The Healing Season

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  She nodded. “I’ll do my best, but as I said, I must leave her in the evening to work.”

  He looked down at her, and again she felt strong disapproval emanating from those dark irises. “Can you not forgo your evening’s activities for one night?”

  She stared at him for a moment. Forgo her evening’s performance at the theater? What did he think she was—a mere chorus girl? She glanced at the young man, and seeing his cheeks turn deep red, she felt vindicated. Obviously he understood the impossibility of the suggestion.

  She drew herself up. “I couldn’t possibly ‘forgo’ my duties tonight.”

  “Are you so popular with your clientele that you cannot give up an evening’s earnings for the sake of your friend here? May I remind you she is still in grave danger?”

  Her eyes grew wider.

  “Ian,” the apprentice began hesitatingly, “Mrs. Neville isn’t…er…uh…”

  As Eleanor glanced from one man to the other in puzzlement, it suddenly dawned on her. The good surgeon thought she was a prostitute! Her nostrils flared as she drew herself up.

  Abruptly, she clamped her mouth shut on the set down she was about to give him. Putting both hands on her hips, she thrust one forward, shaking back her hair away from her face.

  “Well, I don’t know now,” she drawled in her broadest cockney. “I got me clients, and they ’spect to see me regular. Kinda like yer patients, I should imagine. Wot ’appens if you don’t come callin’, eh? Go to the next quack down the block, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  She blew on her fingernails and polished them against her bodice, as she gave the young man a firm nod. His mouth hung open and his eyes stared at her.

  “There’re so many gents callin’ theirselves doctors nowadays, a cove’s gotta watch out for ’is business, ain’t it so, Mr. Beverly?”

  “Oh…uh, yes, ma’am.” His jaws worked furiously, as if they needed to catch up to his words.

  She began strutting around the room, hands still on her hips, swaying them just as she saw the women outside the theater do. “So, you see ’ow it is, Doc. I got me rounds tonight, just like you.”

  She turned back to them and gave the doctor a long, slow look up the length of his tall, slim physique.

  When she reached his eyes, she detected the same stern look he’d worn throughout the night as he’d battled for Betsy’s life. She flicked a glance at the young apprentice. He’d lost his dumb stupor and was actually grinning. He must have figured out she was playacting.

  “Oh, we understand, perfectly, Mrs. Neville,” Mr. Beverly told her with a vigorous nod.

  “All I understand,” said the surgeon, “is that your young friend’s life is hanging by a thread. Her only hope lies in skilled nursing help.”

  As Ian strode from the building, he experienced the impotent fury he did every time he saw a young woman unmindful of the consequences of her street life. Hadn’t Mrs. Neville learned something from seeing her friend nearly bleed to death?

  He clenched his jaw. The woman was more beautiful than she had a right to be. She might be able to ply her trade for a few short years, but then what? If she’d seen the ugly results he dealt with every day from women dying of the pox or clap, she’d rethink her occupation.

  He chanced a glance at Jem, his young apprentice, already regretting having brought him. The woman had enthralled him in a few minutes of conversation.

  In reality Jem was his uncle’s latest apprentice at the apothecary, but Ian knew how important it was for an apothecary to get practical experience with patients, so he took him on his rounds whenever he had a chance.

  The boy was whistling a cheerful tune that Ian didn’t recognize. “You can’t let every pretty face discompose you, my boy,” Ian chided, remembering the boy’s blushes around the beautiful Mrs. Neville.

  Jem’s pale complexion turned ruddy again. “But that wasn’t just any pretty lady, that was Eleanor Neville!”

  “Is she related to royalty?”

  The boy stopped in his tracks. “Don’t you know who Mrs. Neville is?”

  “Not a clue. Should I?”

  “She’s the greatest actress on the stage.”

  An actress? He stared at Jem in disbelief. Then he remembered her strange turnaround, one moment a frightened young woman, her speech too refined for her mean surroundings, the next talking like any common streetwalker. She had been pulling his leg! He shook his head. He had misjudged her, and she had turned the tables on him. He couldn’t help a grudging smile.

