This Golden Land (60 page)

     They went upstairs to the women's ward where they discreetly collected specimens from the childbed fever patients. Returning to his office, Hannah demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for handling a microscope, placing each glass slide, adjusting the focus, moving the mirror until it caught the light. She examined each piece, and then stepped aside for Dr. Iverson to take a look.

     The streptococcus microbiote was evident in all samples of the infected patients, and absent in specimens taken from patients who did not have childbed fever.

     "Remarkable," he murmured. Then he straightened with a thoughtful frown. Saying nothing to Hannah, he selected a clean slide from the box, pricked his finger and allowed a small drop to fall onto the glass. Adjusting the eyepiece and reflective mirror, he examined his own sample and nodded, satisfied. "The microbiote is not evident in my own blood. I had to be certain. And so the question is, how did the microbe get into these people's blood streams? Was it breathed in from the air? If so, why aren't others infected? What made these particular people susceptible? Or if the germ is, as you say, Miss Conroy, transported—"

     He stopped, and Hannah guessed by the way he suddenly glanced at the door to the small sleeping room, he had remembered Dr. Soames.

     With a grave tone, Dr. Iverson said, "This will confirm it for us," and he selected a fresh slide and disappeared briefly into the room. When he emerged, saying something over his shoulder to Mrs. Soames, and returned to the microscope, Hannah felt her stomach tighten.

     She held her breath as Dr. Iverson placed the glass under the lens, made adjustments and then took a long silent look at his young colleague's blood.

     Dr. Iverson closed his eyes and straightened. "The streptococcus is evident."

     The moment stretched as neither spoke, and street sounds drifted in through the open window. From the women's floor above came the sound of a concertina. Visitors entertaining a bedridden loved one.

     Finally, the rigid-backed and dignified Sir Marcus released a ragged sigh and said, "And you say your father's iodine formula kills these microbiotes?"

     "On human hands and objects," Hannah replied, thinking of poor Mrs. Soames holding vigil at the bedside of a husband who, unbeknownst to her, had not long to live. "Unfortunately," she added as she watched a large, noisy family climb the stairs to the female ward, a big yellow dog following them, "the iodine only
prevents
the spread of the contagion. It is not a cure. And we still do not know the source. How did Nellie Turner become infected in the first place? Until we have the answer to that, I fear that fresh cases will continue to break out."

     "We will proceed one step at a time," Marcus Iverson said resolutely, rubbing his stubbled jaw. "I will see that basins of the iodine-water are placed at both entrances to the female ward, and will instruct physicians to periodically rinse their hands in the solution."

     But Hannah was thinking of the visitors and how to keep them from spreading the contagion. It would be impossible to tell every individual to wash his or her hands, especially if they visited more than one patient as many often did. Written signs would be of little help as most of these people were illiterate.

     And yet Dr. Iverson couldn't bar them from the hospital, for who would then take care of the patients?

     As Blanche's carriage neared the hospital, she felt the familiar symptoms—tight stomach, damp palms, dry mouth and racing pulse. At her side, her best friend Martha Barlow-Smith was unaware of the panic that had suddenly gripped Blanche.

     The two women rode through the afternoon sunshine as if on a casual Sunday outing instead of an errand of mercy and urgency. In the carriage ahead, Alice rode with her companion, Margaret Lawrence, and when they drew to a halt in front of the hospital, Alice and Margaret stepped to the wooden sidewalk, carrying hampers of food and clothing. But when Blanche's carriage pulled up, and Martha collected her things and stepped down to the street, Blanche could not move. She looked up at the double doors of the institution's entrance and froze in fear. Martha gave her a questioning look. This visit was Blanche's idea. As soon as she had received Hannah's note about the hospital attendants running off, she had known they must go to Hannah's aid. "Are you coming, dear?" Mrs. Barlow-Smith asked.

     "Yes, please go on ahead—" The breath stopped in Blanche's lungs.

     Staring at the formidable entrance of bluestone and tall wooden doors inlaid with lead-paned windows, Blanche thought: It's just a building. But horrific visions flashed in her mind, random, rapid-fire, non-cohesive. She had been seven years old at the time and had accompanied her mother to
a hospital in London on an errand of charity, bringing food and clothing to patients who had no one to take care of them. In the crowded lobby, young Blanche had somehow gotten separated from her mother, and had ended up wandering hallways searching for her, stumbling upon terrible sights of which her child's mind had no comprehension—emaciated bodies, too much blood, corpses—until her own screams had joined those of the afflicted. She remembered someone picking her up and then her mother's arms were around her. Blanche had tried through the years to wash the poison from her mind, but that day came back in full force now as she looked up at Marcus Iverson's precious hospital.

     
I cannot do this.

     And then, as she watched Alice and Margaret and Martha boldly mount the steps with their parcels for the needy, Blanche thought: I am never going to know what I am truly capable of doing until I overcome my fears.

     Stiffening her spine, she drew in a steadying breath and stepped down from the carriage. With great effort she followed the others up the steps, one at a time, praying for courage, praying that she would not faint. When she reached the top, and her friends went through the doors, Blanche became rooted to the spot and could not follow.

