Ian Russell, licensed Surgeon, Royal College of Surgeons
Mr. Albert Denton, Apothecary-Surgeon
Below it appeared: Midwifery Services.
She pushed past those waiting, ignoring their angry looks and murmurs, and entered the brick building.
Immediately, she took a step back. The place reeked of sickness and poverty. The waiting room was packed with unwashed bodies—young, old, and every age in between. By their dress, they did not look like paying patients. The rumors must be true that Mr. Russell served one and all.
Every available wooden bench was occupied. Some huddled on the floor. The rest stood leaning against the walls.
Eleanor braced herself and ventured farther into the waiting room. She was surrounded by the lowest refuse of life, those that inhabited Southwark and other similar London neighborhoods. She saw them lurking at the fringes of the theater every night when she departed in her coach. Hard work and determination had enabled her to escape these surroundings, and she had no desire to ever live in such conditions again.
She took a few steps more and found a bit of wall space to lean against. Daring another peek around her, she saw that some of the sick had even brought a form of payment: a pigeon in a small wooden cage, a handkerchief wrapped around some bulky item—a half-dozen potatoes or turnips to give to the good surgeon in exchange for his services.
She heard moans of pain beside her and, looking down, she saw a man holding his wrist gingerly in his other hand. Beside him sat another with an exposed ulcerated leg propped up in front of him.
Eleanor brought her scented handkerchief to her nostrils, fearing the foul miasma that permeated the air. She couldn’t take the risk of exposing herself to some perilous humor and sicken.
All eyes were upon her—at least of those patients not too caught up in their pain. She read admiration and some envy in their glances. She was accustomed to that look and bestowed smiles on one and all alike before retreating behind an impersonal gaze above the crowd.
The closed door opposite her across the room suddenly opened and she recognized Mr. Beverly, the young apprentice. She waved her handkerchief at him. He saw her immediately and nodded in greeting, a wide grin splitting his face. She smiled graciously, relieved to see that he immediately made his way toward her.
“Mrs. Neville, what are you doing here? Has the young woman taken a turn for the worse?”
“No, though she is still very weak. But it is about Miss Simms that I am here. If I could speak with Mr. Russell for a few moments?” She gave him a look of gentle entreaty.
“Yes, of course, madam. Let me inform him that you are here.” He took an apologetic glance about the room. “As you can see, he’s quite busy today, but I know he’ll see you as soon as I let him know you are here.”
“I shan’t require much of his time.”
He was gone only a few moments before returning to beckon her through the door.
Mr. Russell was finishing bandaging up a patient’s arm.
“That should do it, Tom,” he told the burly young man. “Let’s hope you fall off no more ladders for a while, eh?”
“You’re right, there, Mr. Russell. I’ve got to watch me step from now on.”
“All right. Come by in a week and we’ll see how you’re mending.”
As soon as the man had left, Mr. Russell came toward her. The smile he had given the male patient disappeared and he was back to the frowning surgeon. Eleanor suppressed her vexation. All the trouble she’d taken with her appearance and she didn’t detect even a trace of admiration in those brown eyes.
He probably knew nothing of fashion. Look at him, in his vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Her physician would never so much as remove his frock coat when he came for a visit.
“Mrs. Neville, Jem tells me you’ve come about your friend.”
She cleared her features of anything but concern. “Yes, about Betsy Simms. I’m quite distraught. I haven’t been able to stop by to see her since early yesterday afternoon. She felt warm to my touch. I brought fresh linens and some broth, but I greatly fear her being alone there. I tried to talk to the landlady, but she didn’t care to involve herself in any way.”
“What about the boy’s mother? The one who lives upstairs.”
“I tried her, too, but she works all day. She promised to look in this evening.”
“She has no family?”
Eleanor shook her head sadly. “None that I know of. She is a singer at the theater where I work.” She wondered if the words meant anything to him, but saw no reaction in his eyes.
“When she missed a performance, I stopped by her room on my way home. I didn’t want her to be dismissed from the troupe. I found her doubled over, bleeding…well, you saw her condition.”
Again his eyes gave her no clue to his thoughts, though he listened intently. She scanned the rest of his face, noticing again the reddish tints of his hair. She wondered if he had the fiery temper to match.
“I see,” he replied, his tone softening. “You said she had taken some potions?”
“Yes, she told me she’d been to a local herbalist who’d given her a remedy to take, but to no avail. Then she’d bought something from a quack. It made her awfully sick, but still…” Her voice trailed off at the indelicate subject.
“No menses,” he finished for her.
“Just so,” she murmured, looking down at her hands, which still held her handkerchief.
“I’ll stop by to see her again today.”
“That would be most kind,” she said with a grateful smile. “Are you sure she cannot be moved?”
“It would be highly risky at this point. You cannot nurse her yourself?”
“No. I can look in on her every day and bring her fresh linens and refreshment, but I usually have rehearsals in the afternoon and performances in the evening. My evenings are late, so in consequence, my day begins later than most.”
He was weighing her words. Finally, he said, “It may be possible to find her a nurse through a Methodist mission I work with. There are many worthy women who give of their time there to help the poor and infirm.”
“If they could send someone, I’d gladly pay her. I meant to tell you as well to send your medical bills to me.”
He dismissed her offer with an impatient wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go to the mission and inquire about a nurse? They are usually shorthanded themselves, so I don’t promise anything.”
“Very well. Where is this mission?”
“In Whitechapel.”
“Whitechapel?” Her voice rose in dismay. That was worse than Southwark.
“Yes.”
“You want me to go there alone?”
“I beg your pardon. I go there so often myself, I forget it’s not the kind of neighborhood a lady would frequent.” His glance strayed to the outfit she’d given so much thought to that morning.
She wasn’t quite sure his tone conveyed a compliment. “I should think not.”
He considered a few seconds longer and finally answered, the words coming out slowly, as if he was reluctant to utter them. “If you’d like…I could accompany you there. Would late this afternoon be satisfactory? Your Miss Simms should really have some nursing help as soon as possible.”
She nodded. “I will be at the theater this evening, but I don’t have a rehearsal this afternoon.”
“I