The front door to her own house cracked open and Olivia grimaced. Gathering up her reticule, she hugged Arabella one last time. “Take care, my lovely friend. I must go before my aunt sends one of her horrid footmen out to haul me inside. Have a wonderful trip.”
After waving Olivia off and issuing new instructions to the taciturn jarvey, Arabella hastily closed the hack’s door against a sudden squall of icy rain which snatched at her sage green skirts and her leghorn bonnet. Settling into the battered leather seat once more, she removed her glasses to wipe off the rain spots with a lawn handkerchief, then checked her hem and brown kid boots for splashes of mud. For the most part, she wasn’t fussy about her appearance, but she wanted to make a good impression at her next appointment. The matron at London’s Foundling Hospital was expecting her . . . and so was Dr. Graham Radcliff.
She hadn’t added the physician’s name to the Society for Enlightened Young Women’s list of eligible gentlemen. Her association with this particular man was her very own closely guarded secret, one she didn’t feel ready to share with her friends quite yet.
Arabella’s stomach tumbled oddly and she frowned at her reflection in the hack’s rain-lashed window. She was nervous and she did not want to be. Was the rising feeling of anticipation and trepidation in her heart related to the fact she was about to tour an establishment which would surely bring back certain memories she’d rather not revisit? Or was it because she was going to meet the clever and engaging Dr. Radcliff once again? He’d suggested her visit coincide with the hospital board’s meeting today. As well as providing medical expertise to the institution, the physician was also one of the directors.
She fiddled with the worn pewter buckle of her grandfather’s old leather satchel. The good doctor’s letter of introduction to the Foundling Hospital’s matron lay safely within. It had been just over a year since she’d last encountered the gentleman—a former medical colleague of her dearly departed grandfather, Dr. Iain Burnett. Arabella sometimes suspected her grandfather had been not-so-subtly trying to play matchmaker when he’d first introduced her to the widowed physician at a charity musicale in London in aid of the Foundling Hospital.
A smile trembled about Arabella’s lips at the bittersweet memory. That had been in the winter before her grandfather had passed away. And a year and a half after the academy scandal had erupted and Arabella’s name had become mud in polite society—both in London and in Edinburgh, where she now lived with Aunt Flora, Lilias, and her husband, Albert Arbuthnott. There was one unpalatable truth Arabella had already learned in life: the stain of scandal was not easily removed; it tended to cling to one’s person wherever one went.
If tonnish society—here or in Edinburgh—ever learned of the real scandal attached to her past, she’d surely be banished forevermore.
At least Dr. Radcliff didn’t know anything about that.
What he did know of her—that she was a bluestocking who’d rather attend a public lecture on vaccination than an assembly or ton ball—hadn’t shocked him in the slightest. Indeed, on the two occasions they’d met, Dr. Radcliff had always treated her with the utmost respect. And over the past year, they’d corresponded regularly about all manner of medical and social welfare topics—from the latest recommendations in treating infant colic, to the pressing need to expand access to universal dispensaries, and the case for improving nutrition for the inmates of charity poorhouses.
It seemed Dr. Radcliff truly understood her desire to advocate for public health programs, just like her grandfather had done. In her opinion, improving the wellbeing of infants and children in institutionalized care was of paramount importance. Hence her visit to the Foundling Hospital. She wanted to learn as much as she could about the famous institution’s practices because one day—if she ever had the means and social connections—she dreamed of opening a similar hospital in Edinburgh.
An impossible dream, perhaps, but Arabella was committed to making it a reality. One thing she didn’t lack was determination.
* * *
* * *
The Foundling Hospital, 40 Brunswick Square, London
“I’m afraid the matron cannot see you this afternoon, Miss . . .” The plump, middle-aged housekeeper of the Foundling Hospital squinted down at Dr. Radcliff’s letter. The hospital’s entry hall was not only chilly and damp but poorly lit, and it took her a moment to find Arabella’s name again. “Miss Jardine, is it?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Beneath her disheveled blond curls, Arabella’s forehead knitted into a frown. This wouldn’t do at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the hall porter reaching for the handle of the front door. A large-boned, heavily browed man, he looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to eject her at a moment’s notice. Turning her attention back to the housekeeper, Arabella decided to argue her case. “But I have an appointment. Dr. Radcliff arranged it. He’s on the hospital board, I believe.”
