Read Online Lady of the Butterflies by Fiona Mountain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona Mountain
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diseases would obey, I decided, still hoping.
Ned had been sweeping the stable yard and Bess had been fetching water from the pump, but as the physician dismounted a hush descended upon everyone. He was like a king riding into our cobbled yard, yet he didn’t seem in the least perturbed to find himself amidst manure and warm straw, still steaming with horse piss.
“I thank you for coming so quickly, sir,” I said shyly, as he gave a low bow.
He held up his hand to stem my words of gratitude. “Please take me to your father, child.”
I glanced at him as I led him up to the bedchamber, taking long and quick strides to keep abreast with him. Despite his eminence there was something about him that put me instantly at ease. “Have you treated many patients with ague before, sir? Forgive me for asking, but I wondered if Londoners suffered from it as much as we do in Tickenham.”
“I’ve seen enough cases of the disease to call myself something of a specialist,” he replied conversationally. “I am presently writing a classification of the fevers which I hope to publish next year. But your comment about marsh-dwellers being most at risk is very pertinent. I’ve observed for myself how particular dispositions of the atmosphere do cause a particular fever to predominate. And around marshland and stagnant rivers, for whatever reason, it is intermittent fever that prevails. An effervescence of the blood.”
“My mother died of ague. And my sister.”
“I am most sorry to hear that.”
I ushered him into the stiflingly hot chamber that was dimly lit with candles, all the drapes closed and a fire banked high in the hearth despite the hot day. As the physician approached my father’s bedside I made to leave.
“Please stay, Miss Goodricke. I shall need to ask you some questions.”
My father had stirred at the sound of a strange voice.
“Ah, remember me, do you, Goodricke, my good fellow?”
“Sydenham,” Papa murmured with surprise. “Cromwell’s Captain of Cavalry.”
I was in even greater awe of him than before and I took great heart from the fact that he was a staunch Parliamentarian, that he and my father had fought battles together before, and won.
“I’m a physician now, not a soldier,” Dr. Sydenham said. “I’d rather try to cure than kill.”
He began his examination by asking me for a full history of my father’s illness. He took out a small notebook and lead pencil in which he wrote down any physical signs and symptoms, paying great attention to everything I said, as if I were an esteemed colleague, not just a young girl.
I watched, impressed and inspired by his attention to detail and patient analysis. He must have seen hundreds of fevers before, and yet he approached my father’s case as if it were the first and most intriguing instance he had ever come across, as if he could learn more at this bedside than he could in books and were privileged to have been asked to attend. He took my father’s pulse and listened to his breathing.
I asked him if he wanted to examine my father’s water and he dismissed it as “piss-pot science for quacks,” which made me giggle for the first time in days.
“Ah, that is better.” He smiled. “See, Goodricke, I have wrought one important cure already. Your lovely daughter here had the most tragic, woebegone little face when I arrived, and such enormous wistful eyes as would break any man’s heart. Now she is smiling, and such a vivacious and dimpled smile at that, it gladdens me to see it.”
My father gave a weak smile before his eyes slid closed again.
The physician gently took hold of my elbow and drew me away from the bed to speak to me. “His humors are putrefied and need rebalancing,” he said confidentially, and I listened intently, feeling very proud to think he trusted me to carry out his instructions. “It must not be achieved by any interventionist methods. The most important thing to do is to do nothing to hinder the removal of
Ned had been sweeping the stable yard and Bess had been fetching water from the pump, but as the physician dismounted a hush descended upon everyone. He was like a king riding into our cobbled yard, yet he didn’t seem in the least perturbed to find himself amidst manure and warm straw, still steaming with horse piss.
“I thank you for coming so quickly, sir,” I said shyly, as he gave a low bow.
He held up his hand to stem my words of gratitude. “Please take me to your father, child.”
I glanced at him as I led him up to the bedchamber, taking long and quick strides to keep abreast with him. Despite his eminence there was something about him that put me instantly at ease. “Have you treated many patients with ague before, sir? Forgive me for asking, but I wondered if Londoners suffered from it as much as we do in Tickenham.”
“I’ve seen enough cases of the disease to call myself something of a specialist,” he replied conversationally. “I am presently writing a classification of the fevers which I hope to publish next year. But your comment about marsh-dwellers being most at risk is very pertinent. I’ve observed for myself how particular dispositions of the atmosphere do cause a particular fever to predominate. And around marshland and stagnant rivers, for whatever reason, it is intermittent fever that prevails. An effervescence of the blood.”
“My mother died of ague. And my sister.”
“I am most sorry to hear that.”
I ushered him into the stiflingly hot chamber that was dimly lit with candles, all the drapes closed and a fire banked high in the hearth despite the hot day. As the physician approached my father’s bedside I made to leave.
“Please stay, Miss Goodricke. I shall need to ask you some questions.”
My father had stirred at the sound of a strange voice.
“Ah, remember me, do you, Goodricke, my good fellow?”
“Sydenham,” Papa murmured with surprise. “Cromwell’s Captain of Cavalry.”
I was in even greater awe of him than before and I took great heart from the fact that he was a staunch Parliamentarian, that he and my father had fought battles together before, and won.
“I’m a physician now, not a soldier,” Dr. Sydenham said. “I’d rather try to cure than kill.”
He began his examination by asking me for a full history of my father’s illness. He took out a small notebook and lead pencil in which he wrote down any physical signs and symptoms, paying great attention to everything I said, as if I were an esteemed colleague, not just a young girl.
I watched, impressed and inspired by his attention to detail and patient analysis. He must have seen hundreds of fevers before, and yet he approached my father’s case as if it were the first and most intriguing instance he had ever come across, as if he could learn more at this bedside than he could in books and were privileged to have been asked to attend. He took my father’s pulse and listened to his breathing.
I asked him if he wanted to examine my father’s water and he dismissed it as “piss-pot science for quacks,” which made me giggle for the first time in days.
“Ah, that is better.” He smiled. “See, Goodricke, I have wrought one important cure already. Your lovely daughter here had the most tragic, woebegone little face when I arrived, and such enormous wistful eyes as would break any man’s heart. Now she is smiling, and such a vivacious and dimpled smile at that, it gladdens me to see it.”
My father gave a weak smile before his eyes slid closed again.
The physician gently took hold of my elbow and drew me away from the bed to speak to me. “His humors are putrefied and need rebalancing,” he said confidentially, and I listened intently, feeling very proud to think he trusted me to carry out his instructions. “It must not be achieved by any interventionist methods. The most important thing to do is to do nothing to hinder the removal of
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