  “An actress, is she?” he asked thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of the great Mrs. Siddons and Dorothy Jordan, but of Mrs. Eleanor Neville, not a whisper.”

  “That’s because those others are at the Drury Lane. Mrs. Neville plays in the burlettas at the Surrey.”

  Burlettas! The word conjured up images of women prancing about a stage, singing bawdy songs.

  “Don’t look like that! You should see her sing and dance. And she’s funny. She has more talent in her tiny finger than all the actresses at the Drury Lane and Covent Garden put together.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for that.” Ian resumed his walk, unwilling to spend more time thinking about a vulgar actress. The description belied the delicately featured young woman who had fought beside him throughout the night.

  “You can joke, but someday you’ll see I’m right,” Jem insisted.

  “I doubt I shall have such an opportunity since I rarely indulge in theatergoing, much less musical burlesque.” He glanced at the street they were on. “Let’s get a hack at the corner and go to Piccadilly. We’ll visit Mrs. Winthrop and then stop in and see how Mr. Steven’s hernia is doing.”

  As they continued in silence, Ian noticed Jem shaking his head once or twice. Finally the boy could keep still no longer. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize Mrs. Neville. Why, her playbills are posted everywhere. She’s been taking London by storm in her latest role. I’ve heard even the Prince is enchanted.”

  “Well, then I must be the only one in London who has not yet succumbed to Mrs. Eleanor Neville’s charms. She was almost useless as an assistant.” Again, a different picture rose to his mind, of a young woman overcoming her terror to save a friend’s life. He shook aside the image. An actress was little better than a prostitute.

  “I was afraid I’d have to divide my time between reviving her and keeping my primary patient from bleeding to death,” he added cuttingly.

  “Poor thing! She must have had a rough time of it. I wish I’d been there with you!”

  Ian looked at the young man with pity. “To help my patient or to hold Mrs. Neville’s hand?”

  Ian couldn’t help picturing those slim hands with their almond shaped nails, how they’d smoothed back the patient’s hair from her brow, and remembering her soft voice as she encouraged her friend throughout the night’s ordeal.

  An actress? The image wouldn’t fit the one formed last night. How long would the innocent-looking, ladylike woman be impressed upon Ian’s memory?

  Chapter Two

  As she sat before her mirror, her maid dressing her hair, Eleanor was gratified to note that a full nine hours’ rest followed by the special wash for her face made of cream and the pulverized seeds of melons, cucumber and gourds had left her complexion as fresh and soft as a babe’s.

  She touched the skin of her cheek, satisfied she would need no cosmetics today.

  With her toilette completed, Eleanor went to her wardrobe and surveyed her gowns. The mulberry sarcenet with the frogged collar? She tapped her forefinger lightly against her lips in consideration. No, too militaristic.

  The pale apricot silk with the emerald-green sash? She had a pretty bonnet that matched it perfectly. Too frivolous?

  She ran her hand over the various gowns that hung side by side, organized by shades of color. Blues, from palest icy snow to deepest midnight, greens from bottle to apple, reds from burgundy to cerise, and so on to the white muslins and satins. She enjoyed seeing the
palette of colors. Gone forever were the days when she was lucky enough to have one dirty garment to clothe her back.

  She pulled out one gown and then another until she finally decided on a walking dress of white jaconet muslin with its richly embroidered cuffs and flounced hemline. With it she wore a dark blue spencer and her newest French bonnet of white satin, trimmed with blue ribbons and an ostrich plume down one side of the crown.

  When she had judged herself ready, she stood before her cheval glass for a final inspection. Her blond tresses peeked beneath the bonnet, with a small cluster of white roses set amidst the curls. She fluffed up her lace collar. White gloves and half boots in white and blue kid finished the outfit. The picture of maidenly innocence and purity.

  “How do I look, Clara?” she asked the young maid.