The woman sniffed haughtily as her gaze flicked over Arabella. She clearly wasn’t impressed by Arabella’s person. Given her plain attire and the fact she was unchaperoned, it was obvious she wasn’t well connected or from a family of means. It didn’t appear to matter that she knew the physician either. “Yes, I know Dr. Radcliff,” she said, handing back the letter. “Fine gentleman he is. And ordinarily Matron would be happy to show you about. But not today. Perhaps you could come back next week when we run our public tour.”
A knot of frustration tightened inside Arabella’s chest. “Unfortunately that won’t suit as I’m leaving town the day after tomorrow for an extended period of time. Is there anyone else who might be amenable to showing me around? One of the other staff members perhaps? A nurse or teacher? Dr. Radcliff mentioned he would be attending a board meeting this afternoon. Is there somewhere I could wait for him?” It suddenly occurred to her that she was more disappointed about the prospect of not seeing Dr. Radcliff than missing out on a guided tour. And she hadn’t expected that.
The housekeeper sighed heavily, her ample bosom straining the seams of her plain black gown and white cotton pinafore. “I really don’t think so, Miss Jardine,” she said in a clipped tone. “Besides, I’m sure the good doctor has better things to do with his time. Just like our matron. With a number of children falling ill overnight—” The woman clamped her lips together as if she’d said the wrong thing. “Everyone is just too busy.”
Alarm spiked through Arabella. “Oh, dear. I hope whatever it is, it isn’t too serious.” No wonder the matron was busy. Illness could spread like wildfire through an institution like this with devastating consequences. She’d once witnessed a measles outbreak in Edinburgh’s North Bridge Orphanage, an institution she’d visited with her grandfather on many occasions. “Is there anything I can do to help? I’ve a good deal of nursing experience myself.”
The housekeeper arched a thin eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by Arabella’s claim. “I don’t think so. Matron has everything well in hand, miss.” Her gaze skipped to the porter’s and Arabella felt a cold draught wash over her back and eddy about her ankles as he opened the door.
Taking a step closer to the housekeeper, Arabella slipped her hand through the slit in her gown’s woolen skirts and pulled her coin purse from her pocket. The woman’s eyes gleamed when she heard the coins chink together. “Miss . . .”
“Mrs. Bradley.”
“Mrs. Bradley.” Arabella opened her purse and removed one of her precious sovereigns. She’d intended to purchase a few bits and pieces on Bond Street before she returned to the Arbuthnott’s rented town house on Half-Moon Street, but she was willing to make a small sacrifice if it meant she could stay. “Would it help if I offered you a wee donation as a token of my appreciation for your trouble?” she said in a low voice. “If you could spare a little time to take me through the girls’ wing. And then as I suggested, I could wait somewhere for Dr. Radcliff. I hear there’s a picture gallery . . .”
Mrs. Bra
dley snatched up the proffered coin and tucked it into the pocket of her pinafore faster than an alley cat pouncing on a rat. She gestured at the porter to shut the door. “Very well, Miss Jardine.” Turning on her heel, she strode across the hall toward another door. “Follow me.”
As soon as Arabella entered the girls’ dormitory, with its endless rows of narrow beds covered in stiff white sheets and rough, dun, woolen blankets, an icy shiver skated down her spine and her stomach clenched. Her breath caught and her pulse fluttered wildly like a trapped moth beneath her skin. She had to curl her gloved hands into fists to hide her trembling fingers.
It was always this way. It didn’t matter that she’d visited similar places countless times with her grandfather. No amount of rational thought could overcome her body’s visceral response, the immediate instinct to turn and run, run, run out the door and back into the street into the fresh air and light.
