The Healing Season

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Just then the houselights had dimmed—another vast improvement over other theaters. Unlike traditional candlelight, the gaslights could be lowered, leaving the audience in shadow, and bringing the stage into bright relief.

  The show itself had been wonderful and Kean’s performance riveting. She’d stolen peeks at Mr. Russell and was gratified to note he was as engrossed as she in the story unfolding onstage.

  During the intermission, a few young gentlemen who recognized her from the Royal Circus stopped by the box to greet her while Mr. Russell went to fetch her a refreshment from the Chinese tearoom. At least she hadn’t been completely consigned to oblivion in the weeks she’d been absent from the stage.

  When the show recommenced, her mind wandered. Now, looking back on it, she realized last evening had marked a turning point of sorts in her life.

  For the first time since achieving success as an actress, she had felt respectable. Despite her material achievements, she had never felt an equal to the society ladies sitting in their theater boxes. But seated there beside Mr. Russell, she had let her imagination take flight to a place where she was a proper member of society out for the evening with her distinguished husband. Their daughter, Sarah, lay asleep at home in their nice town house in Mayfair. Perhaps not even Mayfair, but Kensington or Chelsea. It needn’t be anything too grand, just respectable.

  Eleanor leaned back against the window embrasure with a contented sigh. The disappointment over not getting her role back in The Spectre didn’t seem so catastrophic anymore.

  She would begin inquiring about openings with the other companies. Perhaps at the Lyceum or the Sans Pareil. She tapped her finger to her lips. Elliston was manager at the Olympic. He used to manage the Surrey. There were rumors they were going to do a version of Don Giovanni to open after Christmas. Perhaps Elliston would be happy to steal her away from Dibdin. At least until she could find a way into the Drury or Covent Garden.

  In the meantime she felt truly grateful to Ian Russell. He had given her a magical evening, probably without even realizing it. He was such a dear man. She wanted to thank him in some way.

  Perhaps she would begin attending chapel. She smiled. That would surprise him. She’d love to see the look on his face if she turned up at the chapel on Sunday morning on her own.

  Now that she was better, maybe she’d pay another visit to the mission as well. She frowned. Would they allow her if they knew she was an actress?

  If she was attending chapel services regularly, they couldn’t object to her offering her help at the mission. And, technically, she wasn’t acting on the stage at present.

  She took another sip of her now tepid cocoa. Life was taking an interesting turn….

  Ian tossed and turned, castigating himself for having taken Eleanor to the theater. It was bad enough he’d escorted her to chapel, but to make a public spectacle, first at Gunter’s and then at the theater. It was true, no one knew him at those locales, but Eleanor had a certain amount of notoriety. He did not want his name paired with hers. All it needed was for Henry to see them together and word would be all over the hospital—and after that, the mission.

  He kept coming back to her confession about her gentleman lover. Even her manners had been taught to her by a lover. The thought galled him.

  He punched his pillow and turned onto his other side. But no matter what position he assumed, all Ian could think about was a phantom gentleman from Mrs. Neville’s past. His imagination conjured up visions of this man escorting her to the theater as he himself had done, driving in the park, sharing a pastry at Gunter’s.

  Had he been the one to set her up in the neat town house in Bloomsbury?

  Ian stared at the dark ceiling, his soul hitting a new low in its contemplation of Eleanor Neville.

  Chapter Fourteen

  December 1817

  “All right, children, let’s go over it one more time.” Eleanor took a deep breath, regathering her energy.

  Amidst the protests, she marshaled the children behind the makeshift stage and convinced them to go over the play again.

  “We need Joseph at the stable and Mary beside him.”

  “I’m coming, Mrs. Neville,” Peter, the little boy elected to play Joseph, told her. “I just had to look outside the window.”

  “How does it look?” she asked with a glance outside. The snow had begun to fall about an hour ago.

  “It looks all white. I wish we could go out and play.”

  “We will, as soon as we finish here,” she promised.

  The children shouted with joy, and she had to struggle once again to get them to their places.

  She was feeling a pressure at her temples, and all she really wanted to do was get home and lie down. The last thing she needed was to go and frolic in the snow. Perhaps she could get someone else at the mission to take over, and she would excuse herself early.

  As she listened to the children stumble over their simple lines, she knew she was merely out of sorts because she was feeling hagged that afternoon. In the fortnight she had been coming to the mission, she had truly enjoyed helping out.

  When she had suggested putting on a skit for Christmas, the children had all jumped in with ideas. They had decided on the nativity story, as befitting the holiday season.

  Eleanor had never actually read the account in the Bible, and it had been a revelation for her. She’d never realized, for one thing, that the same story was told four different times, with varying details in four different books of the Bible.

  When the rehearsal finally came to an end, Eleanor applauded loudly, even though there were still so many rough spots her perfectionist eye could see. “Come, let’s put on our warm wraps and go out of doors for a bit.”

  The dozen children whooped and ran out to the cloakroom. Eleanor followed more slowly, wishing she was in a nice warm chair by the fire.

  “Hello, Mrs. Neville,” Mr. Russell’s friendly voice greeted her. “What are you doing here so late?”

