by Rose Pearson
Georgina gaped at him. “But, Dunstable,” she exclaimed, her cheeks paling. “I did not think you would be lingering here also. Are you not returning to London with me?”
The very idea made his stomach turn over. “No, Georgina, I am not,” he replied, tersely. “I have a family here that requires my aid.”
“But you have a sick servant here, Dunstable,” Georgina continued, tears pooling in her eyes. “It is not safe.”
He grimaced. “Nor is London. No, Georgina, I cannot and will not return with you. Now if you will excuse me, there is a great deal I must see to.”
Turning away from her at once, he strode down the steps and across the graveled path towards the stables. Having given quick instructions to the men within – who nodded and said they would have to find fresh horses but that the carriage would be ready within the hour – he continued to make his way through his estate gardens until he reached the very outer edge.
The path was easy enough to find and Gideon walked with confidence, knowing exactly where he was going. Dodging under a few tree branches, he finally found his way and walked along the muddy path that led to the church and the graveyard.
Finally, where he had long wanted to be, he stopped just outside the graveyard gate for a moment, feeling his heart fill with heaviness. He missed his father.
The grave was not hard to find, given that it had one of the most prominent places in the churchyard. Gideon felt his heart break into a thousand pieces as he drew near it, wishing that he had made it home in time to see and speak to his father one last time.
“Father,” he whispered, as though somehow, in some way, his dear father could hear him. “Whatever am I to do?”
The truth was, despite doing his utmost to put a brave front forward, reassuring his mother that all would work out and that they would be able to pull together in order to ensure things continued at the estate as they had been, Gideon felt as though he were walking on shaking ground. He was entirely unsure as to whether or not they would, in fact, be able to continue on without servants and the like. For heaven’s sake, he did not know how to cook a meal or, as Georgina had stated so clearly, find a way to bring in milk and the like! He bowed his head, silently thankful for the few servants who had remained at the Dunstable estate. Yet, within his thanks, there also came a slow lingering fear that the illness might pervade his home further. With one ill servant already abed in his house, there was no promise that the rest of them would evade the fever. What would he do if the few servants he had left then succumbed to it? What if his mother, his sister or even himself became ill? What would happen then?
“Help me,” he groaned aloud, one hand brushing over his eyes in an attempt to keep himself grounded despite the tears pricking at his eyes. He felt entirely alone, lost and afraid whilst knowing he would have to present a sure and steady front to his mother, his sisters and his staff. He was the new Baron Dunstable, was he not? And that meant doing all he could to help the estate flourish, even in difficult times.
Drawing himself up, Gideon let out a long, steadying breath, his eyes on the headstone before him. “I do miss you, father,” he admitted aloud, before turning on his heel and leaving the graveyard, knowing that there was work to be done.
Chapter Three
Josephine hugged her thin shawl about her shoulders and began to hurry along the streets, wondering where the best place was to go to find a bed for the night. She knew there was a tavern in Smithfield Market and that the lady there was kind-hearted, and she wondered if there might be any opportunity there for her to get a good night’s rest. As she quickened her steps, her gaze snagged on the rather ominous looking church that loomed before her.
Stopping, Josephine felt her heart quail, wondering if she ought to go in and pray for a time. She could pray for the disease that seemed to be taking so many lives and, at the same time, thank God for the kind gentleman who had brought her so much goodness.
“Careful there!”
Glancing over her shoulder, Josephine saw a young man staggering slightly as he knocked into another man. He had one hand to his throat as if it pained him and his eyes were bright with fever.
Her heart leaped into her throat. This man was ill.
Her wrapped coins still held tightly in her hand, Josephine watched the young man try desperately to move towards the church, his feet stumbling along the pavement. He was not about to make it, she realized, not without help.
Her mind screamed at her to take her money and go on her way, but her heart could not simply see his suffering and turn away. She had already had the fever and had recovered, but there were so many who would not. She was not afraid of the disease for her own sake but hated the way it claimed so many lives. Could she really allow it to claim another, when she was standing there, able to help?
Shoving her wrapped coins deep into her pocket and praying that she would not lose them, Josephine hurried towards the young man.
“You are not well,” she stated, holding onto his hand and putting one hand onto his forehead, feeling him hot. “Are you seeking refuge in the church?”
The man looked at her for a moment with eyes that were heavy with illness. “Help,” he said, his voice rasping. “Here. Help is here.”
Leaning on her heavily, Josephine had no other choice but to lead the man into the church, a little unsure as to what she would find there. Churches were, on the whole, places where help and aid could be found but with such a terrible disease ravaging the whole town, she was not sure there would be anyone within willing to do what they could.
“Hello?” she called, as she helped the young man inside. “Is there anyone here?”
A harassed-looking elderly man stepped forward, his eyes on the young man Josephine led in.
“The fever?” he asked, harshly. “Is it the fever?”
Josephine nodded. “It is.”
“Come with me.”
