Chapter 22 - GEORGINA—THE WAITING

Chapter 22

GEORGINA—THE WAITING

Standing on the landing of the second floor of Anya House, I viewed a wonderland. From the soft blue walls to the long thick rug running the length of the corridor, the upper level, though as big as downstairs, was warmer, more intimate.

Nonetheless, I felt encamped in a hospital, something cold and dark. For three days we’d stayed here waiting for Lydia’s fever to break, for her pain to lessen.

Though the duke welcomed my sisters and me as guests, he’d changed. The jovial man was gone. This version was serious, conferring with the league of doctors who he charged with caring for Lydia.

I believe I even heard various languages talking about our girl like she’d died.

The last doctor, Mama’s last doctor, was in with her now. Mr. Carew was diligent. If Lydia had the constitution of our mother . . . the illness that tormented Mama, he’d surely know what to do.

Scarlett came up the steps carrying a cup of tea. “For you, sis.”

Didn’t want tea, just answers. I set it on the table in the corridor. Then I grabbed Scarlett and held her, held her like I’d do Lydia if she ran out the door, like I’d do Katherine if she moved from the child’s bedside.

“Georgina. We have to have faith. His Grace has brought an entire group of physicians to care for our little girl. She will be well.”

“I don’t know, Scarlett. You didn’t see the duke. He’s furious. It’s like he’s blaming himself for Lydia being ill. Then he blames Katherine for not noticing how sick she was. They are both so furious and yet so scared.”

She rubbed my back, hitting the tension that led to my neck. “We know how hard Kitty is on herself. But the duke, it’s like he’s fighting for Lydia, like he thinks—”

“That she might die like his sister.”

Scarlett nodded. “I hear bits and pieces, but Anya Charles, the duke’s little sister, died about Lydia’s age. And it sounds like she had these pains and fevers just like Lydia.”

My hand flew to my mouth and covered my lips.

My sister nodded again. “He’s fighting for Anya, what he would’ve done if he had secured his title and money without delay. The poor man thinks he could’ve saved her.”

Scarlett was the smartest person in any room. “Tell me what you believe.”

“The symptoms, the fever spells and pains—Lydia has what Mama had and probably Anya.”

“The mysterious illness that keeps coming back until they die.”

“And Mr. Carew believes this too.” Her voice became low. “There’s no cure-all.”

I looked at Scarlett, meshing the images of Mama suffering and the memories of the evil sickness that made a vibrant woman stay in bed for weeks and months at a time. The thing laudanum and Papa’s prayers could barely fight. The lost hope that made some wish for a gentle passing as much as healing. “Mama at least had a whole life. Lydia’s is just beginning.”

Scarlett’s thumbs were on my cheeks, swiping at my tears. “Drink the tea. She’s getting the best care. We must—”

The door to Lydia’s bedchamber opened. Mr. Carew came out with the duke. “Torrance, I have seen reduced symptoms with a careful phlebotomy. It reduces viscosity. There is a belief that too much blood is the cause of the pain.”

“She’s so small.” The duke shook his head. “Maybe more ice cold towels to swaddle the child to address the fever.”

“Torrance, it might help. I’m not sure.”

“Willow.” Scarlett’s voice had a high pitch. She was either on to something or was about to cry. “Willow bark tea might help the fever, Your Grace, Mr. Carew.”

“Ah, the scientific little Miss Wilcox.” The physician’s brownish-black eyes lifted behind his spectacles. “You’ve been reading. That’s dangerous for a woman, especially a young lady fresh out of leading strings.”

She glared at him like the tiger I knew Scarlett to be. “Mr. Edward Stone did research on willow. In his papers, he noted the bark helped reduce fevers. Willow is similar to Peruvian bark, which helped in cases of malaria.”

The duke nodded. “Let’s try the young woman of science’s suggestion before anything. Carew, you’re an advocate of blood letting, your phlebotomy, but I want the pain and fever gone first.”

