“Well, I’ve stopped by with my smallpox vaccination supplies.” He tapped his bag. “Are you up for a demonstration?”
“Definitely,” Dr. Carson said, still full of energy. I reminded myself he didn’t spend half the night spilling his innards into a washbasin. “How about you, Miss Charlotte? You did express a curiosity.”
In spite of my exhaustion I didn’t see how I could politely refuse. John’s timing was terrible, but I really was keen to see the demonstration and I doubted I’d get a second chance. “Count me in.”
Dr. Carson ushered us inside his small office and cleared a space on the desk for Reverend Crossman to work. John opened his bag and took out several small scalpels, glass plates, jars, and cloths, then set about demonstrating the latest vaccination technique.
“We make the serum from the sores that cows develop from a related disease, cowpox. Much safer than using a live pox like in the old days,” he explained, tapping the glass jars. “I won’t open these here; we’ll just pretend I put some on one of these glass plates. Then we use a scalpel to cut slits in the patient’s skin and insert a small amount of the cowpox virus.” He demonstrated his technique with a roll of cloth. “Here, try practising.” He handed us the fabric.
Dr. Carson went first, and then I took a turn.
“Don’t make the cuts too deep,” Reverend Crossman said. I felt an odd fluttering in my chest as he reached over and guided my hand. “We don’t want the wound to fester.”
I tried a few more times as he watched, then finally, he said, “You’re a natural.”
“Thank you,” I replied, handing the cloth back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really should be getting back to my sister.”
“Just wait a moment,” Dr. Carson said, rummaging through his bag. “I’ll walk you out.”
I turned to John. “Good day.”
“Good day, Miss Harding,” he said. “I hope we meet again soon.”
I felt myself flush furiously under his intense gaze. He was certainly charming, but I was not at all interested in idle flirtation. After my episode with George, I wanted a proper marriage to a very respectable gentleman. And I didn’t want word to spread that I had been working with Dr. Carson. I would try my best to avoid John Crossman in the future.
Dr. Carson gestured to the door and outside he handed me a small vial of laudanum. He must have pocketed it when I was saying goodbye to John. “For tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded, thankful for his discretion. “See you then.”
Chapter Sixteen
Life on board the ship began to take on a sort of rhythm. The weather had calmed, and it was a relief to me that no one else in first class saw me working with Dr. Carson. I only saw Reverend Crossman at dinner or from a distance around the decks, but he hadn’t said anything, as far as I could tell. My secret was safe, and I hoped it would stay that way.
Hari spent a good deal of her time in her room, exhausted and irritable as she slowly purged the drug from her system. But I was beginning to see an improvement in her health; her cheeks had a warmer colour to them, and the dark circles under her eyes had all but disappeared.
When she was feeling well, her time centred as much as possible on Lady Persephone, which meant long lingering lunches, slow promenades along the first-class deck, and, sometimes on particularly good days, cards in the tearoom in the afternoons. She still took most of her dinners in our cabin as evenings were the worst time. I called them her witching hours—though not to her face—as her moods swings were extreme and she would often simply lie on her bed suffering chills and painful muscle spasms, sending me out of the room so not even I would witness her lowest point. But she was persevering, and I was deeply proud of her determination.
When I wasn’t with Dr. Carson, I would take long walks on all three decks. Hari insisted I spend lunch with her and Lady Persephone, and each time, I tried my best to impress her by asking polite questions about her own interests and listening attentively as she talked of the important work the British were doing in the colonies, a favourite subject. Slowly, she seemed to warm to me.
At one such luncheon, I met the elusive Sir Richard, who had finally gained his sea legs. He was around sixty, with a tall, regal frame, though he had begun to stoop with age. He had a beak of a nose and eyebrows so wild and overgrown that I imagined they’d make a fine residence for some small bird. Despite his reserved appearance, he was much more jovial than his wife, and was at times almost irreverent, which I noticed Lady Persephone frowned at, but said nothing. Conversations around the dinner table were quite lively. He took every opportunity to play cards with the other first-class passengers and had a charming devil-may-care twinkle in his eye whenever he did so.
Pretending to be fascinated by the conversation at these lunches and dinners exhausted me to no end, and each day, I looked forward to the solitude of my walks. On one such stroll, I was delighted to find two animal pens on the second deck. They were well-hidden, set in the lee of the large smoke funnel that rose from the boiler room on the deck below. I couldn’t resist introducing myself to the fat rosy pigs, whose names were Hansel and Gretel, according to the sign on their cage. There were also several adorable piglets and a sleepy milk cow named Daisy. I looked into Daisy’s large, trusting dark eyes, stroked her soft, wet nose, and promised her many more visits. She made me think longingly
