On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for the speech he planned to deliver in Parliament, recommending compulsory smallpox vaccinations for infants. So immersed was he in his work, his carriage drew up to the door of the Institute before he noticed all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.
Way down the street.
They might be London's poor, but they were good people, trying to do their best for their children. Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air, their expressions unhappy and resigned. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.
For the second time within a month.
Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James bounded from the carriage and dashed through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers' laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into the knees of those seated.
Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help. No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.
His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her teary-eyed three-year-old.
Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a cooperative patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually proved a good distraction. "Where are the sugar sticks?" he asked.
Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet he'd used to inoculate the little girl. "I haven't a clue where…what is that new assistant's name?"
"Miss Chumford."
"Ah, yes. " He tied a fresh bandage around the girl's arm. "I haven't a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sugar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine."
"Where is Miss Chumford?"
"In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don't expect a sugar stick will help." Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. "There you go, sweetheart. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford."
"Dr. Trevor," James reminded him. He preferred not to be called Lord at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. "I shall send in the next patient," he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. "Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?" he asked her mother.
Clearly awed to be in a peer's presence, the woman answered shyly. "Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox."
"That's correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox."
"Thank you," she breathed, lifting the little girl and holding her close. "If I could pay you, I would."
Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew her words came from the heart. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that had obviously been unnecessary in her case.
"Thank you," he returned, "for doing your part. We're not in need of your money. But please tell your friends and neighbors about New Hope Institute. With your help, we can annihilate this dreadful scourge once and for all."
James would be happy with no less. It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the globe. It was a daunting task, he knew, but he was determined to do his part in London.
Unfortunately, London wasn't particularly cooperative. The poor were sadly skeptical and uninformed, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, believing smallpox was sent to chasten the population. In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James paid men to canvass the poorer parishes and talk people into bringing their children, which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.
He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms. Once he ascertained that Dr. Hanley had a quantity of vaccine, sugar sticks, and other necessary supplies, he knocked on the door to the third room. "Miss Chumford?"
A prolonged sniffle was the only answer.
"Miss Chumford, may I come in?"
"It's your Institute," the young woman pointed out in a tiny voice.
Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then almost closed it at the sight of Miss Chumford's red, splotchy face.
There were few things James avoided more than a female's tears. Emotional tears, in any case. As a physician, he'd learned to endure tears caused by pain, but the other sort was another matter altogether.
With a sigh, he stepped into the room. "There's a queue outside, and if it grows any longer it's likely to reach all the way to Surrey."
"I'm sorry," she whimpered.
"Whatever could be amiss?"
Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she raised flooded eyes to meet his. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She said nothing.
He shifted uncomfortably, torn between heartrending sympathy and heart-hardening annoyance. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He'd employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure
