Juliana (7 page)

She climbed from her bed and accompanied him downstairs. “You’re expected in Parliament?”

“Not today. It’s Wednesday.” The House of Lords sat on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. “But I was expected at the Institute hours ago. Only one other doctor volunteered for the early shift today.”

“I do appreciate your visit.” She squeezed his hand, and James squeezed back. Aunt Aurelia was a sweetheart, even if she was exasperating. In the foyer, she glanced at Grandmother’s tall-case clock. “Such a shame that Bedelia hasn’t returned. She’ll surely want to see you, too. She had a horrid case of the putrid sore throat this morning.”

Bedelia, his mother’s other sister, shared the house with Aurelia. Two childless over-anxious widows living inside a peach. It could be a nursery rhyme.

“Tell Aunt Bedelia to gargle with salted water. I’m certain that will cure her.”

“Do you expect so?” Aurelia’s blue eyes looked dubious.

“Absolutely.” James doubted Bedelia’s throat was putrid; if her throat hurt her at all, it was likely due to nothing more serious than excessive chatter. “I’ll see you again soon,” he added, escaping to his carriage before Aurelia could ask him what he meant by
soon
. If she had her way,
soon
would be tomorrow—if not an hour from now.

On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for a speech—his first—he planned to deliver in Parliament. Immersed in his work, he arrived in front of the Institute before noticing all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.

Way
down the street.

Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.

For the second time this month.

Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James vaulted from the carriage and hurried through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers’ laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into people’s knees.

Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help. No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.

His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her tearful three-year-old.

Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a calm patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually did the trick. “Where are the sugar sticks?” he asked.

Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet he’d used to inoculate the little girl. “I haven’t a clue where…what is that new assistant’s name?”

“Miss Chumford.”

“Right. “ He tied a fresh bandage around the girl’s arm. “I haven’t a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sugar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine.”

“Where
is
Miss Chumford?”

“In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don’t expect a sugar stick will help.” Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. “There you go, little miss. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford.”

“Dr. Trevor,” James reminded him. He preferred not to be called
Lord
at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. “I’ll send in the next patient,” he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. “Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?” he asked her mother.

Clearly overawed by his presence, the woman answered shyly. “Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox.”

“That’s correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting the little girl onto her hip. “If I could pay, I would.”

Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew she meant it. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that was obviously unnecessary in her case.

“Thank
you
,” he returned, “for doing your part. We don’t need your money, but please tell your friends and neighbors about the Institute. If everyone stands together, we can rid ourselves of this dreadful scourge once and for all.”

Well said,
he thought, then excused himself and pulled out his notes on the spot. That was going in the speech.

It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the face of the earth. It was a formidable project, he knew, but one had to start somewhere.

Unfortunately, London wasn’t particularly cooperative. Many were uninformed and skeptical, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, convinced that smallpox was sent to chasten the population. James disagreed, believing He had provided the vaccine as a mercy. None who’d come face to face with a poor, ailing child could but wish to prevent her suffering.

In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James hired men to visit the poorer parishes—whose congregations were most vulnerable to disease—and talk people into bringing their children. Which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.

He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms and knocked on the door to the third room. “Miss Chumford?”

An emphatic sniffle was the only answer.

“Miss Chumford, may I come in?”

“It’s your Institute,” she called out in a ragged voice.

Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then closed it again at the sight of Miss Chumford’s splotchy, red face.

There were few things James feared more than a crying girl. Crying from heartache, that was—as a doctor, he’d learned to console tears of physical pain and discomfort. But the other sort of tears…he just couldn’t think what to do. Anne hadn’t been the emotional type.

With an effort of will, he reopened the door. Now she looked a bit resentful, which was an improvement, to his mind. Resentment he could cope with. “There’s a queue outside,” he said gently, “and if it grows any longer it’s likely to reach all the way to Surrey.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“What is amiss?”

Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she looked at him with brimming eyes and said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably, torn between sympathy and dismay. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He’d employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients were seen to quickly and efficiently. A simple job, really, but a necessary one. And she was the second assistant within a month to—

He looked back to her hands, still clutched at her middle. She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, and her stomach was flat, but he had a sinking feeling...

“Are you with child?”

She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pitiful sniffle yet.

Good gracious, his last assistant had left for the same reason! Was there something in the water?

“And you’re not wed?” he asked. After all, she was
Miss
Chumford.

She nodded again, and words began tumbling from her mouth. “Papa will k-kill me, or at least throw me out of the house. Harry, my…the f-father of my child, cannot afford a home of his own. We shall have to live with his p-parents, and his mother hates me, and his father—”

“Your Harry is willing to marry you?” James interrupted. “And do right by the child?”