Perhaps it was the absence of curtains at the high, barred windows, or the echo of footsteps on cold, bare floorboards that caused such a reaction. Then again, it could have been the sharp scent of laundry starch and lye soap that transported her back to another time and place. Another orphanage she’d rather not remember, with its mean-spirited nurses and their harsh orders. Their hard eyes and even harder hands that pushed and slapped and pinched.
But it was those very memories that drove her ambition. Her desire to make things better for other abandoned or orphaned children. Fifteen years might have passed since she’d last been an inmate of Glasgow’s Great Clyde Hospital and Poorhouse, but she would never, ever forget how it felt to be a small, desperate child rendered mute with crushing fear and despair. The terrible, smothering sense of being completely alone and unloved.
Unwanted.
If Mrs. Bradley noticed Arabella’s odd demeanor, she didn’t remark upon it. She simply delivered what appeared to be a well-practiced speech about the children’s routines: when they rose and when they slept, how a cleanliness inspection was always conducted after morning prayers, the nature of the children’s personal chores and domestic “employments,” based upon age, and the amount of time allocated to academic studies such as arithmetic and literacy lessons.
All the while, Arabella strove to listen and make mental notes of details such as how many children were accommodated within the hospital. The budget allocated for uniforms. The number of teaching and nursing staff employed by the board. This was what she needed to know in order to begin making her own plans to establish a foundling home and orphanage.
But right now she couldn’t seem to focus, even when she endeavored to jot down pertinent information in a notebook she retrieved from her satchel. It seemed she would have to come back another time to gain a better understanding of the running costs that would be involved.
Unless Dr. Radcliff would be willing to share such details. He was on the board after all. But that would require Arabella to summon the courage to tell him about her ambitious plans. And she didn’t know him well enough for that. Well, not yet . . .
By the time Mrs. Bradley had shown Arabella through the refectory, one of the classrooms, and the laundry, she was feeling almost like herself again. Seeing the children—who all appeared to be sufficiently nourished and adequately clothed in gowns of brown serge, crisp white pinafores, and matching bonnets—had helped to reassure her that the Foundling Hospital took better care of its inmates than the Great Clyde Hospital had. Some of the younger girls had even traded shy smiles with her.
Mrs. Bradley gave the hospital’s sick ward a wide berth—as was to be expected given an outbreak of illness—so the last point of call was the kitchen.
The familiar smells of boiled beef and baking bread hit Arabella as soon as they crossed the threshold into a cavernous room. Like the laundry, the kitchen was abuzz with activity. Older girls who appeared to be aged between nine and perhaps fourteen diligently peeled and chopped potatoes, kneaded bread, or stood by the fireside tending to whatever bubbled in the enormous cast-iron pots. Arabella also spied a much younger child, who couldn’t have been more than five, huddled on a low stool by the fireside half-heartedly working a small pair of bellows; a totally unnecessary activity in Arabella’s opinion, considering the fire was already burning brightly.
Indeed, the kitchen was a good deal warmer than any of the other rooms she’d visited so far. Condensation clung to the windows and it wasn’t long before Arabella felt sweat prickling down her back and along her hairline.
The fearsome cook—Mrs. Humbert—was a stout, florid-faced woman with work-roughened hands, a caustic tone, and a scalding glare. When her gaze scoured over Arabella, she tried not to flinch. She’d just mustered the courage to ask Mrs. Humbert if the children were ever provided with any other types of vegetable besides potatoes when all hell broke loose.
The young girl by the fire tumbled off her stool onto the flagged hearth, her body jerking oddly. The other girls who’d stood nearby screamed and jumped back. Ladles and spoons went flying and a pot of rice pudding overturned.
“What the ’ell is goin’ on?” screeched Mrs. Humbert, advancing toward the commotion.
“Sally’s choking.” A tall redheaded girl pointed at the little one on the floor. “She must’ve nicked a piece of carrot out of the boiled beef pot again.”
“Li’l toad. Serves ’er right.” Mrs. Humbert elbowed several gawking girls out of the way. “After I’ve finished fumping ’er on the back, I’ll box ’er ears.”
