Lord Tresham's Tempting Rival
Auteur
Bronwyn Scott
Lezers
18,2K
Hoofdstukken
25
Chapter One
Dr Ferris Tresham was definitely not in the Christmas spirit. He was quite the opposite, a man beyond angry and burning with fury as he strode through the early evening streets of Knightsbridge. Not even the bright shop windows filled with speciality items tempted his attention. He did not feel like celebrating, not when winter was going to be difficult and, for some, deadly. All because the board of governors at St Erasmus’s Hospital had rejected his proposal to bring healthcare to those who needed it most. How dare they!
The righteous indignation in his step set the skirts of his wool greatcoat swirling about his boot tops while his shortened alpenstock slapped at his side. The words of the Hippocratic oath flamed through his heated mind. I will keep them from harm and injustice. How was refusing to take care of those in need keeping people safe? How was it just? His mind railed silently even now when there was no one to hear.
He’d put that question to the board ten different ways today. When that had failed, he’d thrown the words of Maimonides the Physician at them. If they wouldn’t keep the Hippocratic oath, he’d thought to compel them with the pointed reminders of the Oath of Maimonides.
May neither avarice nor miserliness, nor thirst for glory or for reputation make me forgetful of my lofty aim of doing good to thy children.
Those words, too, had fallen on deaf ears and blind eyes.
The board did not see themselves in violation of the oaths that bound the profession of medicine. Sir Bentley Dandridge had actually had the audacity to spout scripture at him. ‘Does not Jesus say, suffer the little children to come unto me? Are we not keeping the teaching of the gospels by opening our doors to all who cross our threshold? Is not everyone welcome to avail themselves of our services?’ There were caveats, though: if those availing themselves of services could pay; if they had the ability to walk the distance from their slums to the hospitals. But Sir Bentley and his board conveniently overlooked those limitations. The offer of care was not the same as access to care.
The gaslights of Knightsbridge gave way to the gaslights of Chelsea as Ferris turned south towards Number Fourteen Cheyne Walk, the terraced house that acted as both his office and his personal quarters in a less affluent part of London. He was acutely aware tonight of the luxuries his person possessed that allowed him to undertake the three-mile walk in comfort against the elements—the sturdy quality of his boots, the wool warmth of his greatcoat and muffler, the leather gloves on his hands, the black felt top hat on his head, the pointed end of his alpenstock a useful weapon if needed—all of which conspired to keep him warm and safe as he travelled the streets, while others around him shivered as they hurried past.
He was cognisant, too, of the power of choice afforded to him by the coins in his pocket, coins that allowed him to choose whether to make the walk at all. He could just as easily have taken a cab and, like the board of governors, conveniently ignored the despair around him. But one could not entirely avoid the poverty of London. It surrounded a man everywhere he went, even when his journey took him to the West End. Not even Mayfair was completely immune.
Chelsea certainly wasn’t, which was why he’d chosen to open his practice there. Amid the bohemian collection of writers and artists who peopled the terraced houses, there were also the workers from the Chelsea china factory and the brickyards, the poor living cheek by jowl with those of some, often, mercurial incomes. An artist’s or writer’s income and fame was by no means a source of guaranteed security.
There was also the appeal of the close proximity to the Royal Hospital Chelsea at the end of his street, allowing him easy access to treat retired army pensioners, something he felt deeply compelled to do in honour of his younger brother, Fortis, who was serving England abroad in the Danube. Still, Ferris wished to do more. His measly efforts hardly made a dent in the health needs of London’s poor and ailing, especially in winter, a season notorious for loss—the season he’d lost her.
Ferris lengthened his stride, trying to shake the fingers of memory that reached for him. He couldn’t give in to it. He beat it back with thoughts of the evening’s work. He had notes to write and patients’ files to update. Work was an effective antidote against despair. He was eager to be home as darkness fell and the infamous fog of London rose with its grasping, ghostly grip.
He made the last turn, dusky alleys on one side, the hiding spots of pickpockets, and the Thames, deep and deadly, on the other. It was not unheard of for a man to lose his way in the foggy dark and end up in the river. Between the cold, the fog and the memories, it was no wonder winter was his least favourite season—the season that had taken Cara while he’d been away at medical school, too far away to save her. All he could do now was save others.