  “Attempting the impossible.”

  He looked after the running children. “Tame the wild herd?”

  “Indeed. Except today I’m not feeling up to the task.”

  He turned immediately to study her features. She felt the same curious anticipation whenever he did that, which wasn’t often; he usually was very brisk and businesslike when they ran into each other at the mission, and if she didn’t come and help nurse the sick children, she wondered sometimes whether she would ever see him, except at Sunday chapel services. She missed his daily visits to her house.

  “You do look a bit peaked. How do you feel?”

  “Overtired, I suppose. A bit of a headache, but I sometimes get those when it’s gray and overcast.”

  “Well, you certainly have reason today. I’ll stop by later and see if you feel any worse, if you like.”

  “There’s no need,” she said quickly, not wanting him to come by if it was only in a professional capacity. The closeness she’d felt growing between them during her convalescence had gradually faded since her recovery, even though she had made such an effort to go to chapel and help at the mission. “I think early to bed and I will be fine in the morning.”

  “As you wish,” he said. With a brief nod, he turned and headed toward the infirmary.

  Shaking away the sense of abandonment, she followed the children’s shouts down the corridor.

  That evening, she regretted not having asked Mr. Russell to stop by. She felt feverish and the headache had certainly grown worse. She debated whether to have her housekeeper send for her regular physician, but since she’d been seeing Mr. Russell, she hadn’t called him.

  Finally, taking a hot toddy her housekeeper prepared for her, she decided simply to go to bed and hope for improvement in the morning. But her sleep was fitful and she woke up frequently, feeling chilled to the bone. Her head continued to ache, and her throat became parched and sore. In the wee hours of the morning, she was throwing up the little she had eaten the evening before.<
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  She groaned in pain, not able to deny any longer that she had caught what had afflicted some of the children she had nursed the week before at the mission.

  “Shall I send for your physician or for the good Mr. Russell?” Mrs. Wilson asked her after the maid had come in to make up her fire and rushed out again to fetch the housekeeper.

  “Anyone, no one…I don’t care…just let me die in peace…” she mumbled into the pillow.

  “Oh, madam, you mustn’t speak that way. I’ll get you a good warm broth and that will make you feel better.”

  Eleanor didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly she felt a hand on her forehead. She’d been dreaming, but she couldn’t remember what the dream had been.

  “Who—?” she asked groggily, cracking her eyes painfully open against the light. Mr. Russell stood over her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling so poorly yesterday?” He sounded angry.

  “I wasn’t…then…” she croaked.

  “Don’t try to talk anymore.” He continued examining her, feeling the sides of her neck, listening to her lungs, and examining her skin. “You haven’t experienced this in the recent past?”

  She shook her head, feeling the pain reverberate from one side of her head to the other as she did so.

  “It just came on all of a sudden yesterday?”

  “Well, I…just started to feel so…listless…no energy…I thought I was just tired…”

  He nodded as he felt her pulse. “Any vomiting?”

  She looked away and nodded.

  “Thirst?”

  “Very much.”

  “Appetite?”

  “I have none.”

  “Your pulse is elevated and you are quite feverish. But you have no rashes, and thus far I don’t detect any inflammation. Your lungs appear to be clear, and for that you can be thankful. You must stay in bed. I will give your housekeeper instructions for your care. Is there anyone who can look after you for the next fortnight?”

  She closed her eyes, unable to think that far ahead. There was too much for her to do to be abed for a fortnight. Hadn’t she just played a variation of this scene scarcely a month ago? What was happening to her?

  Sarah! What about Sarah? Once again thoughts of her daughter were uppermost in her mind. She reopened her eyes and frantically felt for Mr. Russell’s arm. When she found it she clutched it. “You must tell Sarah—”

  “Take it easy. You mustn’t upset yourself.”

  She gripped him tighter. “Don—don’t let Sarah come here!”

  He nodded. “I will send word to her parents to keep her away from here for at least a fortnight.”

  “Thank you,” she gasped, sinking back on the pillow and letting his arm go. “I don’t want her…getting…sick…again.”

  “Yes, I agree. She shouldn’t be exposed to this. You undoubtedly contracted one of the infectious fevers going on around the infirmary. You shouldn’t have been entering there.”

  She grimaced, keeping her eyes closed. “And you should?”

  “It’s my calling. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall talk with your housekeeper.”

  She didn’t bother to answer anymore, feeling too weary to formulate any thoughts, much less words.

  Ian found Mrs. Wilson waiting in the corridor.

  “Oh, Mr. Russell, how is she?”

  “I’m afraid it’s an acute fever. It will likely intensify before the night is out.” He looked at her steadily. “It can be quite dangerous. She must be kept isolated.”

  “Oh, Doctor, what must we do?”

  “Is there anyone—any family member—who might be willing to come and nurse her?”

  The housekeeper furrowed her brow, thinking. “She has no family…none that I know of. There is the little girl, Sarah, and her parents, but I don’t think they’re any relation.”

  “The child shouldn’t come here on any account. Can you send someone to inform them of the situation?”

