Hope - Lesley Pearse [125]
*
Bennett Meadows was almost home to Harley Place on the Downs, when he saw a young girl sitting hunched up under a tree. He was just returning from St Peter’s Hospital, and his mind had been on the cholera victims he’d just attended and how many more deaths could be expected before the epidemic ended.
Over fifty people had died in the past week, not just in Lewins Mead either, but in the Butts and Bedminster, and there had even been two cases in the grand houses of Queen’s Square. As yet there were no reported cases of cholera here in Clifton but that was thought to be because of its elevated position well above the miasma of the dock area.
Panic was keeping people in their homes. Bennett had noticed that the streets were quiet; the only shops that had a steady stream of customers were those selling items people believed would protect them. He didn’t personally think that drinking copious amounts of brandy, burning herbs or soaking bedsheets in vinegar and hanging them over doors and windows could act as a defence. But then he supposed people had to put their trust in something.
The desolate way the young girl was sitting, her head on her knees, alarmed him. If she was sick he knew he must get her to the hospital before she spread the contagion around this area too.
‘Are you sick, miss?’ he called out as he got closer. He had become far more cautious since his first two cases in Lamb Lane. While it was not possible to avoid touching patients entirely, he kept it to a minimum and scrubbed his hands vigorously afterwards. ‘I am a doctor and I can get help for you if you are.’
Her head jerked up at his voice and to his utmost shock he saw it was Hope, the girl he’d been keeping an eye out for each time he went down into the town.
‘Hope?’ he asked incredulously. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
She had clearly been crying for some time. Her eyes were red and swollen and she stared at him blankly as if she’d never seen him before. ‘I’m Dr Meadows,’ he said. ‘I called to see your friends when they were sick.’
There was a spark of recognition. She hastily wiped her eyes on the hem of her dress, and even tried to smile. ‘I didn’t know you,’ she said in a tear-choked voice. ‘I didn’t see you clearly that night.’
‘No, I suppose you didn’t,’ he replied, remembering how dark it had been, and that she’d put the candle by the patients, not near him. ‘I was very sorry your friends died. I got there about ten that morning after you’d left. Thank you for the note. But tell me, what is wrong now? Are you sick?’
‘No.’ She shook her head furiously, then leapt to her feet, trying to smooth down her hair with one hand and wipe the remaining tears away with the other. ‘I was just upset because of something said to me. I’m very healthy. Do I look sick?’
Bennett moved closer. Her colour was good, her eyes were bright despite the tears, and she was remarkably clean, her dark hair positively gleaming. He was as struck by her beauty as he had been on their first meeting; in fact she looked even lovelier than he remembered.
‘No, you don’t look sick, only unhappy,’ he said. ‘Would you consider telling me about it?’
Hope looked at the tall young doctor staring intently at her and wondered how it was she had recalled so little about his appearance that night in Lamb Lane. She recognized him by his soft, deep and kindly voice, but she thought she should have noticed that his eyes were like rich brown velvet, or that his complexion was as clear and glowing as a child’s.
He was thin, with an angular, rather stern face, and his moustache looked as if it didn’t quite belong to him for it was dark, while his hair was fair. Not handsome exactly, but he had a good face, and as he had been caring