The Healing Season (22 page)

As if the words prodded him awake, he bowed formally and said, “Good day, Mrs. Neville. I shall not trouble you further, I promise you.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Russell. You know the way out.”

It wasn’t until she heard the door close behind him that she allowed herself to collapse on the settee.

She felt sick, and she wondered if she would have a relapse of the fever. She leaned forward, her head between her knees, her breath coming in gasps.

She was not acting now. She felt as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Oh, God! she cried to that unseen deity Ian worshipped. Help me!

Gradually the spasms passed and her breathing returned to normal. She lay back against the couch, wondering at the numbness that was already encasing her heart.

She hadn’t thought it would ever be awakened by a man again, not after Lord Eaton had nearly destroyed it.

What a young fool she’d been then, recently arrived
in London and landing her first real acting job after that miserable stint with the traveling troupe. Lord Eaton had seen her on the stage and declared himself smitten. She’d been overwhelmed by the handsome young lord. He’d set her up in her town house, lavished her with gifts, promised her the world.

She’d been at his beck and call for four years, until her heart had been caught, and she’d secretly yearned for him to offer marriage. But the day had arrived when he’d tired of her. Oh, he’d been generous enough, making sure she didn’t lack materially. It was shortly after he’d ended things that she’d read in the papers of his engagement to a young lady enjoying her first season. Miss Beatrice Farnsworth. Eleanor had never forgotten the name.

She came back to the present. Why after so many years had she let herself believe in a man’s sincerity? She crossed her arms over her chest, rocking back and forth, despising herself for her gullibility.

She was a mature woman of four-and-twenty who could no longer blame youthful folly. She must look out for herself and her daughter. That’s all she had.

Ian was probably right. He was a good man, and she was tarnished.

But why must it always come down to this: destroy or be destroyed? She had almost been destroyed once before and had sworn it would never happen again.

Ian walked and walked. He had no idea how long or in what direction. All he heard were Eleanor’s words.

What kind of a man are you?

A man who has never been with a woman at your age.

Do you honestly imagine all your noble self-sacrifice is doing any good?

What do you do but cut them open and cause them more pain? Most of them end up dying anyway, don’t they?

What have you done for them, in the end? Hastened them to their Maker?

The accusations swirled round and round through his mind, spreading like poison until they touched and contaminated every hope and dream he’d ever had.

He ended up on Blackfriars Bridge with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Oblivious of the cold, to the sights and sounds around him on the busy waterway, he stood looking down at the murky green water. The denunciations against his manhood were bad enough, but worse were the ones leveled against his work.

What had he accomplished in all his years of practicing medicine? Eleanor’s mocking tone lashed at him over and over, her scornful eyes belittling him.

“Hey, there, get a move on! Don’t you see we’ve got a dray coming through?”

Ian started at the angry shout, and resumed his aim
less walk, crossing the bridge and entering Southwark. He didn’t miss the irony as he found himself across from the theater. The familiar women selling their favors strolled along the pavement in front of it. Others plied the more honest trades of hawking flowers or sweetmeats.

Was Eleanor right? he asked himself as he looked at the brightly-lit theater. Did the brief pleasure these tawdry actors afford the crowds compensate for the audience’s miserably short existence? He stared at the classical facade, already feeling the familiar pressure building inside his head.

Would Eleanor’s words prove prophetic?

You, what shall you end up with? If you don’t shrivel up and grow old waiting, you’ll die prematurely contracting some foul disease from one of your wretched patients.

God, where are You in all this?
Had he sinned so grievously in his thoughts that he could no longer hear his Lord’s voice? He remembered the verse about the heaven over his head being brass. He glanced up now at the leaden sky, feeling completely and utterly defeated.

Had his lust for a fallen woman led him to this place…or had it begun earlier? Had he become so wrapped up in his desire to heal the wounds of mankind that he had neglected his Lord? Had he missed the call to preach the gospel?

As he resumed his aimless walk down New Surrey Street, he felt a sudden strange sensation in his legs, as if they no longer belonged to him. He pushed out his arms to keep his balance, but the movements were disjointed.

The next thing he knew he was falling…

When he awoke, Ian had no idea where he was. He could hear a murmur of voices around him and felt the warmth from a fireplace to one side. He was lying on something hard. He put a hand against it and then he remembered the last time he tried to use his limbs how disconnected they had felt.

His eyelids flew open, panic gripping him. He found himself staring at a smoke-and water-stained ceiling lit only by the flickering light of the fire. At least his hand was behaving normally now. He seemed to be on a wooden bench.

“You’re awake,” a woman said. Then her face appeared over him, a worn and deeply lined one.

“Where am I?” he asked, his voice coming out a rough whisper.

She gave a deep chortle, revealing crooked teeth, the few that remained. “At my ken. ’Ere, take a sip o’ this. It’ll put you to rights.” Before he could refuse, she lifted his head and brought a tankard to his lips. He drank automatically and almost choked on the gin burning a path down his throat.

That made her laugh the louder. “Not used to max, are ye?”

He struggled to get up, his legs encased in a thin blanket. The woman helped him to a sitting position. He looked around him at the small room, and started when he saw a man sitting nearby on the other side of the fireplace.

Ian nodded his head and the man did the same, saying nothing.

“I—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I’m not sure what happened. How did I get here? What time is it?” He patted his waistcoat for his new pocket watch, but feeling it brought remembrance afresh, and his hand went limp. He didn’t think he could look on that watch face right now and cope with all that it would bring up until he sorted out where and how he was.

“You fell flat on your face,” the woman said, smacking her lips on the remains of the gin in the tankard. “We thought you was jug-bitten. Didn’t we, Abner?” She turned to the man.

The man grunted as he continued to stare at Ian. He looked familiar to Ian, but he couldn’t seem to get his thoughts straightened out enough to remember.

