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Having done her duty to her fellow women by raising the issue of the women’s ward, Grace could enjoy the rest of the soirée. To her surprise, the evening was turning out to be decidedly pleasant, thanks to the unexpected support of Richard Ormsby and Gideon Alexander.
Due to the large number of guests and the informality of the occasion, there were a dozen small supper tables, which meant she could feast with a group of like-minded souls. Grace certainly couldn’t fault the food. Ormsby had spared no expense. The lavish spread could have fed the poor of Dunedin for a week, if their stomachs could cope with the richness of the offering.
Mrs Ormsby flitted between tables, dropping a smile here and a compliment there, ensuring that all her husband’s guests were enjoying themselves. Edgar Ormsby sat with a coterie of senior physicians and surgeons, although he ate little and spoke even less. Every now and then, Ormsby glared across the room at the table of women fundraisers and their husbands, where Grace sat.
“Doctor Ormsby has been glaring at me all through supper,” Mrs Beechworth said, as the men rose to take their port and cigars. “I must go and apologise for accosting him earlier this evening.”
“He should apologise to you, my dear,” her husband replied. “There was no call for him to have snapped at you so rudely.”
“No, the fault was mine,” Mrs Beechworth said. “I should not have criticized Ormsby at his own party, especially as I could see he wasn’t feeling well. I need to learn the art of being subtle, like Grace, who achieved the objective without causing a hint of offense. In fact, I heard that several of the Hospital Trustees are now counting themselves proud supporters of the women’s ward, as if it was their idea all along.”
“Subtlety is hardly my forte,” Grace admitted. “Fate intervened on my behalf, with the gift of Mr McKinley’s granddaughter and great-grandson. If you wish to apologise, I’ve just seen Doctor Ormsby go out alone onto the terrace. It looks freezing out there. Shall I get our cloaks, Mrs Beechworth, so you can make your apology without your teeth chattering?”
“Thank you, Grace.” Mrs Beechworth turned to her husband. “No need for you to come, my dear. I know you want to talk to your medical colleagues over a decent port. Doctor Ormsby is hardly likely to take advantage of me on the terrace.” She swept towards the French doors without waiting for a reply from her husband.
When Grace returned with their cloaks, the tension on the terrace already hung like icy fog around Mrs Beechworth and Doctor Ormsby.
Mrs Beechworth was not letting her rival get a word in. “No, sir, I will not listen to your justifications. I assure you, Doctor Ormsby, that I will not allow anyone to stand in the way of our new women’s ward.”
Ormsby responded to Mrs Beechworth’s tenuous grasp on civility with raised hackles and spurious politeness. “In that case, I will accept your apology for your earlier discourtesy, Mrs Beechworth, and ask you to return to your husband, for I am in no mood to respond to threats.”
Mrs Beechworth swept past, grabbing her cloak and gesturing for Grace to follow. The French doors slammed shut on Grace’s indecision, leaving her standing out in the freezing chill of a late autumn night with a man who loathed her.
Grace would not have hesitated to return to the warmth of the salon, had it not been for the hunch of Ormsby’s back and the pallor of his face. “Doctor Ormsby, if you will forgive my impertinence, you do not look at all well. May I send for assistance?”
“I do not wish to be prodded by a physician, only to be told what I know myself. I have merely eaten something that disagreed with me.” Ormsby waved a hand towards a garden path. “Walk with me, Miss Penrose. Fresh air and activity will benefit my ailing digestive system.”
Grace glanced around, seeking rescue at best or chaperonage at least. The only other person outside was Henry Ormsby, who was skulking in the shadows at the opposite end of the terrace, smoking a cigar. Henry turned his back on her, leaving Grace with no choice but to refuse to accompany his father. “Doctor Ormsby, I do not think it is appropriate–”
“Really, Miss Penrose, your reputation for charging resolutely where other ladies fear to tread is well known. You have no need to be missish about a simple stroll with a gentleman old enough to be your father.” Ormsby hooked his arm through hers. “Come, you need not fear either my disapprobation or my morals. I wish to talk with you.”
Concern for the women’s ward won out over deep-seated reluctance. Grace allowed Doctor Ormsby to guide her along the path, which wound through an immaculate garden to the wide stretch of trees rising up the hillside beyond. Truly, it was a lovely night – sharp with the promise of frost and fresh with the scent of autumn leaves, their gold turned to silver by the pale wash of the full moon.
