by Darcy Burke
Lydia gave herself a little shake. It was simply a cold. In a few days Annie would be back at school, on time, and severe Mr. Lowe would have no cause to frown at her. Though probably he would anyway. It was as if their first meeting, with her in the mud, had despoiled her in his mind. He reserved his dark scowls for her, as though he knew all her secrets.
Alfred Lowe raised his hand, breathed in and knocked. His knuckles stung on the oak door and the little pain was welcome. Beautiful women, like Mrs. Taylor, made him nervous. But it was his duty to call upon children absent from school, as Sir Thomas was resolute about absenteeism.
He rolled back on his heels as he waited and pulled his coat more closely around him against the chilly afternoon air. It was minutes before he heard her footsteps inside. His heart beat faster with anticipation as the door opened.
He reeled from the sight of her. Since his first meeting with Mrs. Taylor he’d maintained professional distance. Seeing her fall in her attempt to get Annie to school on time had pulled at his heart and he hadn’t wanted sympathy to make him partial. She was gorgeous as ever, but her curly hair was coming out of its tie and her shoulders were hunched with tension. There was little color in her cheeks.
Her eyes filled with wariness as she saw him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe.”
“Your daughter was absent from school today.”
Her mouth fell open in distress.
Too abrupt. He was getting this all wrong. He swallowed and moderated his tone. “May I enquire if anything is amiss?”
“She’s a little poorly today, that’s all.” The whites of her eyes were too visible, her brows pinched together. “Just a cold. She’ll be back at school tomorrow.”
No, there was more than that. Her words said all was well, but her face was fraught with a mother’s concern.
“May I arrange for a doctor to visit Annie?” He grasped at the first practical action that occurred to him.
“Thank you, but that is quite unnecessary.” Her voice was like an over starched shirt. Her hands, wringing at her apron, said that it was essential but not financially possible. No lady enjoyed having her reduced circumstances impressed on her. He could offer to pay for the doctor, but she would refuse. Thankfully there was a better way.
“Well, at least may I inform the Society, so they may bring her some comfort? A toy perhaps.” The Elmswell Children’s Society was ostensibly a mutual society. Parents paid in a contribution and received a benefit from pooling their money to get a better rate of interest to buy essentials. They also acted as a sort of loan and second-hand shop for clothes and toys.
She hesitated and he saw her fleeting internal battle. “Thank you, that would be most kind.”
“I’ll go immediately.” He itched to take her hand and reassure her all would be well. Instead, he turned and strode away.
Sir Thomas lived two miles from the village, and he took it all at as close to a run as he could manage without incident on the wet road. His lack of a horse, as a mere teacher, rarely bothered Alfred. But right now, he’d have loved to be flying across the miles on a sleek mare.
The local Baronet and justice of the peace, Sir Thomas, ran the Elmswell Children’s Society. He always insisted the contribution he made was negligible. But when Alfred had helped Sir Thomas give out the winter coats last autumn, it seemed to him that the interest would have to be extravagant to enable the purchase of such high-quality clothes. All of which made him certain that Sir Thomas would provide money for a doctor.
Admitted immediately, Sir Thomas looked up with a smile. He was a naturally genial man in his later life with a paunch, dark brown skin from his African heritage, and a full head of curly grey hair. He’d made his fortune selling guano from Navassa in the Caribbean. Alfred had read that bird excretion was valuable as fertilizer, but the wealth evident in the modern house Sir Thomas had built had taken him aback when he’d first visited. Its finely carved stone and elegant wood panels had made him stare.
“Annie Taylor is sick,” Alfred said without preamble. “Can the society send a doctor?”
Sir Thomas’ expression dropped to a frown of concern. “Of course.”
“And a doll from the store.”
“Like that, is it? Subterfuge? I understand.” Sir Thomas rose and pulled the bell for a footman. “Please take Mr. Lowe to pick out a toy for Miss Taylor. I will write a note for Doctor Woodward.”
The old nursery and associated rooms acted as stores. As he’d expected, the room was full again, even though it was only a few months ago that Christmas had depleted the supply almost completely.
A doll with curly blond hair stood out and he snatched it up. He stroked the smooth linen of the doll’s dress between his forefinger and thumb as they returned downstairs and into Sir Thomas’ study.
“Are you done?” A teacher didn’t speak to a Baronet like that, but a sick child needed a doctor and there was no time for formalities.
“Yes, yes.” Sir Thomas hastily blotted a letter. “Here’s the note for Doctor Woodward. Our footman will accompany you back to the village if you wait for the carriage to be readied. There is a telegram I need him to send for me.”
“No need.” He’d be back in Elmswell by the time it would take a groom to tack up reluctant horses, lazy with oats and carrots who thought their day was finished, and attach them to a lumbering carriage. “I’ll drop it at the Post Office on my way home later.”
Sir Thomas paused, and Alfred nearly retracted the offer. Any delay was unwelcome.
“Thank you. Please ask them to send the bill to my agent, Mr. Johnson, to pay.”
Sir Thomas passed over the notes, and Alfred practically snatched them out of his hand.