“My Abner ’ere, ’e picked you right up, slung ye over ’is shoulder like a sack o’rye and carried ye right on up ’ere. Ain’t it so?” She had a strong lower jaw, which made her lower lip protrude beyond the top one.

Abner grunted assent.

“I thank you…” Ian spoke the words slowly, still unsure his words would follow his thoughts properly. All he was certain of was he felt exhausted. “How long…have I been here?”

She rubbed her lips with grimy fingers. “Couple o’ hours, I reckon, wouldn’t you?” Again she turned to Abner.

Ian waited for the grunt.

He didn’t let on how much what he was hearing shocked him. A couple of hours out cold! Had he experienced a fit? A seizure? He had no recollection at all, and that terrified him.

He straightened his jacket and smoothed his tangled hair with his fingers. “I must be going,” he said, finally feeling confident enough to stand. “I’m grateful you picked me up off the street.”

“Abner’ll take you ’ome. You don’t look none too steady on your stampers.”

“That’s quite all right—” Ian began, but Abner had approached him. He was a large man, with a rotund belly and arms like plump rolls of bread.

“You cured ’im once,” the woman explained. “’Is leg was broke from a cargo fallen off a ship. You set it right back in place and tended him till he could walk again.”

The memory came back to him like a puzzle piece falling into place, and he felt profound relief that not everything was gone from his memory. “You’re a dock-worker at Wapping.”

“You didn’t charge ’im none, brought him ’is tonics, even victuals till ’e could go back to work. ’E’ll see ye ’ome now.”

Without a word Abner turned and the two left the flat. When they reached a steep, dark stairwell, Abner put his hand on Ian’s elbow and stayed at his side until they reached the bottom. Once on the street, Ian tried to get his bearings, but before he could make out much in the evening light, Abner began walking.

“I assume you know where I live?” he asked, finding it an effort to keep pace with the large man.

Another grunt, but this time it was followed by some speech. “Most everyone ’round ’ere does.”

After that Ian said no more, preferring to leave the navigation to more capable hands. His legs threatened to collapse from exhaustion at any moment, but at least now they felt like his own.

He didn’t want to think any more about his spell, not right then, but his surgeon’s mind couldn’t help drawing conclusions. It was clearly some type of fit. It could be apoplectic. In that case, he was lucky to be even alive right now, much less walking. It could be epileptic. He breathed out slowly, hating all the conclusions. As long as he could keep his deepest fear at bay…

But as they neared the dark building housing the dispensary and his living quarters a few doors down, he could feel the fear coiling around the pit of his stomach, ready to strike as soon as he was alone.

They heard the watch call out the hour. “Ten o’clock and all is well!” The voice resonated from down Borough High Street.

All is well.
Was it, indeed?

Ian thanked Abner and turned to his own door. A dim light still shone within.

As he fumbled with the door, finally closing it and pulling the bolt across, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Russell, at last you’re home. I wondered when you didn’t come home for dinner, and Mr. Jem came by, looking for you. I thought you’d be at the dispensary, but he said they hadn’t seen you all afternoon.”

“Yes, I’m home at last.” He turned to her, not sure what he was going to say.

“Are you all right?” she asked, peering up at his face.

“Yes, quite. Why, what is it?”

“You look awfully pale, that’s all. May I get you something? A hot tea or toddy?”

“No.” He stretched his lips into a smile. “I’m fine, I assure you. Why don’t you go on home for the evening?”

She gave him one last doubtful look before nodding. “Very well, sir. I’ll bid you good-night, then.”

“Yes, good night, Mrs. Duff.” He waited until she had left before taking the lamp and climbing slowly up the stairs.

“Hello, Plato.” The cat appeared out of the dark and followed at his heels. Once he’d closed the study door
behind him, Ian leaned against it, feeling a great sense of relief in having reached this room. He set the lamp down and brought up his hand to wipe his brow. Despite the cold outside, he felt a sheen of perspiration on his skin.

How many lifetimes had he lived since early this afternoon when he’d visited Eleanor?

The name threatened to open up a monstrous wound that was only being held shut by a very tenuous thread. What kind of surgeon was he, to have done such a shoddy job sewing up the incision?

But not even thoughts of Eleanor could distract him for long from the fear waiting for him in the shadows.

Something was growing inside his head. He could no longer deny it. The throbbing pain that refused to go away, the fuzziness in his left eye, the clumsiness, and now the spasmodic movements in his hands and legs before he’d lost consciousness this afternoon.

The symptoms culminated in one conclusion: a painful, very imminent death.

He knew as sure as he knew that he was standing in his study that his prognosis was utterly hopeless. He’d dissected enough cadavers to have seen the kinds of tumorous growths possible in every organ of the human body. Sometimes they were operable, but more often they were not, since the operation would kill the patient faster than the tumor.

He pressed his head together in his hands. In his case, it was most certainly inoperable. He shuddered thinking of the only known surgical procedure to the skull. Trepanation. The very word filled him with dread.

He’d seen it done only a few times during his student days. It required boring open a hole in a person’s head, plunging the end of the drill in cold water every few minutes because it became so hot from the friction of metal on bone. The procedure was used to cure fits or violent behavior in mental patients, but the results were questionable.

Ian walked across the room, terror flooding him, threatening to cut off his ability to breathe. He collapsed in his chair and reached for his only weapon, his beloved Bible, already reciting the passages he knew by heart.

“The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want…yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

His fingers shook as he flipped the pages from Psalm 23 to Psalm 91. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.”

He read the next verse eagerly: “Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the
noisome pestilence.” Hadn’t God delivered him all these years from every foul disease he’d treated?

“He shall cover thee with His feathers and under His wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.” Yes, now for the crux of it: “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday…”