‘Did the mother you were attending earlier survive?’ Mrs Munroe asked, as the waiter withdrew having set the poultry before them.
Robert’s face cracked into a broad smile and Caroline forgave him his earlier lack of attention. ‘She did, and when I left both mother and child were doing well.’
Caroline stared at his hands holding the knife and fork.
‘You
actually
delivered this child yourself?’ Caroline asked, picturing the same hand thrust in between some woman’s thighs to deliver the infant.
The untidy wedge of hair on his forehead settled across his brow. Robert moved it aside but it returned instantly. ‘Of course.’
‘But couldn’t you have left one of your under-doctors to do the actual delivery? After all, as your mother keeps reminding me, you are one of the chief physicians.’ Caroline felt rather than saw Mrs Munroe’s sharp look, but she had Robert’s attention now. ‘Couldn’t you just tell them what to do and let them get on with it?’
A patient, almost weary expression settled on Robert’s face.
‘I could have, but then the mother and, most likely the child too, would have died,’ he told her. ‘My apprentices are very clever men, all of them, and had the delivery been straightforward I would have left without a second thought, but it wasn’t.’ Robert put down his cutlery and cupped his hands in front of him. ‘Being a doctor is more than just knowing how a body works, it is a skill perfected over long years.’ He splayed his hands and flexed his fingers as he talked. ‘Knowing how a child should sit in the womb is not the same as feeling its angle and nudging it into the right path. Do you understand what I am saying, Miss Sinclair?’
He was looking at her now and talking with passion about his wretched work again, about these poor people who seemed to be more important to him than she was. It was all wrong. Did he want to marry her or not? Did he think that she hadn’t had other men, officers no less, asking to call on her? And how could she face Ruth Dalrymple if she returned to Edinburgh without becoming engaged?
She would have to do something. They were leaving in two days, and who knew how long it would be before Robert returned to Scotland? She put on her sweetest smile, the one that caused the dimple to appear at the corner of her mouth.
‘Captain Miller,’ she ran her eyes slowly over Robert’s face, ‘the officer I wrote to you about who shared our family box at the opera and who danced with me at the Castle ball, is in charge of a whole company.’ Beside her she could feel the tension shoot though Mrs Munroe. She slowly smoothed the ivory silk of her skirt and smiled across the table at Robert. ‘He is one of the most accomplished officers in the regiment and knows all about soldiering, but he doesn’t set up the tents or groom the horses, he orders the lower ranks to do the actual work.’ She hooked a tendril of hair from her shoulder and twirled it around her finger.
Robert picked up his knife and fork. ‘You seem very fond of this Captain Miller, Miss Sinclair.’
A satisfied glow spread through Caroline. She set her head on one side and raised an eyebrow, as if considering her words. ‘He was introduced to us when his regiment took up residence in the garrison in November. He is a very fine officer and a most personable gentlemen. He can converse in any company and has an appreciation of the arts, which is why Papa invited him to join us at the opera. His father owns land in Essex and has interests in the Indies. He was educated at Charterhouse before entering the army.’ She lowered her eyelashes and let a shy smile cross her lips. ‘And many predict that he will rise through the ranks with speed.’ She glanced back up to find Robert staring at her. She was now the centre of his attention, as she should have been from the moment he walked in.
Robert’s brows drew together and his face grew sombre. ‘You seem to know a great deal about Captain Miller after such a short acquaintance.’
Caroline lowered her eyes and extended her shy smile. ‘Captain Miller has a commanding presence and an easy way about him.’ She raised her eyes and looked fully at Robert. ‘He has been most attentive,’ she told him firmly.
There was a long silence and then Robert smiled across at her warmly, more warmly than he had all evening.
‘Captain Miller sounds a fine young man. I am sure he will be pleased to renew his acquaintance with you when you return home in September.’
He turned to his mother. ‘What time does your coach leave for Tunbridge on Saturday?’
Thirteen
Robert sat with his feet up on the fender. It had been a long hard day, like many others recently. He had spent all morning supervising the staff at the Vinegar Lane hospital.
He sighed and loosened his cravat, raking his fingers wearily through his hair. William had called by earlier to invite him to supper, but he had declined. Bulmer had already fetched him a supper while he worked and, besides, it was Thursday and Ellen didn’t sing at the Angel that day.
