37

Dorothea

Am I overexerting myself? I can think of no other explanation for the poor health I have experienced. These past days have seen me harried and muddled in my thoughts. I begin to fear I am becoming nervous – a silly, girlish complaint that I never held truck with before.

Yet today, as I sat in the carriage with Tilda, I could not concentrate on the pleasant landscape sliding by or the trill of the birds. My gaze was turned inwards, and I did not care for what I saw.

I touched my hand to my breast, where Sir Thomas Biggleswade’s letter lay concealed. Do not think I have turned sentimental and wish to press it to my heart! But Tilda can be sharp, and I have found it best to hide secrets about my person, rather than risk her discovery.

Poor Sir Thomas. He really does write well, with a great deal more eloquence than I would expect from a man such as he. His attachment cannot have any solid foundation. We have met on all of two occasions! Yet he is not a man I would wish to slight. Part of me is tempted to confide in him about my David, the real reason I cannot accept his offer; somehow, I feel Sir Thomas would understand my situation. But of course that would be careless. I cannot risk word getting back to Papa. If David attains his position in London, I may be taking my leave, eloping within the next month!

Guilt worries me like a rotten tooth. I do so wish to be a good daughter, to please Papa. Any other girl would be grateful to her father for seeking out an eligible husband like Sir Thomas! It is not as if he has chosen an ogre for me. I almost wish that he had. The letter of rejection would flow effortlessly, then.

As we approached the iron fences of New Oakgate Prison, I was surprised to observe the scaffolding on the male wing had been removed. White, newly minted stone shone in the spring light. Porters ferried supplies across the lawns. The gates swung open without waiting for our carriage to stop.

‘This is more activity than I have seen for many days,’ I told Tilda. ‘What do you think has happened?’

Tilda looked up from her lopsided square of knitting. ‘I wouldn’t know, miss.’

It was as though a spell had been lifted. Even the air was less pungent, tinged with lime.

Could it be? Was the illness over?

In a flurry of anticipation, I flew to Matron’s office. She was at her desk, writing in the character books. She nodded and stood – somewhat unwillingly, I felt – to greet me.

‘Has the physician attended?’ I asked, my words tumbling over one another. ‘What does he say?’

‘He called yesterday, Miss Truelove. I was on the point of writing to tell you. Yet here you are. Again. So I may have the pleasure of speaking in person.’

I nodded eagerly.

‘It was scurvy, Miss Truelove.’

The breath left me in a rush. ‘Scurvy?’

‘Yes. You recall, naturally, that the prisoners’ diet suffered some alteration after the riot? The new provisions were insufficient in nutrients. Today we have distributed oranges and put in a plea with the committee to reintroduce a meat allowance. I trust all will be well from now on. It’s just a misfortune that poor Hill had to die, before it was resolved.’

I could have laughed for joy. Only the mention of Jenny Hill sobered me. ‘Scurvy! Of course, scurvy. Why did we not think of it before?’

Matron lowered her brows and appraised me curiously. I daresay I appeared quite beside myself, but I could not help it; the liquor of relief was so strong. In my avid fancy, I had thought …

Never mind.

‘It does explain why none of the staff fell prey to it,’ Matron agreed. ‘Although some of the prisoners were hardy enough to resist the disease, too. Your Butterham, for instance, remained in perfect health.’

The smile snapped off my face.

‘I expect you would like to see Butterham?’ Matron touched the keys at her waist.

‘No!’ The word flew from my lips, surprising me with its force. ‘Not presently. I merely called to learn of the physician’s findings. Thank heaven he has gifted us with such good news.’

‘I am not certain I would call scurvy good news, Miss Truelove, but at least we can cure it. It is better than a fever.’

And better than a curse.