  “Yes, I’ll send a boy this morning.” She tut-tutted. “There’s no one else I can think of…unless…”

  “Yes?” Ian prompted her.

  “What about the young woman—the dancer who comes to visit quite frequently—Miss Simms?”

  Ian nodded slowly. “She might do. Let me stop in and see her. In the meantime, you must ensure that on no account does Mrs. Neville try to get up. If her breathing seems labored, she can sit up for short intervals.

  “If she doesn’t break out soon in perspiration, you must give her plenty of liquids to provoke it. Bathe her feet and legs in warm water. Keep the room warm but not stuffy. A little air circulation is good. Just keep the fire going at all times.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “She can have water gruel, oatmeal tea, barley water, clear whey, apple tea, anything light and watery. Give them to her warm. See if she can keep them down, but if she vomits them up, that is all right. It means her body is expelling the poisons invading it. Give her a little balm tea or weak chamomile tea then. I shall be by this evening to see how she progresses. Send someone for me at the dispensary if she should take a turn for the worse before then.”

  Ian left Eleanor’s town house with a heavy heart. He shouldn’t have let her be exposed to the sicknesses prevalent at the mission this time of year. She had seemed so willing to help and she was so good with the children. She’d shown a real interest in the work at the mission, and she’d been to chapel every Sunday. Sometimes he’d let himself imagine that she was not an actress—or that she’d never go back to the stage.

  Now his thoughts turned to the dangers of the fever. Already some of the children at the infirmary had died from it. Every winter it was the same. Fevers took so many lives.

  With proper care, Eleanor might survive. He hoped her constitution was stronger than her frail appearance indicated.

  Dear God, grant her Your grace. Bring her through this. I— He paused, trying to formulate his next thoughts. I don’t ask for my sake, but for hers. Grant her life. Grant her the chance to know You. Don’t take her prematurely. God, grant her Your salvation through Your dear Son, Jesus. Oh, Lord, have mercy on her…

  Desperation seized him and he quickened his pace through the chilly streets. What would he do if—? No! He wouldn’t think it. She would be well. She must be well!

  By evening the fever was high enough to warrant bleeding Eleanor. Ian removed the lancets from their cloth roll and took the cupping jar from its suede pouch. He was not a believer in frequent bloodletting as some physicians were, but he had seen the merit with certain high fevers.

  He inverted the glass cupping jar upon the pale, tender flesh of her inside forearm. Jem lit the wick on the burner and brought it to him. Ian lifted the glass just enough to insert the burning wick and held the flame under the glass for a couple of seconds to exhaust the air. As soon as he removed the wick, he pressed the cup firmly against Eleanor’s skin and watched as her skin slowly rose into the vacuum created within the jar until it was half-filled with her skin. He waited a minute longer.

  Meanwhile, Jem had been warming the scarificator with its movable lancet blades. When Ian was ready, Jem handed him the knife. Ian quickly removed the glass and made an incision through the tumefied skin. Immediately the blood from her vein flowed freely and fell into the metal basin Jem held under her arm.

  After removing about a pint of blood—he didn’t want to take more, considering her size and constitution—she rested easier and the fever lessened somewhat.

  The next day, however, her skin was burning once again. Reluctantly Ian repeated the procedure every twenty-four hours over the following days until he had let blood three times. He was afraid to weaken her further, but knew it gave her a modicum of relief from the fever in the intervals.

  Ian rubbed his forehead wearily. Eight days had passed and Eleanor was worse. He knew it was the natural course of the fever, but it was terrifying to feel so helpless in the face of it. All his medical knowledge—all the poul
tices and infusions he and his uncle knew about—had done nothing to break the fever.

  He leaned his elbows on his knees and observed her sleep. Her hair was pushed away from her forehead in damp streaks from the frequent compresses against her forehead.

  Her white muslin nightgown was loosened at the neck to allow repeated bathing with cooling washcloths. Her color was still unnaturally high and her lips had that rough, chapped look of the feverish. Her skin was dry and hot to the touch like seasoned wood sitting too close to the fire.

  She had been delirious off and on, her words slurred and unintelligible.

  He knew her fever had to break soon. If it didn’t by the tenth or twelfth day, and he knew the ominous signs, the slowing pulse, the labored breathing, the trembling in the limbs, the starting in the tendons—then the prognosis was almost hopeless.

  If there was no improvement in a day or two, he’d begin applying blistering plasters on portions of her body. His uncle had already prepared the gummy substance concocted of Venice turpentine, yellow wax, powdered Spanish fly beetle and mustard.

  He had seen many a person with a greater constitution succumb in this many days to similar fevers. For someone who looked so fragile, she amazed him with her strength. But even the toughest constitution was worn down with each passing day of fever and chills.

  He’d come every day and evening to check on her. After the first day, he’d despaired of finding an adequate person to nurse her, and had been prepared to drop everything and nurse her himself, but by the next morning, Betsy Simms had shown up.

  “Oh, the poor dear,” she cried. “Of course I’ll stay with her. I owe her everything!”

  Betsy entered the room softly now. “Oh, Doctor, you must go home and get some rest,” she whispered to him. “You know we’re taking the best care of her possible.”