Another Country (21 page)

Eleanor shrugged. “I shall look forward to it.” She
knew Margaret was not-so-subtly trying to push them together, and
she also suspected that Rupert resisted such interference. She
refused to rise to Margaret’s insinuations, well meaning as they
were.

Rupert was ambitious and determined, with a bright
future ahead of him. Why, they’d barely spoken since that kiss on
the terrace--a kiss Eleanor had relived more than once. She doubted
Rupert gave it even a passing thought. He was ambitious, worldly,
and according to Henry, he was likely to go far. He wasn’t
interested in a woman like herself.

What are you like, then?
Eleanor asked herself. She felt as if she’d never
really had a chance to discover her true self.
And at this rate, you never will
.

She pushed such gloomy thoughts aside, determined
not to wallow in self-pity. It was becoming far too comfortable an
occupation.

That evening, Eleanor enjoyed the easy conversation
around the Moores’ dinner table. Margaret regaled them with tales
from the classroom, and both Rupert and Henry were eager
listeners.

“It certainly sounds like a success,” Henry
commented. “I know Rupert intended it to be!”

“What!” Eleanor exclaimed in surprise. “That is,
what do you mean?”

Henry raised his eyebrows, shrugging. “Rupert went
around the neighborhoods, didn’t you know? He chatted the school up
quite a bit, spoke to the fathers. Seemed to think a man’s
influence would help sway them, and I do believe he was correct.
Rupert?” Henry looked questioningly at his brother-in-law.

Rupert shrugged in dismissal. “It was but a small
thing.”

Eleanor looked down at her plate.
She didn’t know whether to feel irritated or grateful, and the
truth was she felt both. How dare he interfere, her self-righteous
self cried, even as her heart whispered,
he took an interest
...

“We’re certainly thankful for your interest,”
Margaret said, giving Eleanor a curious look. Eleanor looked up and
smiled.

“Yes, indeed, why did you not tell us before?”

“It didn’t seem important.” Rupert moved the
discussion on to other topics, and Eleanor was glad for the
reprieve.

You are being a
ninny
, she scolded herself silently. This
is about the school... the school only!

After dinner, they all retired to the drawing room.
Henry and Margaret sat by the fire, playing spillikins, while
Eleanor sat by the window, watching the spill of moonlight on the
garden outside.

Rupert came and sat down next to her. “You seem
vexed, Mrs. McCardell.”

“I believe we know each other sufficiently to use
our Christian names,” Eleanor replied tartly.

“Very well, then, use mine.”

Eleanor looked up suspiciously. Was he making fun of
her? With Rupert, she could never tell. “I am not vexed,
Rupert.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“It surprised me, that is all.”

“What did?”

“Your... involvement in the school.”

Rupert sat back, looking genuinely surprised. “Is
that it? But I only wanted it to succeed.”

“Indeed, and as Margaret said, we are grateful.”

Rupert chuckled. “No, as I recall, Margaret said she
was grateful. You, however, seem quite the contrary.”

“I assure you I am not.”

Rupert lowered his voice. “Perhaps, then, you are
vexed about something else?”

“I do not know what that could be.” Eleanor
concentrated on her teacup, as if the act of raising it to her lips
was one that required consummate skill.

“Perhaps you are still vexed by the kiss we shared
over a month ago now.”

Eleanor saw Margaret shoot them a quick, searching
look, and she knew their private game was no mistake, but an
intention to afford her and Rupert some privacy... the last thing
she needed!

She drew in a shaky breath. “You are wrong,” she
said quietly. “And you are wrong to tease me about it.”

Rupert held out a hand, then dropped it. “Eleanor, I
am not teasing you. If the truth be told, that kiss still vexes
me.”

Eleanor felt her face flame. “I do not know why it
should,” she said curtly.

“Can’t you guess?”

Eleanor’s heart beat faster, and a
thin tendril of hope unfurled to life within her. Was he suggesting
he had feelings for her? But she was too fearful of being
embarrassed, her own raw feelings exposed, to challenge him. “No, I
cannot.”

She rose from her seat. “Margaret... Henry... I must
go. The hour is late.”

“Rupert could take you home,” Margaret offered, and
Eleanor shook her head, not daring to look at him.