Somehow, they both managed to get the young man down a long flight of wooden steps that led into a dimly lit, rather murky basement. Josephine caught her breath, frozen at the sight that met her eyes and the sounds that crowded in her mind. There was nothing but people everywhere. People lying on makeshift beds, clearly in the grip of the fever. People struggling to breathe, children crying fitfully whilst their anxious mothers watched over them.
“What is this place?” she asked, hoarsely, as the elderly gentleman began to lead her and the young man into the corner of the room.
“Don’t you know?” he asked, sounding a little surprised. “I thought, since you were bringing your brother here –”
“He’s not my brother,” Josephine interrupted, quickly. “I just saw him coming towards the church. He wouldn’t have made it in here on his own.”
The elderly gentleman paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on hers. “You have a kind heart, I think,” he said, softly. “That is good of you, miss.”
Josephine managed a small smile. “Josephine,” she said, as they helped the young man down onto a pile of hessian sacks in the corner. “I – I can help, if you need me here?”
She did not know where such an offer had come from, but neither could she simply stand here and look at all the sick folk without feeling the urge to help them. She knew she could easily move on and go to find herself a new place to live, away from the disease, but seeing the pain and the grief that existed here tugged at her heart. Turning away from them all now would be senseless.
“It be dangerous around here,” the gentleman said in a low tone, as the young man tossed and turned on the floor beside them. “The fever takes almost everyone.”
Josephine’s mind immediately threw up images of her own parents as they struggled with fever, her gut twisting painfully. “I have already had it,” she replied, softly. “I do not fear it.”
The elderly gentleman seemed to understand. “For whatever reason, the good Lord has seen fit to spare me also,” he replied, patting her shoulder. “I’m Sam. The good doctor you see over there is
Doctor Thomas. The vicar stays in the church most days, doing as much praying as he can. The doctor here’s a good man. He’s doing all he can to help these folk but more just keep coming.” Shaking his head, he sighed sadly. “There’s a few more that help us, but they do the burying.”
Josephine closed her eyes for a moment, grief rising up in her.
“You’ve lost a few loved ones?”
Her voice was barely audible. “My parents,” she replied, hoarsely. “I’m not from here. I mean, I came from Hampstead but the fever is worse here.”
Sam nodded. “It is. It takes the young especially.” His eyes were sad as he looked at her. “Are you certain you want to help us here, Josephine? It isn’t a place of happiness.”
“I know,” Josephine replied immediately, feeling her resolve steadying. “But I want to help. Truly. What can I do?”
Sam smiled at her, looking relieved and grateful. “Let me just fetch Doctor Thomas over here to look at this young man and then I’ll get him to talk to you.”
Josephine watched quietly as Doctor Thomas looked over the young man on the pile of sacks, seeing the strain so evident on the doctor’s face. He was pale and exhausted, evidence of his lack of rest.
“He is burning up,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head.
“And he was holding his throat when I first drew near him,” Josephine added gently. “That is what made me think he had the fever.”
Doctor Thomas, whom Josephine thought to be younger than his lined face appeared, looked at her with resignation. “You have seen this fever, then?”
“I have endured it,” Josephine replied, firmly.
The doctor gestured to the man’s mouth. “You see this? This paleness here around his mouth?” His voice was devoid of emotion, as though he had separated himself entirely from what he had seen and experienced. “It is the sign I always look for to make a sure diagnosis. This man has scarlet fever. It will progress quickly. The rash will appear on him very soon.”
There was a subtle warning in his words but Josephine fought back her sudden jolt of fear. She had been through this once already and would not allow it to chase her away. “I want to help, sir. What can I do?”
The doctor shook his head. “I am doing what I can for them all, but with the vomiting, there is always a good deal that needs to be cleaned up.” His eyes flickered to hers, questions deep within. “The patients need cool rags on their foreheads to attempt to keep their temperatures down. They require gruel if they can stomach it. I am attempting treatments with a solution of salts and nitrate silver, but it seems that it only helps some.”
Sam cleared his throat. “If they make it past the ninth day, then we have a little more hope. Those patients are moved to the other end of the basement. The worst ones stay down here.”
“We do not let the blood,” the doctor continued, with a sharp look towards Josephine. “I know it is often common practice amongst those in higher society but these people here have nowhere else to go. They are weak and frail. To bleed them now and let them faint will, I believe, only make things worse. We treat them with what we have and do a good amount of praying.”
Josephine looked back at the doctor steadily. “I can pray, sir.” She felt her determination rise, desperate to do what she could to help these unfortunate people. “Have you vinegar and feverfew, Doctor Thomas?”
A slight frown flickered across the man’s brow. “I do.”
“My mother used to use it to help bring a fever down,” Josephine replied, with a small smile. “Might I be permitted to make up a solution for the cool cloths?”
The doctor did not seem to be affronted by this suggestion in any way. “You are welcome to try anything,” he said, calmly. “I have done as much as I can thus far although I am always eager to hear of any new treatments. Do whatever you wish with the vinegar and feverfew, Josephine. I will be glad for your help.”
