
“I REALLY MUST be on my way, Aunt Aurelia.” James gave a forced smile. “You’re healthy as the day you were born.”
“My heart was paining me so.” Plump but elegant nonetheless, Aurelia reclined on her peach-draped bed. Her entire house was decorated in peach. In fact, sometimes when James found himself here—which he did far too often—he felt he was in a peach. “I tell you I could barely breathe,” she continued. “Won’t you check it with that ingenious instrument of yours?”
“If you insist.” Suppressing a sigh, he opened his black leather bag and drew out the ingenious instrument, which was simply a foot-long cylinder of wood. One end had a hole to place against the ear, and the inside was hollowed out in the shape of a cone. This past March, a young French physician named Laennec had invented the instrument and christened it the stethoscope, derived from the Greek words for “I see” and “the chest.”
James placed the wider end of the cone over his aunt’s heart. Her scent, an unappealing combination of camphor and gardenias, wafted over him, and he gained a sudden appreciation for Laennec, Frenchman though he was. Without the stethoscope, James would have had to press his ear directly against Aunt Aurelia’s over-perfumed bosom.
Her heartbeat sounded strong through the tube, the thump-thump clear and distinct. “Regular as Grandmother’s clock,” he assured her.
“You’re certain?” She shook her coiffed gray head in disbelief. “And my lungs?”
“Sit up, if you will.” Bracing a hand on the headboard, he applied the stethoscope to her corseted back. “Breathe in,” he said as patiently as he could. “Out. In. Perfect. As I said, you’re healthy as a newborn babe.” He dropped the instrument back in his bag and fastened the clasp. “Now I really must leave, Auntie.”
She climbed from her bed and accompanied him downstairs. “You’re expected in Parliament?”
“Not today. It’s Wednesday.” The House of Lords sat on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. “But I was expected at the Institute hours ago. Only one other doctor volunteered for the early shift today.”
“I do appreciate your visit.” She squeezed his hand, and James squeezed back. Aunt Aurelia was a sweetheart, even if she was exasperating. In the foyer, she glanced at Grandmother’s tall-case clock. “Such a shame that Bedelia hasn’t returned. She’ll surely want to see you, too. She had a horrid case of the putrid sore throat this morning.”
Bedelia, his mother’s other sister, shared the house with Aurelia. Two childless over-anxious widows living inside a peach. It could be a nursery rhyme.
“Tell Aunt Bedelia to gargle with salted water. I’m certain that will cure her.”
“Do you expect so?” Aurelia’s blue eyes looked dubious.
“Absolutely.” James doubted Bedelia’s throat was putrid; if her throat hurt her at all, it was likely due to nothing more serious than excessive chatter. “I’ll see you again soon,” he added, escaping to his carriage before Aurelia could ask him what he meant by soon. If she had her way, soon would be tomorrow—if not an hour from now.
On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for a speech—his first—he planned to deliver in Parliament. Immersed in his work, he arrived in front of the Institute before noticing all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.
Way down the street.
Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.
For the second time this month.
Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James vaulted from the carriage and hurried through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers’ laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into people’s knees.
Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help. No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.
His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her tearful three-year-old.
Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a calm patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually did the trick. “Where are the sugar sticks?” he asked.
Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet he’d used to inoculate the little girl. “I haven’t a clue where…what is that new assistant’s name?”
“Miss Chumford.”
“Right. “ He tied a fresh bandage around the girl’s arm. “I haven’t a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sug
ar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine.”
“Where is Miss Chumford?”
“In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don’t expect a sugar stick will help.” Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. “There you go, little miss. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford.”
“Dr. Trevor,” James reminded him. He preferred not to be called Lord at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. “I’ll send in the next patient,” he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. “Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?” he asked her mother.
Clearly overawed by his presence, the woman answered shyly. “Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox.”
“That’s correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting the little girl onto her hip. “If I could pay, I would.”
Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew she meant it. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that was obviously unnecessary in her case.
“Thank you,” he returned, “for doing your part. We don’t need your money, but please tell your friends and neighbors about the Institute. If everyone stands together, we can rid ourselves of this dreadful scourge once and for all.”
Well said, he thought, then excused himself and pulled out his notes on the spot. That was going in the speech.
It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the face of the earth. It was a formidable project, he knew, but one had to start somewhere.
Unfortunately, London wasn’t particularly cooperative. Many were uninformed and skeptical, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, convinced that smallpox was sent to chasten the population. James disagreed, believing He had provided the vaccine as a mercy. None who’d come face to face with a poor, ailing child could but wish to prevent her suffering.
