Conscious of the powdery flour dusting her hands, Claire dipped a respectful curtsey. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Barnes.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Hotchkiss. If you would please direct me to your son?” He hefted his bag in his hands, as if its weight were unwieldy.
“Of course.” Claire scrubbed her hands on her apron, but the fine grit of the flour remained. She gave Anne a nod and led the doctor into the back room, where Matthew reclined against his pillow. His color had returned somewhat, though he heaved a longsuffering sigh as they entered, as though a visit from a doctor was more than a very young boy could be expected to bear.
“Good day, Matthew,” Dr. Barnes said cheerfully, depositing his bag on the floor near the foot of the boy’s cot. “I understand you’ve had a difficult day.”
Matthew made a noncommittal sound, narrowing his eyes. “Are you going to give me a tonic?” he inquired suspiciously.
Dr. Barnes chuckled as he took a seat at the edge of the cot. “Only if youdesperatelyrequire one,” he said with a wink, as if confiding a secret. “Now, can you tell me your symptoms? I mean to say, what happened that led to your mother summoning me?”
“I had an attack,” Matthew said. “I couldn’t stop coughing. My breath made funny sounds and it hurt and it was hard to breathe at all.”
Rifling around in his bag, Dr. Barnes withdrew a small case that contained a wooden tube. “That doesn’t sound pleasant at all,” he said, in the sort of comforting tone one might use with a frightened child. “I imagine it felt rather like someone was squeezing your chest? As if all the air had been forced out of you?”
Matthew nodded gravely. “I don’t like it at all,” he said.
“I daresay I don’t know anyone who would,” Dr. Barnes replied. “If you would take off your shirt, my boy, I’ll need to listen to your lungs with this.” He held out the tube. “It won’t hurt a bit. Would you like to see it?”
Gingerly, Matthew took the tube, examining it carefully and putting one end up to his eye to peer through it. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s called a stethoscope,” Dr. Barnes said. “I put one end to your chest, and the other to my ear, and it allows me to hear your lungs much clearer than I could otherwise.” He retrieved the tube and turned. “Would you like to see it, Mrs. Hotchkiss?”
Claire shook her head, though she’d never imagined such an implement. “Generally, doctors just put their ear to his chest,” she said.
“Yes,” said Dr. Barnes, “that is still the widely-used method. The stethoscope was invented by a colleague of mine in Paris—to preserve the modesty of his female patients, you understand.” He helped Matthew draw the linen shirt over the boy’s head. “Although its main use is to diagnose maladies of the heart, I find it works equally well to listen to the lungs.”
He pressed one end of the tube over Matthew’s chest. “Now,” he said, as he leaned forward to center the opposite end at his ear, “I need you to draw in a deep breath, my boy—as deep as you can. Hold it for three seconds, and let it out slowly.”
Matthew drew in a great breath that rattled in his chest, and his cheeks puffed out as the doctor counted off to three, and then released the breath. The slight raspy sigh just at the end made Claire’s heart wrench in her chest with concern.
“Hmm,” the doctor murmured after a few more breaths from Matthew, and then set the tube back in its case and replaced it in his bag. To Claire he said, “There is definitely a fragility of the lungs,” he said. “I’ve seen this sort of ailment before. I worry that additional attacks may damage your boy’s lungs further.”
The growing severity of the issue had worried Claire, too. The attacks were always terrifying, but the increasing frequency of them, and the longer periods of recovery—thatwas what frightened her.
“I’m going to prepare you a powder,” Dr. Barnes said. “It’s the best thing I know of to treat an attack, a blend of belladonna and strammonium. You burn it like incense, and let him breathe in the vapors.” He offered Claire a smile. “I’ve heard that black coffee can also prove efficacious for mild symptoms,” he said. “It tends to relieve the strain somewhat.”
“It will help?” Claire asked. “The incense?”
“At this point, it cannot hurt,” the doctor said. “Of course, there are no guarantees. However, I cannot help but think this environment unsuitable for a boy with his condition. Spitalfields is not renowned for its cleanliness, Mrs. Hotchkiss. What he needs is healthful air. I worry that the smog produced by the mills and manufactories will have a continuing adverse effect on your son’s health.”
“But—my sister lives here,” she said. “Her husband works at a textile mill. They keep my son for me. They can’t simplyleave.”
“Nevertheless, it is my recommendation,” Dr. Barnes said. “Perhaps you could situate him with another family, in a cleaner neighborhood.”
Claire felt as if the floor had pitched and rolled beneath her. Shecouldprobably find another family—but who would look after him the way his own family would? Would they understand his delicate health and follow the doctor’s instructions?
“That won’t be necessary,” Gabriel said, from his position near the door. “Matthew will stay with his mother—at my home.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What?”
It was not, Gabriel reflected, the most flattering of replies Claire could have made. The abject dismay in her voice was profoundly apparent, which he felt was rather a bit unnecessary, given the generous offer he had made.
“It’s a reasonable solution,” he said. “I assure you, my residence is large enough to accommodate a small boy. And it is far enough from Spitalfields and other industrial areas that the risk of unhealthy air is minimal—certainly better than could be found anywhere else within London.”
“But it’s not done.” Claire wrung her hands before her. “My lord, you must see reason. Your household is ill-equipped to handle a child’s presence.”
