Kindred Hearts (33 page)

The thought was satisfactory enough.

Settling
onto the side of the bed, Charles smiled at the elderly woman looking nervously up at him. “I’m just going to listen to your heart, if that is acceptable to you, Mrs. Sharpe?”

She nodded. He rolled up the sheet of parchment and set one end to her chest and his ear to the other. The thump that he heard was steady and strong, and he smiled again. “Perfect,” he said. “A nice, steady beat.”

“That’s good?” she asked, her Cockney accent strong. “I’ve nuffin’ wrong wif me ’eart?”

“Not a thing that I can tell. Now, tell me—the pain you had in your chest. Was it burning?”

“Oh, awful. Thought I was gon’ to drop right there on the street. Come over all flushed and ’ot and dizzy, and I remembered my da bein’ took that way just before he dropt dead. Scared me silly.”

“Hmm. Was this after or before your dinner?”

“After. Had a nice bit of pork chitterlin’s and suet puddin’ for dessert.”

Charles regarded her carefully. She was a typical London matron, a good four stone overweight, with the round, shiny face of a much younger woman.
Well-preserved
, he thought and chuckled to himself.
Aye, well-preserved with mutton fat and suet, not so much youthful as well-greased. No wonder she had heartburn.
“Well,” he said, frowning faintly, “that may be the problem. Too much fat in the diet can cause not only heart problems, but the sort of pain you’re experiencing.” He’d read about this—a herniation of the esophagus, the book had described it, common in overweight individuals and the symptoms mimicking a heart attack. At least he hoped it was that and not gallstones. Gallstones would require surgery and continuous care—an expense he was certain Mrs. Sharpe had not the wherewithal to bear—or a slow and painful death from peritonitis.

Well, there was one way to investigate, at any rate. “The pain. Can you show me exactly where it occurred?”

She replied, “Well, I’ll tell ye—it felt like all over me chest. But mostly, ’ere.” She tapped herself between her voluminous breasts. “Right ’ere, where me ’eart is.”

“Not on the right side at all?”

She shook her head. Charles grinned in relief. “Well, then, I think what you have is a small wound on the tube that goes into your stomach. Greasy, fatty and spicy foods can irritate your stomach and cause the pain. For such a little thing it can cause a
great
deal of pain, which I’m sure you can attest to.”

“Will it get worse?” she asked anxiously.

“If you don’t tend it properly, it can ulcerate and cause severe problems.” He looked stern and doctor-like. “And the only way to treat it is for you to watch what you eat. No spicy food; eat plenty of fresh vegetables; cook your meat in water or broth instead of fats or oils. No more suet pudding. A little milk is all right, but no cheese. Eat lots of fruit—apples, pears, peaches. Until you feel better, stay away from oranges or lemons.” Well, it might not cure the hernia, but it would probably make her lose weight and feel better, anyway.

With a heavy sigh, she said, “Well, if you say so, Doctor. But veg is so dear, and there’s nothin’ so good as a nice fry-up.”

“If you wish to have that pain happen again, keep eating fry-up,” he said dryly. “Now, is there someone waiting for you?”

“Aye, me son Dickon.”

“I’ll fetch him along, and you can go home.” He helped her off the cot and into the small chair. “Wait right here.”

MacQuarrie, who’d been observing him as he worked his way down the ward, said, “I take it your diagnosis was an esophageal hernia?”

“It seems likely, from the symptoms. What is your opinion?”

“The same. Good work, Mountjoy. We’ll make a physician of you yet. Go fetch the son, and I’ll see you back at my office.”

He knew
Dickon as soon as he saw him: a middle-aged man with the same cheerful round face and plump physique as his mother, perched nervously on the edge of a chair in the shabby waiting room of the free hospital. “Mr. Sharpe?” Charles said. “Your mother can go home now. Fortunately, it wasn’t a heart attack at all, although if she doesn’t lose about four stone, it could very well be next time. She needs to watch what she eats—I’ve told her the details.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Dickon said humbly, clutching his cap. He rose from the chair.

“Right there,” Charles gestured down the short hall. “Second door on the right. Your mam’s about halfway down the ward on the right. You can go straight out the back at the other end and be on the street without having to go through the main hospital again.” He nodded his goodbye to the man as he shambled past, then glanced around the waiting room. There were two women, younger than Mrs. Sharpe, their heads together as they chatted, apparently in no hurry, probably waiting for another patient, and a morose-looking man holding a cloth to his jaw. “What ails you, sir?” Charles asked briskly.

“Toof,” the man mumbled.

Charles crouched by the side of the chair and pulled the cloth away. “Open,” he said, and the man obeyed. Ouch. It looked like one of his molars was abscessed. “That will have to be drawn,” he said to the man. “Hold on a moment,” he said and went down the hall to Bertie’s surgery. “Got a bad tooth in the waiting room,” he said to the surgeon, who shook his head.

