But to begin with I was more than content with my position, except where Mrs. Bulstrode, my new landlady, was concerned. Everyone sincerely believed this worthy was an excellent cook, and it was with high hopes—and empty stomach, for I had not eaten properly for two days—that I presented myself at four sharp for what I believed was going to be a fine meal.
If the climate of England was difficult for a Venetian to become used to, then the food was impossible. If quantity were anything to judge by, then I would say that England is indeed the richest country on earth. Even the more modest sort habitually eat meat once a month at least, and the English boast that they have no need of sauces to cover up its stringy texture and unpleasant taste, as the French have to do. Simply roast it and eat it as God intended, they say, firmly believing that ingeniousness in cooking is sinful and that the Heavenly Host themselves tuck into roast beef and ale for their Sunday repast.
Unfortunately, there is frequently little else. Naturally, fresh fruit is often unavailable because of the climate, but the English do not even like preserved fruit, believing it causes the wind, which exhalations they consider a depletion of the body’s vital heat. Nor is there much in the way of green vegetables, for the same reason. Rather, they eat bread or, more frequently, drink their grain as ale, of which their consumption is truly stupendous; even the most delicate of ladies cheerfully downs a quart or two of strong beer during a meal, and infants learn insobriety in the cradle. The trouble for a foreigner like myself was that the beer was strong, and it was considered unmanly (and unwomanly) not to drink it. I mention all this to explain why the meal of boiled brawn and three-quarters of a gallon of beer left me feeling not at all well.
My success in attending my patient after the meal had finished was, therefore, of considerable merit. How exactly I managed to prepare my bag and walk to the miserable cottage, I do not recall. Fortunately, the girl was not there, as I had no desire to renew my acquaintanceship with her, but as far as her mother was concerned it was far from lucky; she was badly in need of care and attention, and the girl’s absence struck me as being hardly an example of the dutiful-ness which the old woman had mentioned.
She had slept—in fact she was still drowsy, her daughter having given her some peasant potion of her own devising which, nonetheless, seemed to have been very effective. But she was in considerable discomfort; pus and corrosive matter had suppurated through my binding and caked dry over the wound, giving off an evil smell which filled me with foreboding.
It was a long and distasteful business to remove the bandage, but it was eventually completed and I decided that I would try exposing the wound to the air, having heard the theory that tight warm binding in such cases might very well aid corruption rather than prevent it. Such a view does go against orthodox practice, I know, and the willingness to allow the vapors to swirl round might be considered rash. All I can say is that experiments conducted since by others have tended to support the technique. I was so absorbed in my task that I failed to hear the door creaking open, or the soft pad of feet as they came up behind me, so that when Sarah Blundy spoke, I jumped up with alarm.
“How is she?”
I turned round to look. Her voice was soft, and her manner more appropriate than before.
“She is not well at all,” I said frankly. “Can you not attend to her more?”
“I have to work,” she said. “Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. I asked someone to look in, but it seems they did not.”
I grunted, slightly ashamed of myself for not having thought of this as a reason.
“Will she recover?”
“It is too soon to say. I am drying out the wound, then I will rebind it. I fear she is developing a fever. It may pass, but I am concerned. You must check every half hour for signs of the fever getting worse. And, strange as it may seem, you must keep her warm.”
She nodded, as though she understood, although she could not.
“You see,” I said kindly, “in cases of a fever, one can either reinforce or oppose. Reinforcement brings the malady to a head and purges it, leaving the patient void of the cause. Opposition counters it, and seeks to restore the natural economy of the body. So, with a fever, one can either expose the patient to ice and cold water, or one can wrap her up well. I choose the latter because of her grave weakness—a more strenuous cure could well kill her before taking effect.”
She leaned over and protectively tucked her mother in, then, with a surprising gentleness, stroked the old woman’s hair into place.
“I’d been planning to do that anyhow,” she said.
“And now you’ll have my approval for it.”
“I am fortunate indeed,” she said. She glanced at me, saw the suspicious look in my eye, then smiled. “Forgive me, sir. I mean no insolence. My mother told me how well and generously you acted to her, and we are both deeply grateful for your kindness. I am truly sorry I misspoke. I was frightened for her, and upset about the way I was treated in the coffee house.”
I waved my hand, touched strangely by her submissive tone. “That is quite all right,” I said. “But who was that man?”
“I worked for him once,” she said, still not taking her eyes off her mother, “and was always dutiful and conscientious. I believe I deserved better from him.”
She looked up and smiled at me, a smile of such gentleness that I felt my heart begin to melt. “But it seems that we are spurned by our friends, and saved by strangers. So thank you again, sir.”
“You are more than welcome. As long as you do not expect miracles.”
For a moment we balanced on the brink of a greater intimacy, that strange girl and I; but the moment passed as swiftly as it presented itself. She hesitated before speaking, and it was instantly too late. Instead, we both made an effort to reestablish the correct relations and stood up.
“I will pray for one, even if I do not deserve it,” she said. “Will you come again?”
“Tomorrow, if I can. And if she worsens, come and find me at Mr. Boyle’s. I will be attending him. Now, about payment,” I continued, hurrying on.
I had decided, on my walk down to the cottage that, as there was not the slightest chance of being paid in any case, it would be best to accept the fact with grace. Rather than accept the inevitable, I should turn it into virtue. In other words, I had decided to waive any fee. It made me feel quite proud of myself, especially considering my own impecunious state but, as fortune had smiled on me, I thought it fair to spread my good luck a little further.
Alas, my speech died in my throat before even the end of the first sentence. She immediately looked at me, eyes blazing with contempt.
“Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?”
“Indeed,” I said, completely astonished by the speed and completeness of her transformation. “I think that…”
But I got no farther. The girl led me through to the damp and squalid little space at the back of the house which was, evidently, where she—or some other animal, I could not tell—slept. On the damp floor was a pallet, hard sacking stuffed with straw. There were no windows at all, and the little space smelled very distinctly of sour water.
With a gesture of the most brusque contempt, she immediately lay down on the bed, and pulled up her thin skirt.
“Come then, physician,” she jeered. “Take your payment.”