Her eyes adjusted quickly, until the path through the trees became as clear as a grainy photograph. Beside her, Ormsby gripped her arm tightly for support, as his feet struggled to maintain a straight line. He was either more unwell than he had admitted or more inebriated than he sounded. Rasps of laboured breath punctuated the silence, leaving white puffs in the night.
Before Grace could muster the courage to insist Ormsby return to the house, he stopped of his own accord, turning to face the otherworldly panorama. The path had taken them to a clearing, where the ground dropped away steeply, leaving them above the treeline and the rows of houses. In the distance, beyond the city, the harbour glittered in the moonlight, ringed by the dark hills of Otago Peninsula.
Ormsby scarcely noticed the stunning view. Although his body hunched in discomfit, his voice was tight but determined. “I truly believed the new operating theatre was the best option, Miss Penrose. Horncastle convinced me that the funds for running the hospital have all but dried up due to the collapse of wool prices. Government revenues are down, income from land holdings is evaporating. New Zealand is on her knees. The hospital must fund services by taking patients able to pay, if we cannot find enough wealthy donors.”
“And what of those who cannot pay?” Grace inquired.
“Horncastle has worked it all out. The paying patients will subsidise the impoverished. Without them, the hospital cannot continue to pay for the staff and equipment we have, much less the necessary improvements we all desire.”
Grace drew cool, fresh air into her lungs. Ormsby was not the pompous fool she had taken him for. Had the women’s lobby driven him into a corner with their demands, not seeing the deeper funding concerns wrought by a decade of depression? “You make a fair point, Doctor Ormsby. And yet, women are dying unnecessarily in substandard, draughty wards.”
“So my wife has informed me, in no uncertain terms. And Mrs Beechworth has added her own rather strident form of protest. I do not like to be lectured, especially when I find myself between a rock and a ravine. To own the truth, I have already told Horncastle I plan to withdraw my support for the new operating theatre.”
Which no doubt explained Horncastle’s rudeness to Ormsby when he arrived at the soirée. “May I ask why Mr Horncastle is so set on the operating theatre? Is it only the money it will bring in?”
Ormsby’s face contorted, leaving Grace uncertain as to whether he was annoyed at her question or suffering a spasm of stomach pain. He recovered quickly, but reached out to a nearby tree for support. “I hope I can rely on your discretion, Miss Penrose, if I suggest that Horncastle may be looking to his legacy. His term as Chairman of the Hospital Trustees ends soon and I suspect he would rather have his tenure commemorated on a plaque above a surgical facility rather than on a ward for ladies’ ailments.”
Grace wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Could the failure to proceed with a desperately needed facility for the women of Dunedin really come down to one man’s vanity? Perhaps this was why Richard Ormsby had dropped the hint earlier about the need for negotiation.
She considered her words carefully. “Doctor Ormsby, I appreciate your candour. I wonder if a compromise would be possible? A slightly smaller women’s ward would free up space for a new surgical consulting room. The latter might be designated the Horncastle Surgical Suite perhaps, with a new operating theatre next on the agenda. If the suggested compromise was made by the women of the fundraising committee, it might be seen as a win by the Hospital Trustees.”
Doctor Ormsby surprised her by letting loose a throaty chuckle. “You remind me of my wife, Miss Penrose. A strong, competent woman, who uses her strength in the service of compassion. Best decision I ever made, marrying her, despite the naysayers. I ought to have supported your entry to medical school too, and for that I apologise. You have proved yourself worthy of the honour, perhaps because you have had to fight so hard for it. I wish my son Henry had half your spirit.”
Ormsby paused to wipe beads of sweat from his brow, despite the cold. “My son, Richard, also troubles me. He shows no inclination for the wealthy young society ladies I have encouraged him to meet, yet it is past time for him to settle down and produce a worthy heir. I have belatedly come to realise Richard is much more like myself that I had realised. If he married a strong woman, it would be the making of him.” Ormsby cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, I could not fail to notice his animation when speaking with you earlier, Miss Penrose.”
Grace breathed out a long stream of white mist. “Your elder son impressed me greatly as an intelligent and charming young man, Doctor Ormsby, but you should know that I am not in a position to consider any attachment at present.”
