“We can’t avoid it any longer.”
The fire in the hearth raged valiantly against the icy night as the six occupants turned their eyes to Horace. He leaned forward in his bedraggled armchair—a strange contrast to the extravagant cut-crystal bowls on the table beside him, gifted by some French royalty. The angled glass collected the orange flames and threw out glittering shards of light over the group.
“Numbers are rising. Harry, what are you seeing on your district calls?” Horace turned his silvery blue eyes to Harry, who lifted his head from his hands at the sound of his name.
“I saw twenty-two cases yesterday. Would have been twenty-four, but two were dead before I arrived.”
“Neighborhood?” Horace asked.
Harry rolled his eyes up in tired thought, as if reaching for yesterday’s information tasked him to his limit. “Southwark. Thereabouts.”
Daniel swore quietly but fervently. “We’ve had six doctors and students contract it at Bart’s. We’ve lost two already.”
Horace glanced at him briefly. “It’s getting closer.”
“Why haven’t any of us gotten ill?” Julia asked reluctantly, as if frightened to tempt fate.
Horace exhaled. “There’s no way to know, but it means wekeep doing what we have been. We take the same tea and broth regimen as our patients. No milk. No cold water. I want everyone to keep coal and incense burning in whatever rooms you occupy and drink a bit of wine daily.”
Harry threw back his head and finished his scotch with a violent grimace. “Or whatever liquor suits you,” he teased.
Mrs. Phipps sighed, unaware of the comical picture made by the zebra posed just above her, looking as if he wanted to nibble at her severely knotted hair. “There’s no more avoiding it. We might as well set up the ward for cholera.”
Daniel paced faster. He’d said the least of anyone. Nora tried not to make eye contact as she glanced at him. She didn’t want to provoke him further.
“It won’t bring money,” Horace pointed out. “Only the most wretched find a hospital better than home.”
“And there’s nothing to learn from them,” Harry added grimly. “We’ve all done dissections on cholera. We all know exactly what happens. We just don’t know why.”
“Or how to stop it,” Nora piped up.
“No money, no scientific benefits,” Horace recited.
“We can save them,” Julia said, her cheeks pinking. “Or some. Isn’t that enough reason?”
“Not for the grocer or the washwoman,” Mrs. Phipps grumbled. “They bill us no matter how many lives we save.”
“Daniel, can you stop that infernal pacing?” Harry interrupted. “You’re going to drive us all mad.”
Daniel jerked to a halt in front of the mantelpiece, glaring at the stuffed falcon. He pulled a crisp piece of stationery from his pocket. “A missive came from Aunt Wilcox just before wegathered in here. We have another problem.”
All heads jerked upward as the storm shook the roof. Daniel rolled his eyes. “I could have done without the theatrics of the thunder. Nevertheless…”
He unfolded the letter and read: “Mr. Muller, the renowned comparative linguist, has had to cancel his scientific lecture to be held on Sunday, November 4, due to family illness. He will no longer be able to travel to London. I have secured the vacated event for Nora to present her experiences with training midwives. She will be presenting to the Marylebone Literary and Scientific Institute at 8 p.m., the fourth.”
“That’s next week,” Mrs. Phipps blurted out.
Nora sucked in a small gasp. The Marylebone literary and scientific club was no small gathering of philanthropic women. Nor was it a fraternity of doctors or scientists. It was a collection of the richest, most influential people in London, who took at least a self-serving interest in science, art, and literature. Daniel read on.
“As you are aware, her audience will be exacting, with high expectations of propriety and expertise. There must be absolutely no embarrassment to me or our family.” His voice faded. “There’s more.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Phipps pronounced, which did little to ease Nora’s nerves.
“She includes a list of acceptable clothing, accessories, mannerisms…” Daniel’s voice trailed off glumly.
Nora squeezed her hands together. “I was expecting a ladies’ circle in a parlor. Certainly, a fine parlor, but not the new Marylebone lecture hall.” Nora hoped for someone to offerbracing encouragement, but Julia’s expression fell somewhere between dread and despair. Harry looked like he’d just watched her consume a beetle.
“Well, it seems we’ve already stepped into the bog. No trying to keep our feet clean now.” Horace leaned back in his chair with a small groan. “If we’re looking for funding, there’s no better spot than Marylebone.”
