"I REALLY MUST be on my way, Aunt Aurelia." James forced his lips to curve in a smile. "You're healthy as the day you were born."
"Are you certain?" A tad plump but elegant nonetheless, Aurelia reclined on her peach-draped bed. Her entire house was decorated in peach. In fact, sometimes when James was here—which seemed to be way too often lately—he fancied he was in a peach. "My heart was paining me so," she continued. "I tell you I could barely breathe. Won't you check it one more time with that ingenious new instrument of yours?"
"If you insist." Suppressing a sigh, he opened his black leather bag and drew out the ingenious instrument, which really wasn't ingenious at all. It was simply a foot-long cylinder of wood. One end had a hole to place against the ear, and the inside was hollowed out in the shape of a cone. The thing was so uningenious, in fact, that James was tempted to kick himself for not thinking of something like it years ago. Instead, just this past March, a young French physician named Laennec had invented the instrument and christened it the stethoscope, derived from the Greek words for "I see" and "the chest."
James leaned close and placed the wider end of the instrument over his aunt's heart. Her scent wafted to him, a unique combination of camphor and gardenias, the latter applied a little too liberally. On second thought, he silently thanked Laennec for his brilliance. Without the stethoscope, he'd have to press his ear to Aunt Aurelia's potent, pillowy chest.
Her heartbeat sounded strong through the tube, the thump-thump clear and distinct. "Regular as Grandmother's clock," he assured her.
"You're certain?" She shook her coiffed gray head disbelievingly. "And my lungs?"
"Sit up, if you will." Bracing a hand on the headboard, he applied the stethoscope to her corseted back. "Breathe in," he said as patiently as he could. "Out. In. Perfect. As I said, you're healthy as a newborn babe." He dropped the instrument back in his bag and fastened the clasp. "Now I really must leave, Auntie."
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, making his heart squeeze as well. Aunt Aurelia was a dear, even if she was a hypochondriac. 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 widows whose lives centered on their imaginary physical ailments.
"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 incessant chattering. "I'll see you again soon," he added, escaping to his carriage before Aurelia could ask him to clarify 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 the speech he planned to deliver in Parliament, recommending compulsory smallpox vaccinations for infants. So immersed was he in his work, his carriage drew up to the door of the Institute before he noticed all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.
Way down the street.
They might be London's poor, but they were good people, trying to do their best for their children. Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air, their expressions unhappy and resigned. 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 within a month.
Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James bounded from the carriage and dashed 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 the knees of those seated.
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 teary-eyed three-year-old.
Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a cooperative patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually proved a good distraction. "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."
"Ah, yes. " 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, sweetheart. 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 shall 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 awed to be in a peer's 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 breathed, lifting the little girl and holding her close. "If I could pay you, I would."
Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew her words came from the heart. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that had obviously been unnecessary in her case.
"Thank you," he returned, "for doing your part. We're not in need of your money. But please tell your friends and neighbors about New Hope Institute. With your help, we can annihilate this dreadful scourge once and for all."
James would be happy with no less. It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the globe. It was a daunting task, he knew, but he was determined to do his part in London.
Unfortunately, London wasn't particularly cooperative. The poor were sadly skeptical and uninformed, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, believing smallpox was sent to chasten the population. In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James paid men to canvass the poorer parishes 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. Once he ascertained that Dr. Hanley had a quantity of vaccine, sugar sticks, and other necessary supplies, he knocked on the door to the third room. "Miss Chumford?"
A prolonged sniffle was the only answer.
"Miss Chumford, may I come in?"
"It's your Institute," the young woman pointed out in a tiny voice.
Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then almost closed it at the sight of Miss Chumford's red, splotchy face.
There were few things James avoided more than a female's tears. Emotional tears, in any case. As a physician, he'd learned to endure tears caused by pain, but the other sort was another matter altogether.
With a sigh, he stepped into the room. "There's a queue outside, and if it grows any longer it's likely to reach all the way to Surrey."
"I'm sorry," she whimpered.
"Whatever could be amiss?"
Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she raised flooded eyes to meet his. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She said nothing.
He shifted uncomfortably, torn between heartrending sympathy and heart-hardening annoyance. 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 as quickly and efficiently as possible. A simple job, really, and necessary to the smooth operation of the facility. And she was the second assistant within a month to…
He looked back to her hands, which were rubbing her middle now. "You're with child, aren't you?" he suddenly realized, even though her belly looked flat.
After all, that was the reason his last assistant had left.
She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pathetic sniffle yet.
"And you're not wed, of course," he surmised less than brilliantly. After all, she was Miss Chumford.
This time she nodded and words tumbled out of 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. "To take responsibility for his offspring?"
She nodded again, still blubbering. "H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—"
"Wait here, Miss Chumford." He could take no more of her tears. There were plenty of things to be miserable about that couldn't be fixed. Fixing this would be a simple enough matter.
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 baby's father with a start, and should Harry be as good a man and hardworking as she claimed, he and his new wife and child would weather this disaster quite well.
After Miss Chumford left—tearfully blubbering her thanks—James sighed 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 experience was likely to be many hours spent interviewing candidates.
Well, at least his mother wouldn't be able to drag him to Almack's tonight.