Business for a doctor was brisk in winter, too brisk. He could count on a waiting room full of catarrhs and agues from November until April. Not that summer was much better for the poor. Summer brought fevers and cholera. Regardless of season, London was determined to be a seething cesspit of inescapable disease for those without the protections of location and finances.
He could do nothing about the fog and winter weather, but he could do more for those who suffered from them, if only the hospital would support him, which made today’s rejection doubly disappointing. There was help, there were solutions, people were just unwilling to deliver them. He gave his alpenstock another hard, frustrated thwack against the folds of his coat. How dare those with means turn their eyes from those without! Wasn’t this the season of giving?
He hated, absolutely hated, feeling impotent. Medicine, science—these were the most powerful tools against impotence he knew. With them, he could cure the ill, save the weak, prevent disease, hold back death. He could do for others what he’d not been able to do for Cara, and he had, for eight years since returning from his Grand Tour with his older brother, Frederick. Good lord, had it been that long? It would be twelve years in January since he’d lost Cara. Time flew and he had so little progress to show for it.
He was a short distance from Cheyne Walk when he heard the cry, the pitiful sound of a child’s wail. Down a dark alley. He was immediately alert with suspicion. It could be a trap. Such manipulation was no more unheard of than a man accidentally falling into the Thames. Street criminals were not above using a child to lure a kind-hearted citizen into the dark, only to relieve him of his worldly possessions and sometimes his life. Yet, his oath as a physician demanded he investigate on the chance that it wasn’t a trap. Ferris went towards the sound, his alpenstock at the ready, its metal spike pointed forward.
Precautions were unnecessary. He found two children huddled against a brick wall, a boy with his arms wrapped comfortingly, protectively, around a small girl. In the dark it was hard to guess their ages. They were thin—children out at this time of night always were. Thin. Cold. Scared.
‘We ain’t done nothing wrong, guv’nor.’ The boy’s voice held a touch of defiance. Good. The boy still had some fight left in him. Left? He didn’t sound as if he could be more than eight. Ferris’s heart twisted. Eight-year-old boys should have plenty of swagger to them. He remembered himself and his brothers at eight. Swaggering handfuls they’d been. But it was different on the streets. By eight, a child was either a whipped dog or a rabid one. The only difference between the two was how much fire he had in his belly.
‘You’re not in trouble.’ Ferris took a final look around to ensure his safety and knelt beside them. ‘Where are your parents? Why are you out here?’ He could guess the reasons, but it was best to hear them from the boy before he could decide what to do, and it was best not to judge. He’d learned that, too, in his years serving the poor. Not everyone had choices, parents included.
‘We’ve nowhere else to go, sir,’ the boy offered and then hastily added out of fear of being taken to an orphanage or workhouse, ‘leastways nowhere to go tonight when Pa is drinking his pay. It’s best for us not to be in the house when he comes home.’
Ferris nodded. It was just after seven of the clock now. The two children would have a long night ahead of them and a cold one. There was no mention of a mother. Ferris thought it best not to ask. The little girl coughed. He didn’t like the dry sound of it or the racking that seemed to shake her entire body. He liked even less what it was proof of: this was not the first time they’d been out in the London air in nothing but rags. It likely wouldn’t be the last.
Ferris rose and swept off his greatcoat, feeling the cold and damp leach into his skin immediately. The children must be freezing. Some of the rage he felt towards the hospital board transmuted towards the unseen father who preferred drink to keeping his children safe. He gave the coat to the boy with careful instructions. ‘This will keep you both warm tonight.’ As long as no one stole it from them. He pushed the thought away. ‘In the morning, take it to a second-hand shop. Sell it for cash and two coats, one for each of you.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Cut off the brass buttons first. You can sell them one by one later.’ That would keep them in some warmth and funds for the next time they were on the street. ‘Hide the money well. Don’t let your father find it.’ Or it would go for drink. The children wouldn’t see a penny of it. That reminded him of one more thing. He felt in the pocket of his waistcoat for his coins. ‘Take these for supper tonight. Get something hot to eat and drink.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said, mystified at their good fortune. His sister coughed again. Dear lord, he did not like the sound of it, but these children didn’t belong to him. The last thing he needed was a drunk man accusing him of kidnapping, should he notice his children missing.
