Читать книгу No Place For A Lady: A sweeping wartime romance full of courage and passion - Gill Paul, Gill Paul - Страница 20

15th September 1854

The Pimlico Charitable Hospital was situated near Westminster Cathedral and every day Dorothea’s driver took them on a route that passed the Palace of Westminster, still in the process of being rebuilt after a disastrous fire in 1834. Heaps of bricks were stacked in Whitehall, where builders always seemed to be standing around smoking and passing the time of day, reluctant to shift aside to let a carriage pass. From their accents it was clear many were Irish, refugees from the Great Famine that had recently swept that land and decimated the population. Dorothea often looked at them out of her carriage window, singled out one man in particular and wondered about his story: whether he had been able to bring his family over, or if he was here alone and attempting to send back money to his loved ones. The busy streets of London must feel very strange to these peasants who had earned their living from the soil until their potato crop failed catastrophically.

Dorothea was kept very busy at the hospital. Her role was to chat with patients, read to them and try to raise their spirits, but she was fascinated to learn the basics of wound dressing, and assisting doctors in blistering, cupping and blood-letting. Although it was not usual practice for ladies, the matron, Miss Alcock, realised that Dorothea was competent and allowed her to help with medical care, and she had rapidly become one of the most knowledgeable of the nursing staff. The patients were all destitute folk who required a letter from the charity commission guaranteeing their good character before they were admitted, so as to weed out the drunkards and criminal classes.

On her ward there was great interest in the progress of the war and Dorothea often read the newspaper to her patients, just as she had for Mr Peters. They cheered at the news that their brave boys had arrived in the Turkish lands then became frustrated at the delays in engaging in battle, wanting to crush the Russkies as soon as possible. In the final week of July, reports began to appear in The Times about a cholera outbreak amongst the troops at Varna. Dorothea followed the movements of the 8th Hussars with special interest and knew they were there. At first there was a short paragraph mentioning four deaths, then there were another six, most in the French camp, but by the second week of August it was reported that five hundred had died and Dorothea became seriously alarmed.

At breakfast the next day, she saw her father was reading reports from Varna and couldn’t help asking the news about the cholera. ‘I’m so terribly anxious about Lucy!’ she said. ‘We’ve had no word about how she is or whether she’s affected by the outbreak.’

Her father looked up, surprised. ‘But she is very well! I have received a letter from her.’

Dorothea was astonished. ‘What? A letter? Are you sure?’ She thought for a moment that he had imagined it. Since Lucy had left he was increasingly prone to believing his own flights of imagination and she had become convinced that the mental infirmity of old age had affected his reasoning.

‘Of course I’m sure. I read it myself. I have it in my study.’

‘Why on earth did you not tell me?’

Mr Gray returned to his reading. ‘It didn’t occur to me, I suppose. The letter was addressed to me.’

A wave of anger and hurt flushed Dorothea’s cheeks but she bit back a rebuke. Despite her certainty that he was senile, it was hard not to get cross with her father sometimes; she was still furious with him for giving his consent for Lucy and Charlie’s marriage. Dorothea had given him many strong reasons against the match and still he had agreed to it. He had always liked Lucy better; that was the honest truth. Perhaps it was because she reminded him of his late wife, or maybe because she was so pretty and blonde and far more adorable than plain, dutiful Dorothea with her dull brown locks and sharp features.

These days she found herself irritated by her father’s hypochondria. Every day he had some new symptom he wanted her to ask the hospital physicians about: a painful toenail, a slight rash on his chest, or difficulty with his bowel movements. She knew this was most likely a symptom of his senility, but found it hard to empathise. He was only in his mid-fifties. Surely, if he but tried, he could pull himself together?

‘Might I see the letter?’ Dorothea asked, her voice a little tetchy, and he sent Henderson to fetch it from his study with lengthy explanations as to its precise location.

When she at last held it in her hands, she read it rapidly. Lucy wrote gaily of the female friends she had made on the ship; she had always possessed a facility for female friendship, with her outgoing nature and lively conversation. Even as a child, whenever there was a guest in the house Lucy would be nearby, asking questions and charming them with her pretty manners. She loved to be in company. It cheered Dorothea to read the letter until she checked the date and realised that it had been written three months previously when their ship stopped off in Malta, long before the cholera outbreak.

‘Did you reply?’ she asked, but her father shook his head. His mouth was full of buttered roll so she had to wait for his reply.

‘I didn’t know where to write,’ he said, wiping buttery crumbs from his lips.

Poor Lucy! She must think they had both abandoned her. Dorothea had not written again after the impassioned letter she sent on the eve of their departure had received no reply, but now she decided to try once more. She had no idea if the letter would get through to Varna but she could at least attempt to reach her sister.