Ormsby was silent, leaving Grace to wonder if she was expected to justify herself. His groan cut through her thoughts. He doubled over, clutching his chest and stomach. This man was seriously ill. What had he been thinking, dragging her into the woods for a walk? She had to get him home now, before his condition deteriorated further.
Suddenly, his arm jerked upwards, connecting painfully with her breast. Instinctively, Grace’s arm shot out to protect herself, as his arms flailed around her. Ormsby lurched forward at the same moment, her hand catching him across the cheek.
In the still, silent night air, the unintended slap echoed along the path like the retort from a small pistol. Ormsby lurched towards the steep drop, leaving Grace with no choice but to yank him back towards the safety of the path. They both stumbled backwards.
Ormsby fell to the ground, writhing and jerking amidst the mush of autumn leaves, catching his thrashing limbs on tree roots. Grace fell to her knees beside him, trying to protect him from hurting himself.
When the fit stopped – it must have been mere seconds, although it felt like minutes – Ormsby went rigidly still. Grace slid her hand under his cravat, loosening his tight collar. His pulse was fast and irregular.
A voice cracked through the night. “Oy!”
Henry Ormsby rushed forward, until he was standing over Grace with his fists bunched. “Leave my father alone!”
“For heaven’s sake, Henry, don’t just stand there. Your father was having a fit. Get medical assistance, as fast as you can.” Grace felt his father’s forehead for signs of fever and slipped a hand around the back of his head, checking for any injury. She stripped off her cloak and placed it under Ormsby’s head. Henry still hadn’t moved. “Give me your coat to keep him warm. Go! Send a stretcher party.”
Henry stared at her for another precious second, as if he was about to protest. Then he yanked his coat off, draped it over his father’s body, and ran back down the path.
Abruptly, Doctor Ormsby’s limbs lost their rigidity. Although the fit had passed, the lack of focus in his gaze told her he was too befuddled to recognise her. He shook his head and mumbled something, but was too confused to make any sense. Before she could utter reassuring words, his body spasmed. His hands flew to the left side of his chest, while his lungs gasped for breath. When the dreadful spasm finally ended, Ormsby lay deathly still.
Grace felt for a pulse with trembling fingers, praying that help would arrive soon, but knowing in her heart that it was too late. Nevertheless, she began chest compressions. There was always hope. She pumped his chest, ignoring the frosty chill that seeped through her gown, numbing her knees, not stopping even when she heard a flurry of footsteps running up the path at long last.
“Penrose, what the devil are you doing to my father?”
“Out of the way, Henry, she is trying to save his life.” Doctor Beechworth dropped to his knees beside Grace, taking over the compressions. “Doctor Alexander, please take Miss Penrose, Henry and my wife back to the house. Get them warm. Tell the stretcher bearers to make haste.”
Alexander didn’t waste time arguing. As Grace was dragged away, she heard the terrible wheezing thump of ribs compressing – the only sound that penetrated the still air, apart from the crunch of gravel under their feet and the quiet sobs of Mrs Beechworth.
Henry, who had looked upon his father’s lifeless body, showed no apparent emotion. Shock, Grace assumed. When he caught her looking at him, Henry glared at her and dashed ahead, towards the house. Four men raced past in the opposite direction with a stretcher.
As Grace reached the steps up to the house, she heard Henry shouting, “My father’s dead. She killed him.”
Doctor Alexander used his body to shield Grace, as he bustled her and Mrs Beechworth past the rows of horrified faces lining the windows. Inside, Mrs Ormsby screamed and collapsed into Richard’s arms. Cecilia took one look at her younger brother’s expression and fainted.
The solitude of the library was a blessed relief, especially as a roaring fire burned amidst the fug of cigar smoke. As feeling returned to her chilled limbs, Grace realised she was shivering. Somebody tucked a blanket around her shoulders, another person put a tumbler of brandy into her trembling hand, a third comforted Mrs Beechworth, who was huddled on a sofa.
Grateful as she was for their care, all Grace wanted was for her beloved Charlie Pyke to appear miraculously in the doorway and tell her he had everything under control. But Charlie was hundreds of miles away. The thought of him reminded her of her duty. Doctor Alexander had left, leaving Horncastle guarding the door of the library, a task he clearly didn’t relish. If he was expecting denials, tears or fainting, he was going to be disappointed.