  “Very pretty, ma’am. The colors become you.”

  Eleanor smiled in recognition of the fact. Good. If her appearance didn’t put Mr. Russell to shame, her name wasn’t Eleanor Neville.

  She took up the shawl and beaded reticule her maid held out to her.

  “Is the coach ready?” she asked Clara.

  “I’ll see, madam,” Clara answered with a bob of her head and curtsy.

  “I shall be in the drawing room below,” Eleanor said.

  She had found out from the young boy in Betsy’s rooming house that Mr. Russell had a dispensary in Southwark, in the vicinity of Guy’s and St. Thomas’s Hospitals. They were not so very far from the theater, she thought, as she sat in her coach and rode from her own neighborhood in Bloomsbury and headed toward the southern bank of the Thames.

  She needed to accomplish two things on this visit to the surgeon: firstly, to find out about proper nursing care for Betsy, and secondly, to clear up a few things to the good doctor.

  She would present such a composed, elegant contrast to the woman he’d seen the night before last that he would fall all over himself with apologies.

  She was not a streetwalker and had never been. It mortified her more than she cared to admit that after so many years, someone could so easily fail to notice her refinement and see only the dirty street urchin.

  It hadn’t helped that she’d behaved like such a poor-spirited creature during Betsy’s ordeal. But it had been awful finding Betsy like that. Eleanor still felt a twinge of nausea just thinking about it.

  She gazed out the window of her chaise, no longer seeing the streets, but recalling the terrified young girl, younger than Betsy, when she’d gone into premature labor. She rarely ever called up those memories, but last night had summoned up all the horrors of those hours of painful labor in vivid detail.

  Her own delivery had ended successfully in the birth of a child who had survived, but the ordeal for a scared, undernourished, ignorant girl had almost killed her.

  She folded her gloved hands on her lap. Those days were far behind her. She was a different person, one older and wiser in the ways of the world, and few people knew anything of her past.

  The coach arrived at the surgeon’s address, and the coachman helped her descend onto the busy street.

  The building looked respectable enough. Mr. Russell must have achieved some success in his profession to be able to open his own dispensary.

  Several people stood in line at the front. As she neared the brick building, she noticed the brass plaque by the door.

  Mr. Ian Russell, licensed Surgeon, Royal College of Surgeons

  Mr. Albert Denton, Apothecary-Surgeon

  Below it appeared: Midwifery Services.

  She pushed past those waiting, ignoring their angry looks and murmurs, and entered the brick building.

  Immediately, she took a step back. The place reeked of sickness and poverty. The waiting room was packed with unwashed bodies—young, old, and every age in between. By their dress, they did not look like paying patients. The rumors must be true that Mr. Russell served one and all.

  Every available wooden bench was occupied. Some huddled on the floor. The rest stood leaning against the walls.

  Eleanor braced herself and ventured farther into the waiting room. She was surrounded by the lowest refuse of life, those that inhabited Southwark and other similar London neighborhoods. She saw them lurking at the fringes of the theater every night when she departed in her coach. Hard work and determination had enabled her to escape these surroundings, and she had no desire to ever live in such conditions again.

  She took a few steps more and found a bit of wall space to lean against. Daring another peek around her, she saw that some of the sick had even brought a form of payment: a pigeon in a small wooden cage, a handkerchief wrapped around some bulky item—a half-dozen potatoes or turnips to give to the good surgeon in exchange for his services.

  She heard moans of pain beside her and, looking down, she saw a man holding his wrist gingerly in his other hand. Beside him sat another with an exposed ulcerated leg propped up in front of him.

  Eleanor brought her scented handkerchief to her nostrils, fearing the foul miasma that permeated the air. She couldn’t take the risk of exposing herself to some perilous humor and sicken.

  All eyes were upon her—at least of those patients not too caught up in their pain. She read admiration and some envy in their glances. She was accustomed to that look and bestowed smiles on one and all alike before retreating behind an impersonal gaze above the crowd.