She smiled at him, her expression tinged with sorrow. “Thank you, sir. I will do whatever I can to help you. There are just so many of them.” Her eyes drifted over the doctor’s shoulder, looking at the prone form of so many patients, their bodies racked with suffering. “I can only hope it will be of some use.”
Some hours later and Josephine felt exhausted. She had been given the freedom to use the vinegar and feverfew and had worked herself to the bone, rinsing the cloths in the concoction before placing them on the foreheads of those who were unwell. The little children she bathed or ensured that their mothers or sisters caring for them knew exactly what to do. The young man in the corner, the one she had helped bring inside, was no longer tossing and turning but rather appeared to have settled a little, although he was still hot to the touch.
Setting down her bowl, she rinsed his cloth again and patted it gently over his face before placing it back on his forehead. The young man groaned quietly but his eyes remained shut. Josephine closed her eyes and prayed silently for a moment, her heart aching for the loss and the grief and the death that surrounded her.
“The doctor is mighty pleased with you.”
Looking up, she saw Sam standing to her left, looking at the man on the floor.
“Is he?” Josephine murmured, getting to her feet. “I’m glad I’m able to do something.”
Sam lifted one eyebrow. “That mixture of yours seems to be helping a good few folks. I’m not saying the fever’s gone from them but it does seem to be settling them a bit more. Just look at this chap here! He’s not tossing and turning anymore.”
Josephine let out a small sigh. “My mother used to treat folk in our village this way. She said it was always good at helping to bring down a fever.”
“I’m sorry you lost her,” Sam said, gently. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here now, helping these folk. This fever is a terrible thing to endure.”
Josephine nodded fervently. “It is,” she said faintly, remembering the terrible ache in her throat and the dryness of her mouth and skin. “I do not know how I got through it when so many other folks are dying.”
Sam shook his head. “Maybe it is so we can help,” he said, with a slight shrug. “There aren’t exactly a lot of folk here willing to come down to the Devil’s basement to take care of the sick.”
Something inside Josephine shuddered violently. “The Devil’s basement?” she repeated, her voice trembling. “Is that what they call this place?”
Sam spread out a hand at the dark, gloomy basement filled with nothing but sickness and death. “Isn’t that what it looks like?” he asked, with compassion showing on his face. “And yet you are here anyway. An angel sent to help the sick. That’s what you are, Josephine, an angel. And angels can bring light and life.”
Josephine struggled against the fears that began to tie themselves around her heart, knowing that what she had done with the vinegar and feverfew was only a very small part of battling the fever. “I hope so,” she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes as another wail went up from the back of the basement. Another person gone. Another life taken. Another grave to dig. Another death here in the Devil’s basement.
Chapter Four
“Jones?”
The butler turned at the sound of Gideon’s voice, looking at him with fear in his eyes.
Gideon’s stomach twisted. “Is he ill?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord,” the butler said, hoarsely. “The doctor has been and prescribed the same thing as he did for Maisy, God rest her soul.”
It had now been a fortnight since Gideon had returned home and things had grown steadily worse. Maisy, the maid taken ill with the fever, had subsequently died and had needed to be buried. Everything in her room had been burned, for that was thought to be one way to prevent the disease from spreading. Gideon had overseen it himself, whilst the butler had ensured that Maisy’s room had been scrubbed from top to bottom. Gideon had prayed that this meant the disease wouldn’t spread but now, it seemed, it had taken hold of his household.
This was the third footman sic
k and the only other maid left in the house was now rather pale – although Gideon could not tell whether that was from fear, exhaustion or illness.
“You had best go home, Jones,” he said, thickly. “I will not have you ill also.”
The butler drew himself up to his full height. “I will not leave your side, my lord.”
Gideon shook his head, firmly. “No, Jones. You are a stalwart and I both respect and appreciate your willingness to do what you can to remain loyal to this family but I cannot have another person becoming ill simply from being in this house.”
Jones shook his head. “I do not think I need fear this illness, my lord,” he said, slowly. “I recall having such symptoms when I was a young man. The agony of it still lingers in my memory but perhaps in having it once, I will not have it again.” Holding up one hand, he stopped Gideon’s protest. “I insist, my lord. You need help and I am more than willing to give it. Please, allow me to do my duties, as I have done for so long. I am not afraid.”
Gideon wanted to insist that Jones return to his small cottage just outside the estate and remain there until the fever no longer gripped his estate but he could tell from the look in the man’s eyes that he was completely determined to remain no matter Gideon said.
“Very well,” he said, heavily. “What does the doctor suggest for the footmen?”
Jones shook his head, his expression morose. “Just the same as Maisy,” he said, slowly. “Cool cloths, broth and perhaps a bleeding if they do not improve.”
Something twisted in Gideon’s gut. “A bleeding did not help Maisy,” he muttered, darkly. “It only appeared to weaken her all the more.” The doctor had bled Maisy stating that it was to purify and cleanse, but Gideon had seen her weaken almost immediately after. Less than a day later, and she was gone.
“There are to be no blood lettings, Jones,” he said, firmly. “We will do what we can to help them with the cloths and the broth but there is to be nothing else unless I permit it.”
