Mary and Louisa stood among the desperate, watching loved ones struggle to survive. Charles was up to his neck in freezing water, clinging to a section of ice about thirty yards from them.
Louisa sobbed, “Charles, Charles.” She clutched her sister-in-law’s arm. “Mary, what can we do?”
Nearby, an exhausted iceman stumbled up the bank and fell to his knees. Someone untangled the rope that bound him to the man he’d saved. Then two others took the sodden, freezing pair away to the Humane Society’s tent to be warmed.
Mary rushed forward and seized the discarded coil. She raised its looped end over her head.
“Twenty pounds to anyone willing to rescue that man in the deerstalker cap.” She pointed to her struggling brother. “Andtwo pounds each to the first three men who’ll volunteer to pull them in.”
A burly man shrugged off his jacket, grabbed the other end of the rope, and tossed it to his friend. Mary handed him the looped coil; he slipped it over his head and shoulders. Another man broke from the crowd, spit into hands the size of boxing gloves, and grasped the line with his meaty fists.
* * *
Julia knew something was wrong the moment her cab turned into Sussex Terrace.
Crowds streamed across the Outer Circle roadway, heading toward the park. When her rattling hansom stopped at her aunt’s town house, Julia heard a muted din rumbling in the distance. Her aunt’s front door opened while she paid off the cabbie, and the butler and footman struggled down the steps holding the handles of a large wicker basket.
“What’s happening?”
“The ice in the park,” the butler said. “It was rotten and gave way. Hundreds of skaters fell into the lake. Lady Aldridge is sending blankets and warm clothing.”
Julia’s Aunt Caroline appeared in the doorway. “And there’s a call for doctors, my dear.”
Julia and her aunt’s servants rushed to the swamped relief station. The Humane Society had equipped it to treat the minor accidents that washed up on any given day. But that afternoon, the catastrophe surged like a tsunami, overwhelming its resources.
As Julia arrived, a soaked, shivering man pushed through the canvas flap and headed for the brazier. A burly laborer followed, backing through the opening, holding an unconscious skater under his armpits. His partner supported the victim’s legs. Julia pointed to an empty cot. “Strip off his coat and lay him on his stomach.”
A flame-haired woman of about thirty, visibly distraught, clutched the hand of a younger woman. “He’ll be all right, won’t he, Mary?”
“Of course he will.” The fair-haired girl caught Julia’s eye, looking less confident than she sounded.
“Perhaps if your companion took that seat,” Julia said, smiling reassuringly, and nodded at a chair. Then she leaned over the bearded skater. She judged him to be a fit man in his early thirties, and that was all to the good. Julia applied her stethoscope and listened. “His lungs are clear, and he’s breathing without difficulty.”
“Oh, thank God,” the older woman said with a shuddery sigh.
“And his color is good.” Julia straightened up. “Let’s make him more comfortable, shall we?” With the fair-haired girl’s help, she stripped off his sodden socks and tugged on dry ones from her aunt’s basket. Then Julia covered him with a blanket.
“May I have another?” The young woman nodded at the pile of blankets. “That shivering gentleman by the fire saved my brother.” Julia handed her a blanket, and the girl draped it over the man’s shoulders.
The older woman dragged her chair close to the cot. She raked tangled curls from the man’s brow and stroked his cheek, murmuring, “Charles. Dear, dear Charles.” The frost that clung to his fair beard and mustache had melted in the warm tent. She used her handkerchief to trace slow rings around his mouth and nose. Then she pushed it into her pocket and covered his hand with hers.
The girl touched Julia’s arm. “Thank you for your help, Miss . . .”
“Doctor Lewis. Julia Lewis.”
“I’m Mary Allingham, and that’s my sister-in-law, Louisa Allingham. Doctor, may we take my brother home? The menwho rescued Charles are waiting to carry him to our carriage. Unless you don’t think . . .”
Julia smiled. “Oh, I think he can spend the night in his bed. Best place for him.”
Louisa looked up. “His hands, his fingers. Doctor, is frostbite. . .”
“There’s no sign of it, Mrs. Allingham.”
“Thank heaven for that,” Mary said. “Charles writes articles for journals. He’s an art critic.”
“That’s one less worry,” Julia said. “Your brother’s ordeal exhausted him. Dry him off, build up the fire, and watch for respiratory distress. Are you comfortable looking after him?”
“Louisa trained as a nurse, hoping to serve in the Crimea,” Mary explained. “She’ll take care of him.”