“No, he must not trouble himself. If your coachman
would escort me, that will do admirably.”

Margaret looked to protest, but Rupert sketched a
little bow. “As you wish. I assure you, it’s no trouble, unless it
might trouble yourself.”

“It does,” Eleanor snapped, and with that, she
hurried out of the room.

I acted like a
fool
, she berated herself in the coach on
the way home. Why couldn’t she laugh and flirt like Caroline Reid,
like any normal young woman? Why must she always be so prickly, so
nervous?

Eleanor sighed. She’d never had a proper flirtation,
a real romance. John McCardell’s courting of her had been a steady,
stolid affair. Admittedly, they’d shared an awkward sort of
friendship, but her heart had not beat faster, she had not dreamed
of him kissing her.

Mostly, Eleanor realized, she’d just wanted to
escape her life on the farm.

She closed her eyes, willing the memories away. If
Rupert truly cared for her, he wouldn’t play these games, trying to
force her own hand. He would be a gentleman, and declare
himself.

Until that happened, Eleanor decided, she would not
give Rupert any more opportunity to tease--or humiliate--her.

A few days later, Eleanor arrived at the Moores’
home to find Henry and Margaret in a blazing row.

It had been her custom to call for
Margaret on the way to school. They often discussed the planned
lessons, the individual pupils and their concerns, on the way to
the school building.

Now Eleanor stood uncertainly in the hallway,
Margaret and Henry glaring at each other.

“It’s madness, Margaret. I’ve told you before. You
must not--”

“You would forbid me, then?”

Henry raked a hand through his sandy hair in
frustration. “I would not forbid anything! But for my sake, as well
as yours, I ask that you exercise caution!”

“And what of the children, waiting for us? What of
the parents, who live with this kind of risk everyday? You think me
so selfish?”

“I think myself so selfish,” Henry shouted. “I don’t
want to lose you.”

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each
other, Margaret still stormy, Henry beseeching.

“What is the matter?” Eleanor asked faintly.

Margaret turned on her, eyes glittering, cheeks
flushed with temper. “There has been an outbreak of typhoid by the
docks, in the immigrant neighborhoods. Henry wants us to close the
school until it passes.”

“But isn’t that...” Eleanor trailed off before
Margaret’s obvious anger. “Most schools close in the face of
pestilence,” she said quietly.

“Not ours.” Margaret shook her head. “Eleanor, it’s
hardly likely a child with typhoid could make it to school! The
contagion is kept in the homes. And what of the children who would
be in school, if we are there? What of the children who will stay
at home, and perhaps catch the disease, because we closed our
doors?”

“There is no need to put your own lives at risk,”
Henry muttered.

Margaret turned away, almost near tears. “God help
those mother, losing their children... their babies! I will not add
to their suffering, not one jot.” She turned to Henry. “Please,
Henry.”

Henry shrugged, defeated. “I said I will not forbid,
but for heaven’s sake, Margaret...” he held his hands out. “I love
you...”

“I know. I love you as well. But you must let
me...”

Henry only nodded.

“If you feel so strongly, of course I will accompany
you,” Eleanor said quietly, and Margaret gave her a grateful look.
Eleanor suppressed the qualm of fear she felt at the thought of
being exposed to the dreaded typhoid. If Margaret could face it,
then she would as well.

The number of pupils in their school was not too
depleted, and Eleanor was glad she’d agreed to go, despite the
obvious dangers. She put her arm around a shy four year old, the
girl’s head leaning against her shoulder. Sometimes The First
School felt like the only place where she was completely wanted and
necessary.

Margaret smiled wearily as the pupils filed out at
the end of the day later that week. “You see? What would have
happened to all these children if we’d closed the doors?”

“I concede the point,” Eleanor replied with a little
smile. “I only hope the dangers are not too great. You look a
trifle peaked.”

“Merely fatigued,” Margaret replied. “It’s been a
long day.”

“Are you quite certain?” Eleanor placed a hand on
Margaret’s forehead. “You seem warm.”

“Eleanor, don’t fuss! You are as bad as Henry,
thinking I shall come down with the typhoid if I so much as take a
breath. Please, I’m fine.”