  The closed door opposite her across the room suddenly opened and she recognized Mr. Beverly, the young apprentice. She waved her handkerchief at him. He saw her immediately and nodded in greeting, a wide grin splitting his face. She smiled graciously, relieved to see that he immediately made his way toward her.

  “Mrs. Neville, what are you doing here? Has the young woman taken a turn for the worse?”

  “No, though she is still very weak. But it is about Miss Simms that I am here. If I could speak with Mr. Russell for a few moments?” She gave him a look of gentle entreaty.

  “Yes, of course, madam. Let me inform him that you are here.” He took an apologetic glance about the room. “As you can see, he’s quite busy today, but I know he’ll see you as soon as I let him know you are here.”

  “I shan’t require much of his time.”

  He was gone only a few moments before returning to beckon her through the door.

  Mr. Russell was finishing bandaging up a patient’s arm.

  “That should do it, Tom,” he told the burly young man. “Let’s hope you fall off no more ladders for a while, eh?”

  “You’re right, there, Mr. Russell. I’ve got to watch me step from now on.”

  “All right. Come by in a week and we’ll see how you’re mending.”

  As soon as the man had left, Mr. Russell came toward her. The smile he had given the male patient disappeared and he was back to the frowning surgeon. Eleanor suppressed her vexation. All the trouble she’d taken with her appearance and she didn’t detect even a trace of admiration in those brown eyes.

  He probably knew nothing of fashion. Look at him, in his vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Her physician would never so much as remove his frock coat when he came for a visit.

  “Mrs. Neville, Jem tells me you’ve come about your friend.”

  She cleared her features of anything but concern. “Yes, about Betsy Simms. I’m quite distraught. I haven’t been able to stop by to see her since early yesterday afternoon. She felt warm to my touch. I brought fresh linens and some broth, but I greatly fear her being alone there. I tried to talk to the landlady, but she didn’t care to involve herself in any way.”

  “What about the boy’s mother? The one who lives upstairs.”

  “I tried her, too, but she works all day. She promised to look in this evening.”

  “She has no family?”

  Eleanor shook her head sadly. “None that I know of. She is a singer at the theater where I work.” She wondered if the words meant anything to him, but saw no reaction in his eyes.

  “When she missed a per
formance, I stopped by her room on my way home. I didn’t want her to be dismissed from the troupe. I found her doubled over, bleeding…well, you saw her condition.”

  Again his eyes gave her no clue to his thoughts, though he listened intently. She scanned the rest of his face, noticing again the reddish tints of his hair. She wondered if he had the fiery temper to match.

  “I see,” he replied, his tone softening. “You said she had taken some potions?”

  “Yes, she told me she’d been to a local herbalist who’d given her a remedy to take, but to no avail. Then she’d bought something from a quack. It made her awfully sick, but still…” Her voice trailed off at the indelicate subject.

  “No menses,” he finished for her.

  “Just so,” she murmured, looking down at her hands, which still held her handkerchief.

  “I’ll stop by to see her again today.”

  “That would be most kind,” she said with a grateful smile. “Are you sure she cannot be moved?”

  “It would be highly risky at this point. You cannot nurse her yourself?”

  “No. I can look in on her every day and bring her fresh linens and refreshment, but I usually have rehearsals in the afternoon and performances in the evening. My evenings are late, so in consequence, my day begins later than most.”

  He was weighing her words. Finally, he said, “It may be possible to find her a nurse through a Methodist mission I work with. There are many worthy women who give of their time there to help the poor and infirm.”

  “If they could send someone, I’d gladly pay her. I meant to tell you as well to send your medical bills to me.”

  He dismissed her offer with an impatient wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go to the mission and inquire about a nurse? They are usually shorthanded themselves, so I don’t promise anything.”

  “Very well. Where is this mission?”

  “In Whitechapel.”

  “Whitechapel?” Her voice rose in dismay. That was worse than Southwark.