She nodded around fresh bawls. “H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—”

“Wait here, Miss Chumford.” He ducked out, relieved to escape momentarily. He knew one way to stop the flood for certain. It had worked last time, anyway.

He had a small safe in his private office, from which he withdrew fifty pounds. A pittance to him, but enough to cover a small family’s rent and food for two years or more. It would provide Miss Chumford and her soon-to-be husband with a new start, and should Harry be as decent and hardworking as she claimed, James prayed the couple would find their way.

After Miss Chumford left—sobbing her thanks—he shook his head and lettered a
HELP WANTED
sign, propped it in the Institute’s front window, and settled down behind the counter for what he knew from recent experience would be many hours spent interviewing candidates. Surveying the throng of people waiting for treatment, he felt overwhelmed by responsibility. He wished his father were here to guide him.

Well, at least his mother wouldn’t be able to drag him to Almack’s tonight.

TRIFLE

Take yokes of four egges and a pinte of thicke Creame, and season it with Sugar and Ginger and Rosewater, so stirre it as you would then have it and make it warme on a chafing dishe and coales, and after put it into a Silver piece or a Bowle, and so serve it to the board.

Extra-strong Rosewater will put Roses into your cheeks.
—Lady Jewel Chase, 1687

OVER THE NEXT
two days, Juliana helped Amanda order an entire new wardrobe. They shopped for cosmetics, hats, shoes, hosiery, and other assorted fripperies. They practiced posture and walking, devised new flirtatious smiles, and perfected
the look
. Juliana taught Amanda how to apply the cosmetics so skillfully that no one would notice she was wearing any. She plucked Amanda’s heavy brows, doing her best to ignore her friend’s squeals of pain and protest—after all, all but the luckiest of girls suffered for their beauty.

With each hour, Amanda’s confidence grew, as did Juliana’s confidence in her scheme.

At last, Saturday dawned.

Juliana dragged Corinna out of bed early—at noon—to help her make trifle before Amanda arrived to dress for Lady Hammersmithe’s ball. But Corinna was hopeless in the kitchen on the best of days, and considering she’d stayed up painting until seven o’clock in the morning, this day wasn’t her best.

“My arm hurts,” she grumbled. “And I’m tired.”

“Just keep beating until the eggs are creamy, please.” Juliana added two more handfuls of rose petals to the water she had boiled. She was determined to make sure Amanda’s cheeks would be nice and rosy. “I cannot understand why you won’t go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

“I’m not a reasonable person—I’m an artist,” Corinna said dramatically. “
I
cannot understand why you won’t ask a kitchen maid to beat these eggs.”

Juliana consulted their family’s heirloom cookbook, an ancient volume to which each lady in the family had traditionally added a recipe every Christmas since the seventeenth century. Many of the sweets were thought to be magic charms. She poured the rosewater into a pot of cream and sprinkled it with a bit of ginger. “How many times have you been told that the Chase family recipes must be made by Chase family members if they’re to work?”

Corinna rolled her eyes. “Alexandra has turned your head. You don’t truly believe such nonsense, do you?”

“It hurts no one to try.”

“On the contrary, it hurts me and my arm!”

“You won’t be complaining once you’ve tasted the trifle—you’ll have some, won’t you? If you and I and Amanda all have rosy cheeks tonight, perhaps we’ll all find husbands.”

“If rosy cheeks are all you’re after, a rouge pot would be more effective.” Corinna grated sugar into the eggs. “I won’t tell A Lady of Distinction if you don’t,” she added dryly.

“I’ll take no chances with Amanda,” Juliana said, stirring tirelessly. “She shall have rouge
and
trifle. Her gown will be exquisite, her complexion flawless. I’ve summoned a hairdresser—”

“Just don’t make Amanda so beautiful she steals your own suitors.”

“That’s an ungenerous thought.” Juliana snatched the sugar loaf from her sister before she could add too much as usual; Corinna had a legendary sweet tooth and no concept of the proper amount of any ingredient. “I’ve no suitors worth safeguarding anyway,” she added with a sigh.

“You’re trying too hard,” Corinna said. “Just relax and enjoy all the attention.”

Relax? Juliana nearly burst out laughing. With the season drawing to a close, Griffin beginning to panic, the baby clothes’ due date looming, and Amanda’s future at stake, the last thing she could do was relax.

“There, it’s creamy.” Corinna banged the bowl onto the big wooden table and rubbed her arm. “Am I finished? Assuming I can still hold a brush, I’d like to varnish my painting.”

“Varnish away,” Juliana said and watched her sister leave the kitchen.

Corinna seemed happy with her life, as though her paints and her solitude were all she required. Juliana was proud and pleased for her, but lately Corinna was so often immersed in her work. And Griffin was the same—between running the estate and ferreting out eligible bachelors, he hadn’t a moment to spare.