“Sir Thomas insisted on sending for Doctor Woodward,” Alfred said when Lydia answered the door. “He said the annual bonus covered the cost. And here’s a toy for Annie.” He handed over the doll to Mrs. Taylor.
She regarded him suspiciously, even as her gaze flicked to Doctor Woodward with his black leather case in hand. He hadn’t been on calls and had come straightaway. Her inner tussle wasn’t long.
“Doctor.” She stood aside, her fingers pressing into the doll. “Thank you, Mr. Lowe. Will you come in?”
He followed them inside and while Lydia led the doctor upstairs, he found the kitchen. The kettle on the range was empty. She would want water to make tea, or to bathe Annie, overnight. He grabbed up the bucket and let himself out of the back of the house into the quiet of the dark courtyard.
He made two trips to fill the kettle and leave the bucket filled. The kettle went onto the stove and coal into the range. Using the little pipe he found, he blew on the nearly extinguished coals until they glowed red then jumped with a yellow flame. Then he refilled the coal scuttle from the store. Not much coal in the pile, he noticed. And it wasn’t quality Newcastle coal, but cheaper stuff that smoked more and didn’t give out as much heat.
By the time that Lydia and Doctor Woodward came downstairs, he’d set tea on the table, complete with a tea-cozy he’d found near the pretty willow pattern tea pot and two cups he’d found on the shelf. He’d not found a third. The tea smelled a little weak; he must have done something wrong in its preparation.
Lydia’s quick eyes took in the scene.
“I hope you don’t mind. I know I’ve imposed, but it should make your night a little easier.” He poured tea into the two cups and pushed them across the table towards her. She ought to have a maid. After all, she paid for Annie’s schooling herself. She wasn’t so poor that the school board exempted her from paying fees.
“Thank you, Mr. Lowe.” Doctor Woodward pulled out a chair for Mrs. Taylor and seated himself. “Mrs. Taylor needs some comfort and sustenance.”
“I... You made tea.” She sat and regarded the cup with an expression of disbelief.
“Yes.” He was moderately capable. “Doctor, what is your diagnosis?”
Lydia’s attention snapped back to Doctor Woodward.
“Mrs. Taylo
r, I’m sorry. Why don’t you have a drink to soothe you? This may be distressing.”
Mrs. Taylor’s hand shook as she reached out to pull the cup toward her. She took a tiny sip then pushed it away again. “Please.”
Doctor Woodward glanced over at Alfred, who nodded. She could take whatever he would say, but she ought not have to wait. She was delicate, but she wasn’t frail.
“I believe Annie has Polio,” Doctor Woodward said in deep and apologetic tones.
The color, brought to her cheeks momentarily by the tea, drained out of her. “No. No, surely not. She’s not that ill.”
“The muscle weakness and aches.” Doctor Woodward sighed. “The flu-like symptoms. They are all classic of Polio. She’s a strong girl, I hope she will pull through. But even if she does, prepare yourself. She may not be the same afterward.”
Many Polio survivors had deformed and weak limbs. Those who didn’t succumb to the disease all together. The thought of Annie, a healthy, lively scamp of a girl, having that sort of ailment was almost more than he could bear. The alternative, that she might not survive, was devastating.
Lydia’s shock was the motionlessness of a cornered mouse, right before it would bolt. “What do you recommend in the way of treatment?” she said faintly.
Doctor Woodward explained his proposals, and if it was possible, Lydia’s face fell further. All his suggestions would require someone with Annie constantly. Lydia hardly looked like she had the strength to hold herself up, never mind nurse her daughter night and day for the next few weeks.
Eventually, Doctor Woodward had dispensed all his advice and Lydia saw him to the door. Doctor Woodward walked off down the street toward his home. Alfred lingered, just a moment when Lydia didn’t immediately close the door.
“She liked the doll,” Lydia whispered. “Thank you.”
This was thank you for more than the doll, he understood.
“You’re welcome. I am at your service.” And that was the truth. He watched as she closed the door, his heart breaking at the world’s injustice.
Chapter 3
“How is Annie?” Alfred asked when Mrs. Taylor opened the door. He probably ought to observe formalities, but the look on her face said everything. Exhaustion. Despair.
He’d been teaching all day and Annie’s vacant desk and motionless slate and pen had filled the crowded schoolroom. After school he’d hurried to visit the Taylors, brushing off requests by Miss Moore to review the progress of the children’s writing.
Mrs. Taylor said nothing, but she opened her mouth and her throat pulsed.
“May I come in?”
She stood back, less inviting him in as numbly obeying, before turning and heading upstairs without a word. He followed her to Annie’s bedroom, one of two rooms on the upper floor that mirrored the two underneath. Annie was pale and still, like an exacerbated miniature of her mother. Her breathing was labored and her eyes were closed.
“Hello.” She didn’t move at the sound of his voice. “I’m glad to see you.” He chatted on for a while, speaking trivialities of the day’s events.
Mrs. Taylor was at the foot of the bed, watching him with Annie. Lines around her mouth revealed her anxiety. Eventually, he stepped back.
