A Flaw in the Blood

“O'course he did!”

“Not within my knowledge! And I have so few patients as it is—” She swallowed convulsively. “Only the desperate are willing to trust a woman doctor. And when I fail, I am judged far more severely than a man should be.”

“You judge yourself too harsh, surely?”

“Patrick—that girl was fourteen! She had her whole life before her.”

“And what a life it was! She was on the brink of death when you went to her—and not because of anything you did.”

“How dare you?” she flashed. “How dare you presume to suggest that Lizzie, being only a girl of the streets, is better off dead? Oh, God, when I see the mess men make of the world! —Pray make my excuses to Gibbon, Patrick.”

“Wait,” he ordered, as she grasped the doorknob. “I'll fetch a cab.”

He hastened into the scullery.

“Gibbon, Miss Armistead has been called out to a patient. The hour grows late, and I must ask you to ready the Dauntless.”

“The Dauntless,” the valet repeated. “Where bound, on such a miserable night?”

“Sheppey. We'll meet you at Paul's Wharf no later than half ten. Bring a carpetbag with everything I'll need for Shurland, there's a good lad.”

“You're never taking that lady to Shurland Hall, Mr. Fitz!” Gibbon burst out, shocked.

“I must. It's the very last place anyone will look. Eat the dinner yourself, like a good chap.”

“I wish I'd never followed you onto that roof,” Georgiana muttered as he settled her in the hansom a quarter-hour later. “If I'd spent more time with Lizzie— If I'd made certain the sutures were properly set—”

“You did your best, Georgie; the girl didn't die at your hands.”

“No. She died for lack of them.”

He could feel her seething beside him as the horse put its head down into the sleet, and turned toward Seven Dials.

“Tell me about the Prince's boy,” he commanded. “Must be full young; I've never seen so much as a picture of the lad.”

“Yes . . .” She marshaled her thoughts, recalled from some distant place. “He is perhaps eight years old—the youngest but one of the Royal children.”

“Very well. And the Consort consulted you because . . . ?”

“Uncle John was present at Leopold's birth.”

Memory dawned. “The famous anaesthesia! John did set the cat among the pigeons when he exposed the Queen to mortal risk, and all for the sake of a trifling bout of labour.”

“Yes. There were those who maintained that an eighth lying-in could never be so troublesome as to warrant the attendance of even a doctor, let alone such extraordinary measures as Prince Albert employed. Anaesthesia! When the monarch might die under its influence! The Consort—and Uncle John—should have been accused of murder, if Victoria had slipped away. But she did not: and was indeed so bewitched by the effects of chloroform that she demanded its use in her final accouchement—with Princess Beatrice.”

“And the Consort thought of you—?”

“Perhaps a year since. More—eighteen months, I should guess. He wished to know whether Prince Leopold would ever outgrow his present indisposition.”

“What's wrong with the child, then?”

“A frailty in the tissues of the skin, which causes them to fray and bleed, almost without ceasing. The poor little fellow is as delicate as a piece of china.”

Fitzgerald frowned. “That's right ghastly. Why have I never heard word of it?”

“The boy's condition is not generally known.”

“Then how were you expected to offer an opinion? You've not seen the lad?”

“Indeed I have. Prince Albert sent Leopold to Russell Square in the care of his governor, the day after I had his letter.” Georgiana glanced sideways at Fitzgerald in the darkness; her words were visible as chilled smoke. “Highly singular behaviour on the Consort's part, I admit. The boy has been in the care of a stable's worth of doctors from the time he was born. I must impute the Prince's decision to the degree of anxiety concerning the boy's health.”

“And what did you conclude?”

“Nothing very extraordinary. When I examined the child, his knees were swollen and discoloured from the blood that seeps into his joints. He cannot often walk without the aid of a cane—and the usual romping of an eight-year-old is entirely forbidden to him. The slightest bruise or fall may send him to bed for weeks. I gather that the pain at times is excruciating.”

Fitzgerald pulled his hat from his head and rubbed ineffectually at his temples. “But why did the Prince consult you, Georgie? You've no authority on such stuff, surely?”

She hesitated, unwilling to admit incompetence. “Because of Uncle John. The Prince was a great believer in science—and you know that Uncle regarded statistics, the data associated with all manner of disease, as the key to its explication. The Prince assumed that I am blessed with a similar genius.”

The hansom clattered over the paving stones of Tottenham Court Road, heading south. “And what did you tell His Royal Highness?”

“—That statistically speaking, such illnesses are quite often found among multiple members of families. There may be a record of the progression of disease through generations. I suggested the Consort might wish to consult the Royal genealogies, in order to apprehend the progression of Leopold's illness. I then informed him that Uncle John had taken certain notes—conducted private researches—after having witnessed the child's birth in '53 . . .”

That was Snow's habit. The man scribbled lectures to himself during the course of every day—essays on future endeavours, a lifetime of possible projects carefully collated in a series of notebooks. Until he ran out of time to live.

“Prince Albert asked to see Uncle's notes,” Georgie said.

“He's a braver man than I. John's fist was impossible to read.”

“I sent them by messenger to Buckingham Palace. They were not returned. A letter, excessive in its politeness, informed me that the Prince had thought it advisable the notes be burnt.”

“The rogue! Infernal cheek!”

“He then departed with the Queen for an extended visit to the Princess Royal in Berlin, and his brother in Coburg. You will recall the period—he had an unfortunate accident there, much publicised in the newspapers.”

September 1860, Fitzgerald remembered: an overturned carriage—the Royal Family abroad. “But, Georgie, love—to burn John's private notations? What right—”

“I have a copy of them, somewhere in the ruin of my library.”

Fitzgerald gave a bark of laughter. “So you expected the Prince to destroy the originals?”

“No. Over the past several years I undertook to set in order all of Uncle's writings, with a view to eventual publication—I thought it only proper, for the future of science. But there is a great number of notebooks still to be got through, I'm afraid. I have not had sufficient time—”

“Never mind that, now. What did himself observe at Prince Leo's birth?”

She clasped her gloved hands together. “He wrote about the chloroform first. The Queen's spirits and health are profoundly deranged by pregnancy, Patrick, and the Consort wished to spare her as much distress as possible— that was why Uncle was called in. April 7, 1853. A year before the Great Cholera Epidemic; five years before Uncle's death.”

“And the labour went well. But the child?”

“There were any number of doctors and personages in attendance—but Uncle John was the first to notice Leopold's peculiarity. When the umbilical cord was severed, it would not stop bleeding.”

“And that is unusual?”