His Badge, Her Baby...Their Family?. Stella BagwellЧитать онлайн книгу.
feel a grudging admiration for the young actress. She had not abandoned her friend and was now going to some lengths to assure her full recuperation. He continued to observe her as the carriage trod the cobblestone streets. Beneath Mrs. Neville’s fashionable appearance, there lay a woman very much aware of the grimmer realities of life.
The carriage drew up at the Methodist mission. Eleanor looked around her suspiciously as Mr. Russell helped her alight. The streets had grown narrower and smellier. She clutched her handkerchief to her nose as the doctor led her toward the entrance of the mission.
It at least had a welcoming appearance. A lamp stood at the door and the stoop was swept clean. They entered without knocking.
Eleanor breathed in the warm air before once more putting her handkerchief to her face, this time to mask the smell of cooked cabbage and lye soap.
Mr. Russell poked his head into a room and finding no one led her farther down the corridor.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” an older woman called out cheerfully as she emerged from another room. “We weren’t expecting you today. What can I do for you?”
“Is Miss Breton in at the moment?”
“No, I’m sorry, sir, she had to step out.”
“Who is in the infirmary?”
“Mrs. Smith.”
“I shall go in and speak with her, then. Thank you.”
Eleanor noticed the woman eyeing her as they walked by and entered a long room filled with beds. Every one was occupied, she noticed, and they all held children. She’d never seen a children’s hospital before. She looked curiously at each bed as Mr. Russell led her toward a woman at the far end.
After brief introductions, she listened as the surgeon explained to the woman their need for a nurse. Eleanor only half paid attention, her interest drawn to the children in the room. A little girl in a nearby bed smiled at her, and she couldn’t help smiling back. Slowly, she inched her way toward her. The child’s dark hair and eyes reminded her of her own Sarah.
“Are you feeling poorly?” she asked the girl softly.
The child nodded. “I was, but now I’m feeling much better. Nurse tells me I must stay in bed a while longer, though.”
“Yes, you must get stronger.” The child was so thin it was a wonder her illness hadn’t done her in.
A young boy beside her called for her attention, and before long Eleanor found herself visiting each bed whose occupant was awake.
Mr. Russell approached her. “We’re very fortunate. There is a lady who is available to spend part of the day with Miss Simms. We can go to her house now and make arrangements if you have time. She lives not far from here.”
“Very well. Let’s be off.” She turned to the children around her and smiled. “I want to see you all well the next time I visit. If you promise, I’ll bring you a treat.”
“We promise!” they all chorused back.
Chapter Three
After they’d visited the nurse, Mrs. Neville dropped Ian off, at his request, near London Bridge.
“Good night, Mr. Russell,” she said, holding out her hand. “Thank you for accompanying me.”
“You needn’t thank me. It’s part of my job,” he replied, hesitating only a fraction of a second before taking her hand in his.
He felt a moment of union as her gloved hand slipped into his. For some reason, he was loath to let it go immediately. Repudiating the feeling, he disengaged his hand from hers. “Good night, Mrs. Neville.”
Without another word, he opened the carriage door and descended into the dark street.
He quickly crossed the parapeted bridge, giving not a backward glance as he heard the rumble of the chaise continue on its way.
He breathed in the mild September air in an effort to get the image of Mrs. Neville out of his mind. He had lived through too much and seen too much to let one pretty female face stir him.
Entering the neighborhood of Southwark, he walked the short distance to St. Thomas’s Hospital. The new building was little more than a century old, a beautiful neoclassical design fronting Borough High Street. Instead of taking this main entrance, Ian continued on to the corner and turned down St. Thomas’s Street toward the small church that formed part of the hospital’s southern wall.
His uncle had been recently appointed the hospital’s chief apothecary, and Ian was sure he would still be found in his herb garret under the church’s roof.
Ian climbed the narrow circular stairs leading to the church’s attic. The spicy aroma of drying herbs permeated the passageway. “Anybody here?” he called out when he reached a landing.
“I’m in the back.” Jem’s voice came from a side partition.
Ian poked his head through the curtained doorway and found Jem washing bottles. “Uncle Oliver in the garret?”
The younger man grinned. “Yes, he is.”
Ian climbed the last section to the raftered attic that served as his uncle’s workshop. Sheaves of herbs hung from the roof. Bottles and jars lined the shelves set against the naked brick walls. One section held a cupboard full of small square drawers. A desiccated crocodile was suspended from the ceiling.
His uncle was hunched over a large glass globe that sat upon a squat brick kiln. As its contents bubbled and steam collected on the globe’s interior surface, a slow drip ran down its narrow glass neck into a china bowl at the other end.
“Good evening, Uncle Oliver.” Ian set down his medical case and leaned his elbows against the long, thick table that bisected the room.
His uncle twisted his gray head around. “Ah, good evening, Ian. Come for the prescriptions?” He resumed his watch on the distilling herbs as Ian replied, “Yes. I caught a ride across town.”
“Is that so? How fortunate. Who was coming all this way at this hour? Someone coming to Guy’s or St. Thomas’s for an evening lecture?”
“No, just a—” He paused, at a loss to describe Mrs. Neville. “Friend of a patient’s” sounded too complicated. “A lady—” Was an actress a lady? He doubted it. “Someone in need of hiring a nurse. I took her to the mission to see if they could recommend someone.”
“A lady? A young lady, an old lady?” His uncle stood and gave the bellows a few puffs to increase the flames of the fire in the kiln before turning away from the alembic and approaching the opposite side of the table.
“Give your uncle who rarely stirs nowadays from this garret a bit of color and detail to events outside the wards of St. Thomas’s.”
Ian smiled at his uncle’s description of his life. “A young lady,” he answered carefully, turning to fiddle with the brass scales in front of him.
“Well, I’m relieved she wasn’t an old crone. Did you have a lively time?” Uncle Oliver went to the end of the table and brought forward some stoppered bottles.
Ian took the bottles from him. Digitalis against dropsy; essence of pennyroyal for hysteria; tincture of rhubarb as a purgative; crushed lavender flowers to use in a poultice; some comfrey powder to ease inflammation.
“I don’t think one can describe a visit to the mission’s infirmary as ‘lively,’” he began, then stopped himself as he remembered the smiles and laughter of the children in the few moments Mrs. Neville had entertained them. “Have you ever heard of Eleanor Neville?”
“The actress?”
Ian looked in surprise that even his semisecluded uncle knew the actress’s name. “I thought you knew nothing of the goings-on of the outside world.”
Uncle