“Phlebotomy, Your Grace,” Scarlett said, “will reduce the amount of blood in the body. That can change the viscosity and allow the blood to flow better.”

Mr. Carew’s lips had been pursed like he was about to be dismissive, but as soon as Scarlett mentioned viscosity his eyes grew big. “Yes, lower the viscosity. That may break the fever permanently. It should reduce her pain.”

The duke glanced at my beaming sister. “What would you do? I trust your advice.”

“Torrance. She’s a woman who’s read papers. Some very good papers. I know Scarlett Wilcox is extremely smart, but I’ve cared for little Lydia since she was born and Mrs. Wilcox before that. I’m a physician of twelve—”

“I agree with Mr. Carew’s assessment,” Scarlett said. “But it should be a small letting. And let’s first try willow bark tea to give her a bit more strength to endure the procedure better.”

The duke took Scarlett’s hand and kissed it. “Do it, Carew, as the young woman of science has prescribed. Miss Georgina, Miss Scarlett, keep Lady Hampton calm as the physician does what’s necessary. She’s fought everyone whose opinion differed from Anglican prayers, cold towels, laudanum, and her waiting approach. We need to try something different.”

“That’s all we’ve had, Your Grace.” I looked at him half in defense of Katherine and in defense of our situation. “We haven’t been able to afford much else, and our pride has kept us from bothering Mr. Carew.”

The physician turned his frown upon me. “Never think of compensation when a life is in the balance. Too many suffer. Too many of us suffer because medicine and physicians are the luxury of the wealthy. That needs to change. I need to change it. Good health is a human’s right.”

My sister bowed, then came and took my hand. “Thank you both for listening,” she said. “And I agree, Mr. Carew. That’s why I read scientific papers. Someone has to advocate for women.”

Carew’s handsome face eased. He tugged on his waistcoat, a lovely, patterned thing of black and scarlet threads. “That’s why the Wilcoxes are my favorites. You know how to kick a mule gently.”

I agreed but needed to give these men a harder kick. “You both know what this is? Mr. Carew, you’ve always known. Tell us.”

The man from Trinidad with the pleasant accent nodded. “It’s an ancient illness. I’ve seen studies that it affected the Africans under their warm sun. The folktales say that a mutation by the gods to make Black bodies less susceptible to malaria now brings this blood disease to Black bodies no longer on the continent.”

Standing in this grand hall of this grand house, we all knew none of us had a choice of why our ancestors left. The papers mocked trafficking and enslavement. This illness was another punishment upon our flesh.

“My grandfather, Gannibal, made the best use of his forced transport, befriending Tzar Peter.” The duke swallowed hard. “Paths, like time, can be so different. And the thing about the gods, they can be fickle.”

“Yes, Torrance. I suppose some sacrifice wasn’t enough, and now this sickness can affect anyone.” Mr. Carew clapped his hands. “We have a plan. Let’s get to it. There’s willow bark with the kitchen spices?”

“Of course. As well as ginger for you, Miss Georgina, if you feel like a distraction.”

As the physician went down the stairs, music filtered up.

“Or you have other distractions.” The duke hummed a few notes of the marching tune. “Sebastian has returned?”

“No, Your Grace,” I said. “He never left.”

The duke nodded. “Good man, Sebastian, but I suppose the new portrait in the music room has kept him entertained.”

New portrait? I hadn’t noticed, but I’d barely left this spot outside Lydia’s door.

“Ladies, help Mr. Carew do his best. If Lady Hampton needs to be carried out, I’ll handle that myself.”

He stopped mid-step, halfway down, and turned back to us. “Well, she might be a bit of a tiger. I’ll get Sebastian and Steele. The three of us can drag her out so Carew can work.”

Shirtsleeves rolled up, waistcoat open, the duke, who looked like he’d already been wrestling in the streets, went down the rest of the stairs. His humor had returned, but he was still spoiling for a fight.

Scarlett opened the bedroom door and I saw a sight I hated—Katherine sitting next to a sickbed, holding a deathly ill person’s hand.