Margaret ushered her out and locked the school room
door. Henry’s man fell in step behind them. The sky was iron grey,
the leaves turning to deep yellow, and a cold wind blew in from the
bay.

Margaret shivered and drew her shawl around her
shoulders.

“Margaret...”

“Don’t,” Margaret said. “I can’t bear any more
fussing, really I can’t.”

They climbed into the carriage Henry always had
waiting, and Margaret leaned her head against the cushions and
closed her eyes.

Eleanor bit her lip. She wouldn’t fuss, but she was
still worried. Margaret looked drained.

They rode in silence for some minutes. Eleanor
watched Margaret. She had not opened her eyes once, and a hectic
flush was already spreading across her cheeks.

Eleanor reached out a hand and touched Margaret’s
shoulder. It burned.

“Margaret!” she cried, and her friend did not
stir.

The carriage ride became a blur of frantic activity.
Eleanor rapped on the door to alert the driver, biting her knuckles
in anxiety, wishing the carriage had wings.

Henry had already opened the front door when the
carriage pulled to a stop, as if he knew.

“It’s Margaret,” Eleanor gasped. “She’ll ill!”

Henry’s face drained of color, but his eyes were
angry. “I knew it! I knew this would happen!” He snapped at the
coachman. “Run for the doctor!”

Eleanor helped Henry take Margaret inside. She
undressed her herself, laying her between cool sheets. Margaret
moaned, her eyes opening.

“Margaret... dear...”

“You mustn’t let Henry fuss,” Margaret said, her
voice somewhere between a croak and a whisper. “I’m just worn out.
I know I am.”

“Of course,” Eleanor murmured. The doctor stood in
the doorway, his face grave. “The doctor’s here to see you,
Margaret, just to make sure you’re all right.” But Margaret had
already slipped back into unconsciousness.

Downstairs, in the drawing room,
Henry stared bleakly out at the darkness, a tumbler of whiskey
clenched in one fist. “I told her... I
told
her...” He turned to Eleanor.
“Do you think it is the typhoid? Might she not just be fatigued?”
he asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

“I pray it’s only that,” Eleanor said quietly. There
was no need to say more.

A quarter of an hour later, the doctor joined them.
“I’m afraid it’s what I expected,” he said, his face grim.

“Expected?” Henry looked pleading, as if there was
still a chance for good news.

“Your wife is very ill, Mr. Moore. She has
typhoid.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ian leaned his head against the seat cushions and
sighed in weary satisfaction. It had been three weeks since he’d
left Boston, and he hadn’t meant to be away so long. Now, as he
jolted along in the stage coach, he wondered what kind of reception
awaited him at home.

His conscience gave him an uncomfortable twinge, as
he thought of both Isobel and Caroline. He’d promised Eleanor he
would speak to Isobel, and yet he hadn’t. How could he dash hopes
she had not actually voiced? He feared it would ruin his friendship
with the Moores; worse still, it could ruin Isobel.

And Caroline... he closed his eyes. Her impish smile
and frightened eyes had followed him to Hartford. She was such an
innocent, naive and yet endearingly coy, trying to play the elegant
lady.

As the stage coach bumped along the rutted road, his
mind turned to Dr. Wells and his experiments with ether.

He’d arranged to visit the controversial doctor when
he’d read of the dentist’s experiments with both ether and nitrous
oxide as surgical aids.

Ian had planned a conversation only, perhaps some
observation, but Dr. Wells had been so delighted in having an ally
that he’d invited Ian to stay and work with him in his
investigations. Ian had been honored to accept, his obligations in
Boston, as well as Isobel and Caroline, forgotten in the thrill of
discovery.

“Medicine always means risk, if we are to advance,”
Wells told him one evening. “I know there are many who consider
what I’m doing the actions of a madman, or a fool.” He shook his
head, smiling in self-deprecation. “Administering a dangerous
substance to squirrels and rats? Sometimes I wonder myself.” He
paused reflectively. “The obvious thing to do, of course, is find
someone willing to administer the ether to me.”

Ian’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Is that safe?”
Despite his passion for the cause, he knew well the medical
community’s doubt of ether’s ability to render a patient
unconscious for severe surgeries.