Arabella rushed to the fireside too; the little girl’s eyes had rolled back in her head and her mouth had twisted. Her body was rigid and her muscles twitched.
“She’s not choking. And you’ll do no such thing, Mrs. Humbert.” Arabella dropped to her knees beside the child and glared back at the fuming cook. “She’s having a seizure.”
Planting her fisted hands on her ample hips, Mrs. Humbert towered over Arabella. “An’ ’ow would you know, Miss ’igh-and-mighty?” she demanded.
Arabella narrowed her gaze as she tugged off her gloves. “I know.” Ignoring the cook’s thunderous scowl and Mrs. Bradley’s protests, she turned the girl, Sally, gently onto her side and placed a hand on her forehead. The child’s skin was burning hot and her cheeks bright red, but Arabella didn’t think the heat of the fire was to blame. “Does Sally have a history of epilepsy?” The cook and housekeeper stared at her blankly. “You know, the falling sickness?”
“’Ow would I know?” huffed Mrs. Humbert.
Mrs. Bradley shook her head. “Not that I know of, Miss Jardine.”
“She has a fever. A high one. It can trigger fitting in babies and young children.” Arabella began loosening the child’s pinafore and gown. “We need to cool her down. Can someone please fetch a cloth soaked in cold water? The seizure will soon pass.”
Sure enough, within a minute, Sally regained consciousness. She moaned and blinked a few times before tears welled in her large, pansy brown eyes. Eyes that seemed too large for her small, flushed face. “My head hurts,” she whispered.
“You had a wee fall,” said Arabella gently, stroking her hot cheek. “Do you think you can sit?’
Sally nodded and Arabella helped her up. The child whimpered and buried her face in Arabella’s shoulder. “She needs to be taken to the sick ward and assessed by a doctor.”
Mrs. Bradley nodded. There seemed to be a newfound respect in her eyes. “Of course. Up you get, Sally.”
But little Sally was still shaking and crying. Standing up seemed quite beyond her, so Arabella picked her up. Her body was so slight, she barely weighed a thing. “I’ll carry her.”
“Very well.” For the second time that afternoon, the housekeeper bade Arabella to follow her.
A short time later, Sally had been installed in a cot in the sick ward and the hospital’s matron was thanking Arabella for her quick thinking and care.
“Dr. Radcliff mentioned you were c
oming today, Miss Jardine,” she said, ushering Arabella outside and down the corridor. They paused by a large window which overlooked a sodden garden featuring a bed of drooping daffodils. A slender woman who was perhaps in her thirties, the matron had a calm yet efficient manner about her. “I apologize for not being able to show you around the hospital myself.”
“I understand completely,” said Arabella. “I can see how busy you are.” There were half a dozen other children occupying beds in the ward and Arabella suspected they were all suffering from the same ailment. “Measles is a terrible illness so I truly hope you can contain the outbreak.”
Beneath her starched-white cap, the matron’s brow plunged into a deep frown. “How did you know?” she asked in hushed tones. “Did Mrs. Bradley say anything? I asked her not to. We don’t want to alarm the public unnecessarily. Or the board, especially when the children have yet to be seen by a doctor. I hope I can count on your discretion.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Arabella. “And to answer your questions, no, Mrs. Bradley didn’t mention it was measles. But when I loosened little Sally’s uniform, I noticed the rash on her neck and shoulders. And on her face. It’s quite distinctive.”
“Yes . . .” The matron gave her a considering look. “You’ve had medical training.”
“My grandfather was a physician. I used to assist him in his practice.”
“Ah.” The matron nodded. “And you know Dr. Radcliff as well, I hear.”
Arabella felt her own cheeks grow hot. “Yes.”
“Did someone mention my name?”
Arabella turned at the sound of a pleasantly deep male voice behind her. It was indeed Dr. Radcliff. Arabella’s blush deepened as her gaze met the doctor’s and she nervously adjusted her glasses, hoping the action would help hide the fact that her face was so red.
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 32