‘My dear Lucy,’ she wrote. ‘Father and I think of you constantly and pray for your good health. We have read of the cholera affecting our troops and are anxious to know you are safe.’ She advised her to avoid foul, stuffy atmospheres or handling the bodily fluids of infected patients, then added more tips such as cooking fruit before eating it and drinking plenty of water to avoiding overheating in the warm weather. ‘I will ask at the hospital about the treatments they use for those who fall ill, and will write again anon. But of course prevention is by far the best course.’ In the last paragraph she sent her warmest regards to Charlie, and said she wished them both well. ‘Please take care of yourself,’ she wrote, closing her eyes in silent prayer that Lucy would be spared.

She sent Henderson to post the letter, addressed care of the 8th Hussars, and instantly felt a wave of relief that communication was once again opened between them, albeit one-sided. Perhaps she would write every week so that Lucy would receive regular correspondence from home. Even if she chose not to reply, she would know that Dorothea still loved her and was thinking of her.

As chance would have it, a letter from Lucy arrived just a few days later, crossing hers in the post. Yet again it was addressed to their father but this time he showed it to Dorothea at once. She could read her sister’s anxiety between the lines and felt an acute pang of missing her. It was clear that Lucy wanted advice from her. ‘If there should be some medicines available in London both to prevent and to cure this dreaded cholera, I would be most grateful if you could procure supplies and send them over. The doctors here seem at a loss,’ she wrote.

At the hospital the following day, Dorothea asked Miss Alcock, her ward matron, for advice and was told that the physicians in Pimlico Hospital sometimes gave opium for the pain, but they no longer believed in the use of calomel, a purgative. The best thing was to keep patients hydrated with sips of water and cool their heads until the fever passed. The sister told her that there was currently an outbreak in Soho and they were refusing to take any patients from the area for fear of it spreading within the hospital.

‘What is the mortality rate?’ Dorothea asked, and wished she hadn’t when Miss Alcock replied that it seemed as high as twelve per cent in some areas. Pray God it did not kill twelve per cent of the army in Varna. Pray God Lucy was safe.

Normally the physicians didn’t deign to speak with the nurses. However, that afternoon, Mr Clarence, a particularly amiable young physician, came to visit the acute cases and on his way out, Dorothea was bold enough to accost him and ask his views on cholera prevention and treatment.

‘It’s interesting you should ask,’ he said, ‘as I was discussing it this very morning with Mr John Snow, a colleague at University College. He has analysed the Soho outbreak with great rigour and become convinced that every single sufferer had drunk water from the pump at the corner of Broad Street and Cambridge Street. He has long believed cholera is not an airborne disease; otherwise it would surely affect the lungs in the first instance. I can see his point there.’ He paused to ensure she was following.

Dorothea frowned. ‘Whereas it affects the digestive system, so that points to the cause being something ingested?’

‘Precisely.’ He nodded eagerly. ‘Mr Snow persuaded the Board of Guardians of the parish to remove the handle, thus making the pump unusable and, lo and behold, cases of cholera infection dropped away rapidly. His own analysis of the water found white particles of unknown origin. Of course, much more research is required but it seems to me prima facie evidence for a waterborne illness. It could also be borne by contaminated foods, I imagine, especially those in which water is used during preparation.’

Dorothea was alarmed. ‘My sister is in Varna with the troops. What advice should I send?’

‘Instruct her to boil all water before use. And if infection occurs, keep the patient hydrated with sips of cooled boiled water. That’s all that is being done with the Soho victims and so far the recovery rate is much improved on previous outbreaks.’

Dorothea was horrified: in her previous letter she had advised Lucy to drink lots of water, not considering that their supplies might be contaminated. If only the new telegraph line the army was constructing were ready, she could have sent a telegram to warn her. She hurried home as soon as she could and wrote with all the advice she had gathered, then she ended the letter with an emotional plea from the heart.

‘Lucy, please at least consider coming back on the next available ship. I hear the army is moving north to the Crimean peninsula and an ex-soldier in my hospital last winter, a very sweet man, told me that wives will only drain supplies and get in the way.’ She commended Lucy for her bravery so far but said: ‘Now the real battles with big guns will begin, it is no place for a lady. It says in The Times that the war will be over in a matter of weeks, then Captain Harvington will be following you home. Please consider my suggestion and be assured that Father and I would welcome you with open arms.’

Dorothea read and re-read the letter, making revisions to the tone so that she could not be accused of being patronising (a word that had passed Lucy’s lips several times during their bitter argument), then she made a fair copy and sent Henderson to post it.

From that moment on, her first thought when she got back from the hospital each day was to ask if another letter had arrived from overseas. But weeks went by and there was no word. Had Lucy succumbed to cholera? Was she dead already? Dorothea had no way of finding out and the waiting was intolerable. While working at the hospital, or spending evenings at home, her impetuous, warm-hearted, adorable little sister was always at the forefront of her thoughts.