“Anyone attached to it, or is it just sitting on the floor?”

“Ha ha,” Charles said.

Bertie lumbered out of his office, buttoning up his vest as he followed Charles. He echoed Charles’s previous movements, crouching to have a look inside the man’s mouth. “Ugly,” he commented. “Well, up with you. I’ve the tools in my office.”

They were no sooner out of the waiting room when the door from the hospital opened and a well-dressed man came in. Charles raised an eyebrow, and the two women tittered. “Can I help you, sir?”

“You can if you’re Charles Mountjoy,” the man said.

“I am.”

“I’m from Lord Castlereagh’s office. His Lordship sent me to fetch you. Says it’s urgent.”

Charles frowned. “Just let me get my coat and tell my supervisor I’m leaving.”

“Aye, sir.”

Mac was just finishing up with a hugely pregnant woman dressed in the same over-frilled but shabby style as the women in the waiting room. “Aye, Charlie?”

“There’s a man from Castlereagh come to fetch me,” he said. “I know we’ve rounds yet to finish, but Castlereagh….”

“Needs must when the devil drives, lad. The Empire comes first.” He patted the woman on the shoulder and ushered her out of the examining room.

Charles paused at the office to grab his coat and hat and went to meet the messenger. “Did you come by cab?” he asked the man.

“No, sir, by Lord Castlereagh’s coach.” They left the hospital and walked to the end of the narrow street where the coach waited. An armed guard sat beside the driver.

Raising an eyebrow, Charles said, “It must be important.”

“Aye, sir,” the man said, shaking his head. “Very.” But he said no more, only commenting that Lord Castlereagh had the whole of it when Charles pressed him for more information.

Castlereagh
did have the whole of it. Charles stared at him blankly. “
What?
”

“Escaped. A few days before the first of March, when he landed on the French coast. The French Fifth Regiment was sent to intercept him and instead went over to his side. That was just a day or two ago, but reports are that he’s continuing to march on Paris, and that more troops are joining him. We’re looking at a resumption of the war.”

“Bloody
hell
,” Charles said, and he dropped into the chair Castlereagh indicated.

“We’re in a terrible situation,” his lordship said. “Most of our best troops are still in America. Wellington’s in Vienna, which is the best place for him right now, as he can coordinate the Allies’ counter. He will need to eventually take command of the army; we’re just not sure when or where yet.”

“No chance the French will refuse to support Napoleon, is there?”

“None. Even Talleyrand doesn’t think we have a chance of that. Popular feeling is against the King, and Bonaparte still has fanatical admirers in France. Particularly among the military.” Castlereagh rustled through the dispatches on his desk. “I need you to go to Belgium.”

“Belgium?”

“Yes. Brussels, specifically. I don’t think that Arthur Wellesley will be able to make it from Vienna before the beginning of April, but that’s where the army will be forming. It’s less than three hundred miles from there to Paris, and if Bonaparte takes back his capital, that’s where we’ll need to strike. Ultimately, it will be us, the Germans, and the Dutch. The northern Army of Occupation is already headquartered there, and there is a strong British civilian presence, what with all the hoopla over the return of William of the Netherlands.”

“Has he made up his mind about calling himself ‘king’ yet, or is he still insisting on delaying his coronation?” Charles asked. “Half the world thinks of Slender Billy as the Prince of Orange, not his father.”

“He made the announcement a few days ago according to the latest dispatch,” Castlereagh said, “and he’s agreed to be crowned sometime this summer—assuming that we’re able to cut Napoleon off at the knees. That’s another reason I want you in Brussels: I’m sending General Hill out to run herd on the young prince, else we’ll have him invading France on his own. The prince knows you and respects you, and you’ll be able to back up Hill’s orders.”

“Daddy Hill would do fine on his own,” Charles objected.

Castlereagh narrowed his eyes at him. “You
are
still a commissioned officer of His Majesty’s Cavalry, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said, “but only because I’ve yet to receive a response to my letter to my former colonel. He’s still in the Caribbean with the rest of the 14th, and I’m honor-bound to offer my commission to one of the remaining captains before I can search for another purchaser.”

Castlereagh sighed. “I know you’re eager to sell out, Charles, and I also know you’re eager to start your new career, but Britain’s needs take priority. When the Duke released you to my service in Paris, he made it very clear that it was a temporary assignment and that he eventually expected you back on his staff if he requested it. When he arrives in Brussels, he’s going to want his officers around him. Your assignment to General Hill’s staff will also be temporary, with the understanding that Wellington has the option of co-opting you if he chooses. Which he will; as I said, the Germans will make up a large part—if not the majority—of the forces to stand against Bonaparte. He’ll need you as liaison; translator, if nothing else.”