     Performing acts of charity was one of Blanche's most cherished tenets, a personal belief that had been inculcated in her at a young age. Her mother had been famous for her philanthropy and selfless generosity. And Blanche had always prided herself in carrying on that tradition. But she realized now, as she stood facing her greatest fear, that it was easy being charitable when it involved putting on dances and picnics and art shows. But had she ever truly been charitable? Because now she was faced with a test of true charity—going to those who were suffering inside this building and helping them in their time of need.

     Thinking of her mother, and thinking of her own dream to find her purpose in life—thinking also of Marcus Iverson who deserved an explanation of why she had never set foot inside the hospital he so loved—Blanche drew in another deep, bracing breath and, squaring her shoulders, reached out and placed her hand on the door.

     Hannah was about to collect her father's notes and the slides when she glanced into the lobby and saw a familiar face come through the hospital's front doors.

     "Alice!" she cried.

     Hannah ran to her friend and was further surprised to see Margaret Lawrence come through the door behind her. "What are you two doing here?"

     "We
four
," Alice corrected as Martha Barlow-Smith stepped through the double doors and behind her, to Hannah's shock, Blanche. "When we got your message canceling lunch," Alice said, "saying that you were alone with all these patients, Blanche and I knew we had to do something to help. Margaret and Martha insisted upon coming with us."

     Dr. Iverson emerged from his office at that moment and stared across the lobby at the four visitors. He recognized Alice and her companion, Margaret. Standing with them was Martha Barlow-Smith, a full-figured society matron whose corset stays always creaked beneath her bodice. And then he saw the fourth member of the group.

     Blanche seemed to be hanging back at the door as she glanced this way and that, her hand pressed to her bosom. Was she ill? Marcus strode across the lobby and as he drew near, saw that she was white-faced and breathing rapidly. "Mrs. Sinclair," he said, "Blanche, is something wrong?" He gave her companions a puzzled look.

     "They have come to help," Hannah explained.

     He scrutinized Blanche. "You do not look well," he said, taking her elbow. "Come into my office."

     Blanche could barely breathe. This hospital smelled the same as the one of years ago—the stench of smoke, chlorine, vomit. A patient was hobbling by on crutches, and another sat with his arm bound in a sling. The same visitors with the same food baskets were here. And from where she stood, Blanche could glimpse into the men's ward where she saw the same rows of beds occupied by the same broken, emaciated, ailing bodies.

     She started to swoon. When she felt a strong grip on her arm, she looked down at the hand that steadied her. Lifting her eyes, she saw a handsome
face etched with worry and genuine concern framed by black hair with silver at the temples.

     Marcus.

     She blinked. Blanche had never seen him in shirtsleeves. Gone was the impeccable frock coat, and his tie was undone. Shadow covered his jaw. It alarmed her, because it spoke of the gravity of the situation here in the hospital. But in the next instant she was reassured and comforted by the way he looked, for it meant he was giving singular attention to what must be done here, with no thought to himself.

     "I'm sorry," she whispered, pressing her hand to her forehead.

     "Come to my office," he said gently, then said to Hannah, "Please see to our visitors."

     Inside Iverson's office, Blanche struggled to pull herself together. When Marcus offered her brandy, she declined it, and when he suggested she sit down, Blanche remained standing and said, "Marcus, I am mortally terrified of hospitals! There. I have said it."

     "A lot of people are afraid of hospitals," he said in a reassuring tone. "It is nothing to be ashamed of."

     "But my fear runs deep. It cripples me."

     He waited, dark eyes filled with expectation and concern. But no disappointment, Blanche was relieved to see. No disapproval or silent recrimination. Remaining on her feet, struggling for strength and composure, she related the incident from her childhood, ending with, "That is why I could not organize your charity tour. I could not set foot inside your hospital once it was occupied by patients. I feel so cowardly."

     He stepped closer and said in a low voice, "And yet you are here now, aren't you?"

     "I am not being very brave about it."

     He smiled. "It isn't bravery if you aren't afraid."

     "Marcus, I should have been honest with you, but it sounded so foolish, and I didn't want you to think badly of me, what with your hospital being so important to you. I made such a mess of things. Marcus, I had no idea I offended you by declining to take on the charity tour. I didn't think that my being involved was so important."

     "It was. You have a gift for organizing things, and I knew I would have had a successful event with you chairing it." He placed his hands on her arms and a thrill went through her. Suddenly the office was warm and intimate, the hospital and its horrors miles away. "Blanche, I have acted the fool! I told myself that I was affronted by your refusal to help me and my hospital, but the plain truth is that I learned the next day you had agreed to help Clarence Beechworth raise public support for his railway and I was infuriated. It was old-fashioned male jealousy, plain and simple. I have treated you cruelly and abominably. I don't know how you can ever forgive me."

     "I should have told you the truth about my fear," she said, breathless at his nearness, the feel of his hands on her arms. Marcus stood a head taller, looking down at her with burning dark eyes, his black hair shining in the lamplight. Blanche thought she was going to swoon again, but this time for a different reason.

     "And I should have pursued the issue," he said with passion, "but pride kept me from asking you precisely why you would not organize my event." He lowered his voice, his hands tightening on her arms. "I have missed our friendship, my dear Blanche. I have missed
you.
"