Robert looked up as St Mary’s church clock struck eleven o’clock. Goodness, had he really been scribbling for three hours? He pulled out his gold watch and checked. As he slipped it back there was a light rap on the door and Bulmer’s cheery face appeared.
‘Begging your pardon, Doctor Munroe,’ he said respectfully, ‘but there is a young lady to see you.’
‘A young lady?’
‘A very young lady,’ Bulmer confirmed. ‘I told her that you had retired for the night but she was most insistent. She said her name was Miss Josephine O’Casey.’
Panic swept over Robert. Ellen! Was she ill?
‘Show her in, Bulmer, and fetch her a cup of tea, if you please,’ Robert said.
Josie burst into the room. She had obviously been crying. She was shrouded in a large coat, which Robert suspected was Ellen’s, and was wearing a dark bonnet which she ripped off her head as she entered the study. Seeing Robert standing at the end of the room she dashed over to him and grabbed his hands with a remarkably strong grip.
‘It’s Gran,’ Josie said between sobs. Robert led her over to the large winged chair and sat her down. Bulmer brought the tea and Robert indicated that he should stay.
‘Calm down, Josie. Now tell me what is wrong with Mrs Shannahan.’
‘After Ma went out, Gran said she had a headache and was going to bed early,’ Josie said. ‘I didn’t think anything of it. Gran’s very tired most nights and can only manage an hour or two sewing before her eyes start to drop.’ Josie drew in a breath and fixed her gaze on Robert. ‘She had not been up there an hour when I heard her retching like into the night bucket. I dashed up the stairs to find her covered in sweat and being sick. She asked for some tea which I got her and she threw that up too. Then the gripes started.’
Robert had heard enough. What Josie was describing were the classic symptoms of cholera. If caught at this stage, there was a good chance that the victim would recover. But if Mrs Shannahan did have cholera, it would not be that straightforward.
‘You finish your tea while I get my coat and bag. Where is Ell—your mother?’
‘She is singing at Paddy’s Goose tonight.’ Josie hugged the teacup with both hands and slurped another mouthful.
My God!
Feeling the sweat on the nape of his neck, Robert pictured Ellen in the White Swan, commonly referred to as Paddy’s Goose. The White Swan was, in truth, little more than a brothel. Sailors stumbling off their ships would make it their first destination once their feet hit dry land. A vision of Ellen being mistaken by some drunken Scandinavian or German sailor for one of the girls who plied their trade there sprang into Robert’s mind.
He snatched up his stethoscope and shoved it in his leather case. Why on earth would she put herself in such danger for a few pennies? As he reached for his patella hammer he paused. You arrogant fool, he said to himself, a few pennies to you is staying out of the workhouse for Ellen. He turned back to find that Josie had already put on her outer coat and bonnet.
‘Bulmer, go to the hospital and tell Mr Pierce to bring the litter around to number two, Anthony Street immediately.’
Minutes later Robert, Josie and Bulmer stepped out into the chilly night air. All three walked swiftly to Commercial Road. Leaving Bulmer at Cannon Street Road, Robert and Josie struck east towards Josie’s home.
Pushing open the front door Robert smelt the sickness. He had smelt it too often in the last three months ever to forget it. He didn’t have to see Bridget upstairs to know that cholera was in the house.
He took the narrow wooden stairs two at a time. He went over to the bed where Bridget Shannahan lay without making any real indentation in the mattress. Beside her on the floor was a washing pail with vomit in it and a full night-soil pot.
Quickly casting his eye over both, he turned to his patient. He said a prayer of thanks when he saw she still breathed. To be sure it was laboured, but it was still breathing. Taking his stethoscope out, he knelt carefully beside her to avoid upsetting the foul containers on the floor. Bridget’s eyes flickered open, bright with fever.
‘Doctor Munroe,’ she whispered.
‘Is it too early to say top of the morning to you, Mrs Shannahan?’ he said with a smile as he felt her pulse. It was weak, irregular and thready. She didn’t answer, just smiled back and closed her eyes again. He laid the broad end of his stethoscope against her chest over her nightdress, put his ear to the other end and listened.
There was the same irregularity he had felt in her pulse, with the odd half beat, but with an occasional squeak between beats. He stood up and put his hand on her forehead. It was hot against his palm. Bridget opened her eyes again and looked up at him.