Grace stood up and threw off the blanket. “Mr Horncastle, has somebody sent for the police?”
“The police? Why?”
“The police surgeon is required to attend any unexpected death to establish the cause.”
“But surely the poor chap had a heart attack?” Horncastle said. “Dashed young to die, but Ormsby did have a weak heart. Young Henry was overwrought to make such an accusation against you, Miss Penrose. There is no need for you to be hysterical.”
Grace bit back her frustration. “It was by no means a typical heart failure, sir. The police must be summoned.”
“Well, I suppose so, but I will have to get Mrs Ormsby’s permission for such an unwarranted intrusion at this tragic time.” Horncastle wavered for a moment, then left, closing the door behind him.
Grace would have liked nothing better than to curl up in an armchair in front of the fire, but she had a duty to do. As occasional assistant to the police surgeon, she must ensure that correct procedure was followed. She went after Horncastle, who had halted at the sight of Mrs Ormsby’s anguish. The stretcher-bearers kept their eyes lowered, as they carried Ormsby’s lifeless body through to another room. Doctor Beechworth looked up and caught Grace’s eye, giving his head a slight shake.
Horncastle moved to Richard Ormsby’s side. “Richard, old chap. My deepest condolences.”
“The condolences can wait, Horncastle,” Richard snapped. “Do me a favour and alert the police. Pugh, our butler, will show you where the telephone is. And get that Penrose woman out of our house. Henry told me she hit Father and knocked him to the ground. How could she be so stupid as to strike a sick man with a weak heart?”
Grace shrank back, out of their line of sight. Her eyes drilled into the back of Beechworth’s skull, willing him to turn. When he did, she jerked her head in the direction of the library.
Doctor Beechworth joined Grace by the fire. “Ignore them, Miss Penrose.”
“Henry Ormsby is blaming me, but it is not my fault. I think it is best we leave at once, Doctor Beechworth. The police will need to question me, but Richard wants me out of the house right away.”
“Ivy will take you home, Miss Penrose. I will stay to give an account to the police.” Beechworth turned to leave, then thought better of it. “What happened out there?”
Grace edged closer to the warmth of the fire. “Ormsby had a grand mal seizure. His jerking arm caught me by surprise. When I put my hand up to fend him off, it connected with his face. That was the slap Henry must have overheard. I suppose Henry followed us, not trusting my motives.”
“Or his father’s. Henry seemed rather incoherent, but I heard him accuse you of strangling his father. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, but better the truth be known from the start.”
“Doctor Ormsby collapsed during his fit, Doctor Beechworth,” Grace said. “He was thrashing about on the ground, so I leaned over him to protect him from injury. As soon as the fit stopped, I checked his pulse. I had to loosen his collar to help him breathe, which might have appeared as if I was strangling him. It all happened so fast. He went rigid. I couldn’t find a pulse. I tried–”
Beechworth put a gentle hand on her arm. “You did everything you could, Miss Penrose. I know Ormsby had a weak heart. A terrible tragedy, but nobody is to blame. Especially not you, who did everything you could to save him. If there is fault, it is mine. Ivy and I should have walked with you. I’m so very sorry. I know you didn’t want to accept the invitation to the party in the first place.”
“Do not blame yourself, sir. Ormsby insisted I join him for a walk. I thought the opportunity to talk about the women’s ward at the hospital was worth the risk to my reputation.”
“I understand,” Beechworth said. “Henry Ormsby is a spiteful brat. Don’t you worry about his bluster. I will stand by you.”
Grace didn’t bother pointing out that an accusation of murder could destroy a reputation in an instant, whether ill-founded or not. Even the impropriety of walking with a gentleman alone could destroy her career. Instead, she allowed herself to be escorted out a side entrance and bundled into the Beechworth carriage. Mrs Beechworth was already huddled in the corner of the carriage, pale and round-eyed in a shaft of moonlight.
After a tearful apology from Mrs Beechworth for abandoning her to Ormsby, brushed off by Grace, they travelled home in silence, each lost in her own thoughts. Grace’s mind swung between rational analysis of what more she might have done to save Doctor Ormsby’s life and irrational fear of what lay ahead. Expulsion from medical school? Arrest, if Henry stuck to his version of events? At best, a black mark that would be hard to erase, no matter what happened.