‘There’s a card in the coat pocket. It has my address on it,’ Ferris said. ‘If her cough worsens, come see me. My practice isn’t far from here.’ It was the best he could do tonight. He left them, searching his mind for more options. What else could he have done? They had warmth, food and some funds for the night.
He was damp and chilled by the time he reached home. At least he had assurances of warmth and hot food. Supper would be waiting for him on the stove, courtesy of his housekeeper, Mrs Green. He had certainties those children did not.
At Number Fourteen, the customary lamp burned welcomingly in the front window, a beacon against the fog and a reminder to all that saw it that help was in sight. All they had to do was knock. His sign hung over the door in promise that someone would answer, day or night.
It was a relief to be inside. Ferris shut the door behind him, already feeling the benefits of warmth and home. He could smell Mrs Green’s stew, savoury and delicious, and hoped the children had found warm food as well. He stepped into the front room that served as his waiting room-cum-office and halted. He had an unexpected guest.
‘Brother, what brings you here? Are the boys and Helena well?’ A knot of worry took up residence in his stomach. What could have brought Frederick out unannounced?
Frederick Tresham, Lord Brixton, the heir to the Duke of Cowden, turned from the glass-fronted bookcase with an easy smile, already dressed for the evening beneath the folds of his Inverness coat. ‘The children are fine, at least they were when I left them. One never knows with four boisterous boys under the age of six on the loose.’ There was glowing pride in every word. His brother adored his wife and sons.
‘Have you forgotten? Mother said you would.’ Frederick laughed. ‘I’m here to fetch you.’ His brother gave him a scrutinising stare. ‘Where’s your coat? Don’t tell me you’ve been without it in this weather?’ He paused and gave a knowing smile. ‘You gave it away again, didn’t you?’
Ferris shrugged. ‘I gave it to some children on the way home from St Erasmus’s.’ He dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand, while his mind searched frantically for his oversight. What was he being fetched for?
He found the answer hiding among the crowded events of the day: the hospital meeting, the children in the alley, his morning patients, Mrs Fitzsimmons’s encroaching due date and a hundred other things. Ferris groaned. ‘It’s tonight, isn’t it? Mother’s annual charity ball for the children’s home and the governess hospital.’ The Duchess and her fellow patronesses would spend the evening currying favour and coaxing donations from the guests in exchange for the opportunity to dance in the evergreen-festooned Cowden ballroom with its famed Venetian chandeliers. The event was the unofficial kick off to the festive season in town.
‘Precisely.’ Frederick arched a censorious brow. ‘And we’re late. Come along. I’ll help you change. We’re going to have to hurry.’
Anne needed to hurry in order to make her final stop of the day and still get home in time. Already, she was running late. She’d promised her sister she’d attend a hospital fundraiser with her tonight. She found the last apothecary on her list for today—a narrow, unassuming shop on Webber Street.
Anne drew back her hood as she stepped inside the dimly lit interior. She took a quick survey of the sparsely populated shelves and noted the lack of customers. She also noted the shop. For all its dimness and lack of inventory, it was neatly swept. Someone was making an effort. Perhaps that someone was the woman behind the counter, a woman who was doing her best to also keep herself neat in clean but worn clothing and who bore the signs of hard work and hard living on her face and hands.
Good. Anne would far rather talk to a woman than a man, especially a man who believed there was no place in the ranks of medicine for a woman. It was hard enough being an herbalist—also being a woman made her task doubly difficult. But she was a very determined one. The past two weeks since her arrival in town had tested every ounce of that determination. Progress had been slow.
Anne approached the counter with a smile. ‘I’m Miss Anne Peverett, an herbalist from Hertfordshire. I have remedies I’d like to share with you in the hopes that you might stock them on your shelves.’ Anne set the basket on the counter and drew back the cloth cover, displaying small round jars of salve, linen packets of root compounds for teas prettily tied with a pale green ribbon, along with amber vials of tinctures and oils, all bearing a small, neat label done in her own precise hand.
‘I’m Sally Burroughs,’ the woman replied warily, but her eyes couldn’t resist the basket. ‘Oh, they’re so...lovely.’ Her interest was apparent as she leaned forward to peer inside. Anne wondered how long it had been since the woman had seen something pretty up close, let alone had something nice for herself.