‘What have you eaten today?’ he asked.
‘The usual, same as Josie and Ellie,’ Bridget answered.
‘Have you eaten anywhere else in the last couple of days?’
Bridget shook her head very slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. I visited old Ma Grady two days ago, in Jane Street, poor soul, and had a cup of tea with her.’
Jane Street was the street next to Katharine Street. Robert didn’t need to enquire further. Josie came by the side of him and took hold of the washing pail.
‘I’ll come back up for that in a moment,’ she said nodding towards the tin pot to the left of Robert.
‘Have you got some tar soap?’ he asked as she lugged the pail to the top of the stairs. Josie nodded. ‘Then wash your hands well once you’ve emptied it. The same when you empty the night pot.’ He turned back to Bridget.
‘Josie’s a fine girl, like her mother,’ Bridget whispered, as her gaze followed her granddaughter. ‘Do you know, I have seven grandsons, three in America and four in Ireland, along with six granddaughters, four in America, and two in Ireland, and so many nieces and nephews in Liverpool, Bristol and Manchester, that I couldn’t even begin to count, but I’ve never seen them. So I only have Josie, but she’s as good as a dozen.’ Her gaze rested back on Robert as he folded away his instruments. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave her.’
‘I’m moving you to the hospital. You can see her and Ellen there,’ Robert told her, wilfully misconstruing her meaning. Bridget’s eyes didn’t leave his face.
‘You take my meaning, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’m old and I can’t pull my weight any more. I’ve become a burden on Ellen.’
‘I know your daughter enough to know she’d roast you for saying that,’ Robert said, bringing a ghost of a smile to Bridget’s grey lips.
‘Aye, that she would. But it’s true. I had to let three of my regular washes go a month past. That lost us three shillings. And I can only do sewing repairs and not make a whole gown, so we’ll lose more. That’s why my Ellen has to sing in Paddy’s Goose to make up my money,’ Bridget crossed herself.
Josie came back up and replaced the cleaned pail beside Bridget. She sat up. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I will have to—,’ Robert stood up as Bridget grabbed the pail and retched into it.
There was a sound below and Robert heard Bulmer call up the stairs, announcing the arrival of the litter. Bridget had now sunk back in the bed and Josie was sponging her forehead and wiping her mouth.
‘Get the litter ready, I’m bringing Mrs Shannahan down,’ Robert shouted to the men below. With one swift movement he wrapped the blanket that covered her around her, scooped her up in his arms and carefully carried her down the narrow stairs. As he deposited her on the wicker litter, she looked up at him.
‘You’re fond of Ellen, Doctor Munroe,’ she said, sending Robert’s emotions soaring.
‘I am,’ Robert replied as levelly as he could.
‘Go and fetch her from Paddy’s Goose. My Ellie’s too good for that godforsaken place, don’t you think?’
Ellen gritted her teeth and stepped out onto the rickety stage. As the lights glared on her, Paddy Flanagan struck up a chord on the badly tuned piano at the side of the stage.
The commotion in the public bar continued and Ellen had to raise her voice to be heard over the guttural voices of sailors and the shrill giggles of the women. After the first verse, a drunk at the front lurched forward and grabbed for the hem of her gown but fell short and ended up kneeling against the stage. He gabbled something, then slumped unconscious to the floor. Ellen took a step back as she launched into the chorus which at least set some in the room swaying in time to the familiar rhythm.
Was the five shillings that Danny Donovan paid her to sing in Paddy’s Goose twice a week really worth it, Ellen asked herself as she started the second verse. Unfortunately it was.
She had argued long and hard with herself before accepting Danny’s offer to sing at the White Swan, but in the end necessity had made her take the job.
While their daily washing and sewing had earned them enough to live on, the money she made by singing in the Angel and Crown and the Town of Ramsgate went straight into the penny bank for their passage to America. So far, Ellen had nine pounds two shillings. That was two pounds eighteen shillings short of the money they needed for passage and supplies for the arduous twenty to thirty-day crossing. But now that Bridget was unable to work as she had, some of Ellen’s precious singing money was being used to supplement their living expenses. So as much as Ellen froze every time she walked into Paddy’s Goose, she had to do it, otherwise they would never save the money for America and would be trapped in poverty for ever.