Ruth Axtell Morren - The Healing Season

His uncle didn’t return the smile. “Perhaps when it’s the only young woman I’ve heard you mention in I don’t know how long. I’m grasping at the proverbial straw.”

“Well, you can let it go. I met Mrs. Neville purely by chance and, I assure you, I’m unlikely to see her again, except in the course of my work, if our—er—mutual patient takes a turn for the worse.” Ian began explaining the events that had led up to their meeting, in an effort to divert his uncle’s attention from Mrs. Neville.

After Ian finished describing the night’s struggle to save Miss Simms, his uncle got up from the stool and rummaged in his various drawers and Albarello jars, mixing together a variety of dried herbs. He came back with a small sack for Ian.

“Mix an infusion of this and have her drink it as often as possible throughout the course of the day. It should help with the bleeding.”

Ian took it and put it with the other prescriptions. “Thank you.”

“Speaking of your life,” his uncle continued. “I’ve been thinking of talking with the board here at St. Thomas’s. They could use another instructor in pathology. Why don’t you curtail some of your patient load and take on additional teaching work? It would leave you more time for research.”

Ian rubbed his temples. It was a familiar suggestion. “I am satisfied with my work as it is, as you well know.”

“You would ultimately help more people if you could continue working in the laboratory and at the dissection table.”

Ian walked away from his uncle and stopped at the small dormer window overlooking the courtyard of the great hospital. He munched on a cardamom seed he took from the bag in his pocket as he watched a few students crisscrossing the courtyard’s length on their way to an evening lecture.

It didn’t help that his uncle knew Ian almost better than he knew himself. Uncle Oliver had become like a second father to Ian, when as a lad of thirteen Ian had begun his apprenticeship under him. Except for the war years and his time spent walking the wards at La Charité in Paris, Ian had been primarily under his uncle’s tutelage since he’d left home.

He turned back to Uncle Oliver. “I must be going. I still have to look in on the young woman before calling it a day.”

His uncle, as usual, knew when it was time to end a conversation. The two bid each other good night, and Ian descended the stairs. With a final wave to Jem, who was sweeping the floor before leaving for the evening, Ian exited the apothecary shop.

When he reached the main road, he saw the mist rising on the river in the distance.

He turned in the opposite direction and continued walking but soon his steps slowed. If he turned down any one of the narrow streets on his right, they’d take him to Maid Lane. It would be less than a mile to New Surrey Street. There Mrs. Eleanor Neville was probably preparing to step onto the stage. He pictured the lights and raucous crowds. He imagined her cultured voice raised above the audience.

Giving his head a swift shake to dispel the images, he picked up his pace and headed on his way.

Life was full enough as it was. He had no need to go looking for trouble.

When Eleanor finally left her dressing room that night, exhausted yet exhilarated after her performance, she walked toward the rear entrance of the theater where she knew her carriage awaited her. She gave her coachman instructions to stop at Betsy’s before going home.

She was afraid the landlady wouldn’t open, but after several minutes, someone finally heeded her coachman’s loud knocking.

“It’s late to be paying calls,” the woman snapped.

“I’m looking in on my friend.”

“That Betsy Simms? She ought to be thrown in the magdalen! This ain’t no house of ill repute.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Eleanor replied acidly, walking past the slovenly woman, who barely made room for her. She quickly climbed the foul-smelling, narrow stairs and opened Betsy’s door without knocking. She found her friend awake.

“How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked softly, crouching by the bed.

“As if I’d been run over by a dray,” she answered weakly.

“You might as well have been. Thank goodness that surgeon was nearby and came as soon as he was called. I had no idea what to do.”

“He stopped by a little while ago.”

“Did he?” A warm flood of gratitude rose in her that he’d kept his word.

Betsy gave a faint nod. “He said I was doing all right but that I needed to rest for several days. He told me how foolish I’d been.” Tears started to well up in her eyes.

Eleanor pressed her lips together. Why couldn’t his lecture have waited a few more days, at least until Betsy was a bit stronger? “Don’t pay him any heed. He was just concerned about you.”

“I tried to explain, but he didn’t let me tire myself.” She took a few seconds to gather her flagging strength. “He…told me you had already explained everything to him.”

“That’s right.” Eleanor rose from her cramped position. “Now, don’t concern yourself with any of that right now. Just think about getting well again.” As she spoke she brought a glass of water she found by Betsy’s bed. “Here, take a sip of this and then get back to sleep.”

She cupped her hand under Betsy’s head to raise it. The girl obediently took a few sips and then sagged against the pillow.

Eleanor set the glass on the bedside table and straightened. “I shall be off, then. A nurse is coming tomorrow, did Mr. Russell tell you that?”

Betsy nodded. “He was very kind.”

Eleanor smoothed the bedcovers and adjusted the pillow beneath Betsy’s head.

“What else could I have done?” Betsy asked. “I couldn’t have the baby. The theater wouldn’t have kept me on if they’d known—”

“Shh. Don’t think about that now.” Eleanor patted the girl’s hand.

“But how do you manage it? Haven’t you ever found yourself in such a situation?”

Eleanor hesitated, not wanting to upset Betsy further. But when she saw that the girl would not be quieted, she finally said, “Once…when I was very young—even younger than you.”

“What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter now. It was long ago. What I learned since then is to be very careful. You mustn’t let this happen to you again.”

“But what do you do? You saw what happened. None of those potions did any good.”

“You must prevent it from happening. You must be very careful with the kind of man you take up with. It’s up to him. You must insist he take the necessary precautions.”

“What kind of precautions?”

Eleanor looked at the pale young woman in pity. She had so much to learn. “You needn’t concern yourself about that now. You have a long recovery ahead of you. But once you’re well, we’ll talk again. Because if you don’t learn to be careful, you’d better stay away from men.”

“But you laugh and flirt with them as much as the rest of us girls at the theater.”

“It only looks that way. What those gentlemen offer must be very good before I’ll allow them to come any nearer than arm’s length.”

The two were silent a few moments, each lost in thought. Finally Betsy sighed. “Mr. Russell told me I wouldn’t survive a second time. He said it was only by God’s grace that I lived through this time.”

“I don’t know about God’s grace, but I think you were lucky you had a competent surgeon. Now, don’t think about it anymore for the moment. Get some rest and get yourself well. We all miss you at the theater. I’ve told the manager you have the grippe.”

Again Betsy’s eyes widened in fear. “Did he believe you?”

“He was just scared that we’d all get it. He told me you’re to stay away until there is no danger of contagion. Now, get to sleep. I’ll be by again tomorrow. I hope your new nurse isn’t an ogre.” With a laugh and a wave, she left the room.