“I brought you some sustenance.” He’d anticipated that she wouldn’t have gone out for food nor had time to cook. A visit to the bakery and the general store had felt essential.
Mrs. Taylor nodded, her gaze not straying from her daughter’s face. Then seeming to rouse herself, she turned to him. “That’s kind, but unnecessary.”
“It’s not kind, and it is necessary.” For him, anyway. “Why don’t you sit while I fetch it?”
“Oh, no, I…” She’d moved around the bed and her hands were on Annie’s brow, unable to concentrate on anything but her daughter. Quite understandable.
“Sit,” he pronounced firmly. If he couldn’t do anything for Annie, he would at least try to care for Mrs. Taylor.
Her pale blue eyes flicked to look at him. Slowly, she sat down and her gaze returned to Annie’s face.
“I’ll be back immediately.” Downstairs, he picked up the package from where he’d discarded it onto the kitchen table. The old dresser opposite the cold range held two plates, and he brought both down and put them onto the table. One for the pie, one for the orange.
Both items required cutting. He looked around for a knife. Not on the spotless table. Maybe in the table drawers. He opened one and found string and neatly folded cloths. The second drawer contained a yellow-back book with a bright cover that proclaimed, The Secret Dispatch, or, The Adventures of Captain Balgonie with a picture of a dashing man on a horse. He picked it up. It was well-read and not new. The spine of the book was broken in many places and the page edges grubby.
Flicking through it, a piece of paper fell out. It was a calling card of sorts. The name and address of what appeared to be a solicitor’s firm in London. Below the address the word ‘certificate £20’ was handwritten. Curious. What sort of certificate cost half a year’s wages? He stared uncomprehendingly before fitting the paper back into the book. Underneath, another yellow covered book with a picture of a tired looking woman was titled, Sabina.
People sneered at yellow-back books for being fantastical and ridiculous. Alfred had always thought they were derided mainly because they were cheap and therefore read by all classes of people. He could imagine all the things that happened in Captain Balgonie’s story. A handsome hero, perhaps a soldier or a duke. A passionate heroine. There would be fights and flights. The lady would have many hard trials but triumph over life’s difficulties. There would not be a dull and bookish teacher who spent his time dreaming about founding a school and worrying if he could afford to live and help people as he wanted without a wealthy wife to ease the way.
Probably Lydia’s late husband had been a brave, bold man who’d swept her off her feet. Apparently she never talked of him. He’d made discreet enquiries, but all anyone knew was he’d been a soldier and had died in the Duar war in Bhutan back in ‘65. Her late husband had been a hero, giving his life for the peace and glory of the empire. That was who Lydia had fallen in love with. Mrs. Taylor. He ought to remember to think of her properly, as Mrs. Taylor.
Dropping the book into place, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary. He had seen no other books in the house. Perhaps there were just these two, hidden furtively in the dark. He might not be an affluent duke or a valiant captain. But he knew how to do a kind act. He’d buy Mrs. Taylor a new book.
The third drawer contained two spoons, two knives and two forks, along with a single sharp knife. A very frugal assortment of cutlery, by any standard. He thought he’d been bringing benevolence, but a discomforting thought suggested he’d brought charity.
Mr. Lowe appeared at the bedroom door with two plates. The smell of buttery pastry and meat wafted over. Pigeon maybe. Her mouth watered.
Mr. Lowe put two plates atop the chest of drawers next to her. “Eat.”
“I couldn’t.” She stared at the pie, sliced into neat quarters. Whole chunks of meat and jelly were visible. On another plate was a perfect circle of orange segments, like spokes of a wheel. How long had it been since she’d had an orange? Months, certainly. Christmas before last, maybe.
“I brought it for you. Please eat.”
She looked up. He was smiling down at her, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. His hair had flopped over his brow and looked very soft. She had an irrational urge to reach over and smooth her fingers through his dark hair.
Dangerous impulses. She took one of the two plates as the safer option. Hunger pushed at her. She gave in, picking up a slice of fragrant, flakey pastry and succulent meat. Once she’d taken a bite, that was it. She took mouthful after mouthful, her stomach rumbling with the acknowledgment that she’d barely eaten for two days.
After scraping the crumbs from the plate on one fingertip, she brought it to her mouth and lifted her chin, savoring the last taste. He was
sat watching her, an odd, intense expression on his face. Mr. Lowe had seen her eating. Indignity ought to be the last thing on her mind, but a lady didn’t scoff pie in front of a gentleman.
Lydia flushed and looked away, towards Annie. She was sleeping, her breath quietly rasping. Lydia replaced the plate on the drawers, then hesitated.
“There’s an orange too.” His liquid brown eyes had something like hope in them.
The orange segments were so pretty, translucent and bright. “It’s too perfect.”
He laughed, and the sound vibrated through her. His teeth were even and white and his jaw was strong. He was too attractive for a teacher, it wasn’t fair.
“You don’t have to eat it yet. I’ve got something else.” He leaned over and placed a box onto her lap. It was covered with paper and wrapped with a red ribbon.
