And now they sat, hair still dripping, bundled in blankets for warmth in the chilly room. The black currant and willow incense almost overcame the pungent tang of lye.
“I still think the wisest thing to do is leave,” Mrs. Phipps insisted. “I warned you weeks ago, but only Julia did the sensible thing.”
Harry stared at his fists. “Perhaps. But if the disease spreads, I have no way of knowing what’s happening in Chelsea. If Julia gets sick, I won’t be there.”
Daniel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And it’s not safe for Nora or the baby.” He looked at her. “Just think of the poor child you found today.”
Mrs. Phipps nodded emphatically.
But Nora would rather not recall the pathetic, discolored corpse. “That child was already born. Perhaps my immunity passes to the womb.” She fervently wished that was true. “Sothere’s a chance Horace and I are the safest, wherever we are. I’ve had cholera. He’s treated it. Perhaps you and Harry should leave.”
Harry laughed, a sharp, cheerless burst. “Since when do doctors run from sickness? That’s like the fire brigades leaving town when there’s a fire.”
“Fire brigades have water. We’ve nothing to put out this blaze.” Horace dropped his blankets from his shoulders and wiped the back of his neck.
“Are you saying there’s nothing we can do?” Daniel demanded.
“Hardly,” he snapped back. “I’m only preparing you. We don’t have the tools we need.”
“But you’re better at treating these patients than anyone else.” Harry leaned toward Horace, elbows on knees.
“Precisely,” Nora agreed. “So we stay?” She steepled her fingers tightly to steady her nerves.
“Westay.” Horace gestured to the men. “You and Alice are free to go. This isn’t pox. We don’t know for certain you’re immune. And we certainly can’t assume the child is.”
“Harry just said doctors don’t leave. I’m a doctor.”
“And a mother-to-be,” Mrs. Phipps added.
She wanted to shout that Daniel was a father-to-be, but her throat tightened. He could risk himself without harming his child. She couldn’t.
“We will follow the same protocol as in ’32,” Horace said, sidestepping the argument and pointing his face toward the high windows glowering with the last light of day. “Brewed and fermented liquids in copious amounts. No bleeding. They’re losing too much volume already.”
“Dr. Stanley says losing so much bile makes a surplus of blood that throws the humors into imbalance,” Harry started. “If we don’t bleed them—”
“Stanley lost more than half his patients in the last epidemic.” Horace removed his spectacles and wiped a film of steam from the nearest burner from his lenses.
“And you?” Harry asked.
“Lost four in ten.” Horace sighed. “But when you treat one thousand patients over the course of a year, that’s a hundred lives saved.” His eyes flicked to Nora.
“Fair enough,” Harry conceded with a dull smile in her direction. “No bleeding. Only approved liquids. And food?”
“Only warm beef broth until the evacuations stop completely,” Horace instructed. “Be prepared for patients to lose significant weight within days. But we cannot replace it until the disease stops attacking their intestines.”
“Enemas?” Harry pressed on. “Powders? Purges?”
Horace scoffed. “They’re purged already. In the name of all that’s holy, don’t take anything else out of their bodies. Feel free to try headache powders, salts, plasters. Whatever gives them a bit of comfort. But don’t expect results.”
Nora scanned the hollow room, half-convinced she’d conjured all this in a dream. “How do we treat them if we don’t get close to them?”
Beside her, Daniel shifted and let out a breath of frustration at the wordwe.
Horace rolled the paper in his lap and brought it down on his leg to emphasize his points. “Wear a scented handkerchief around your nose on every call. You are not to touch soiledlinens or clothing at the risk of bringing it home on your own clothing. We will follow the same protocol here for liquids, but until someone is ill, we can eat simple fare—”
“Until?” Mrs. Phipps squeaked.
“Nora,” Daniel whispered beside her, the word heavy with supplication and warning.