‘They smell good, too.’ Anne quickly took up the conversational opening, encouraging the woman to smell a vial of lavender oil. She let the soothing scent fill the space between them. ‘Lavender is good for relaxation and headaches. It’s much better than laudanum. It is certainly less addictive and more affordable.’ She reached for a linen-wrapped packet. ‘I have blackberry root for loose bowels. It’s especially effective and safe for small children.’
‘Do you have anything for hand cramps?’ the woman asked tentatively. ‘In the winter, the damp and cold make it so I can barely get my hand around a pen long enough to write a receipt.’
‘May I see your hands?’ Anne took the woman’s roughened hands in her own. She turned them over, noting the chapped redness on their backs. Carefully, she manipulated the woman’s wrists, studying the slight crabbing of the fingers, a sure sign of early rheumatism. She looked fifty, but Anne thought it likely the woman was in her forties. Hard city living aged people early.
Anne searched the basket for a small jar of salve. She opened the lid and applied the salve to the backs of the woman’s hands, explaining as she massaged, ‘This is made from angelica root, horse chestnuts and green walnut hulls. The latter two are good for healing worn skin. The angelica root is good for the soreness. How does that feel?’
The woman stared at her hands as if she’d never seen them before. ‘Why, it feels wonderful!’ She flexed her fingers. ‘My skin is so soft.’
‘It will take a few days before you’ll feel lasting results,’ Anne said. ‘You’ll need to use it regularly for full effect.’ Sometimes people didn’t understand that.
The woman’s face fell. ‘How much is the jar?’ Anne could already see her counting pennies behind her eyes, wondering how much a jar might cost, perhaps thinking it was too small to cost much, that maybe with economies she just might be able to afford this one thing for herself. This was a woman who’d spent her life making economies, usually by sacrificing her needs for those of others.
‘It’s a gift,’ Anne answered swiftly, handing the woman the jar. She hadn’t come to London to make money, but to help people. Those who could pay, did. Those who couldn’t, would not be denied. That was her father’s motto and it would be hers as well.
‘A gift? Are you sure?’ The woman looked sceptical, fearing the coveted jar was a lure for larger purchases. ‘I don’t know that my husband will want to purchase anything. We make our own stock in the back.’ She gestured to a place behind the curtain.
‘These aren’t drugs,’ Anne said calmly. ‘They’re herbs. They’re natural remedies. They don’t come from chemicals, they’re different. I don’t want to sell you anything. I just want to leave a few things for the shelves. Perhaps you could recommend them to your customers? I have instructions to leave with you as well.’ She had pamphlets and receipts at the bottom of her basket for clients who could read. Anne smiled. ‘Just think how pretty they’d look on the shelves.’ Shelves that were nearly empty. Clearly, the husband wasn’t an ambitious apothecary.
Anne pulled out some of the simpler, more versatile items, like the lavender, which had myriad uses. Her hand paused on a linen packet of angelica, the same ingredient as the salve. ‘Does your husband drink, ma’am?’ It was a delicate question, but she thought it was likely given the state of the shop and the woman.
‘A bit,’ the woman confessed and then hurriedly excused it. ‘All men do.’
‘Certainly,’ Anne acceded empathetically. She pressed the packet into the woman’s hand and lowered her voice in friendly conspiracy. ‘When angelica root is brewed as a tea, it can dull the taste for alcohol. Perhaps you might know others who could make use of that.’ Anne smiled, knowing full well there would be in this part of town. There were women here who needed her help if she could just reach them. An idea sparked.
‘Perhaps you know women who might like to gather? I can show them my products and how to use them. It would just take a half an hour in the afternoon or late morning.’ Anne picked a time when the menfolk would be off to work and less of an impediment to women attending, assuming the women weren’t working themselves. It also seemed unlikely Sally’s husband would be around to interfere that time of day. ‘It would bring people into your shop,’ Anne added.
There was an answering spark in the woman’s eyes as the opportunity occurred to her—people in her shop and a product they would come back to buy. Business would be helped. ‘All right, come the day after tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.’
Anne stepped outside, filled with a warm triumph. This was what she’d come to London for, to reach people like Sally Burroughs, to teach them about self-care remedies, to give them ways to keep their families healthy without paying the prices of London’s doctors and medicines, even if it meant she and her sister would be late for the ball.
