This Golden Land (2 page)

     For as long as she could remember, Hannah had wanted to follow in her father's footsteps as a healer, but since the medical profession was closed to women, she saw midwifery as a back door into that world. When she turned seventeen, her father had sent letters of recommendation to the Lying-In Hospital in London. Hannah had then gone to the city for entrance exams and, having passed, was enrolled. She started the course on the morning of her eighteenth birthday and received her certificate of completion one year later, when she turned nineteen, one month ago. Hannah dreamed of someday having a modest practice of her own and had already been informed that Mrs. Endicott, wife of a local egg farmer, was willing to have Hannah attend to the delivery of her ninth child, due in a week. Mrs. Endicott, Hannah had no doubt, would then refer Miss Conroy to friends and neighbors.

     Hannah was also happy to be home for another reason—in the year that she had been away, her father's health had declined, so much so that she was going to suggest that he scale back his medical practice and take care of himself for a change.

     At forty-five, John Conroy was a tall, attractive man with dark hair touched with silver, his shoulders square, his back straight. In his way of dressing "plain" whenever he went out—the coat was not the stylish frock coat of the day but a long straight black coat over black trousers, a black waistcoat and white shirt; no cravat, the shirt was buttoned to the simple collar; and a black hat with a low crown and wide flat brim—John Conroy cut a striking figure. When he walked through the village, ladies' heads turned.

     With tenderness Hannah recalled how, after her mother died, the women of Bayfield and surrounding areas had come around—the widows and spinsters and mothers of marriageable daughters—bringing quilts and food to the handsome Quaker widower. But none could penetrate the wall of grief nor break through the barrier of dedication to a new cause that was born the night of Louisa's death: to find a cure for what had killed her.

     Hannah paused in slicing the bread and listened to the wind and rain. Had she heard the sound of horses' hooves in the distance? She prayed it was not someone coming to fetch her father for an emergency. He would go, of course, as there was no other doctor around.

     The village of Bayfield, in the county of Kent, was located halfway between
London and Canterbury on a brisk stream that branched off the River Len. Although it was speculated that people had lived in the area since the Stone Age, and that possibly Caesar's legions had marched through here, the settlement could be specifically traced back to the year 1387, when a group of pilgrims returning from Canterbury had rested "by a hay field" and decided to stay.

     Hannah listened to the horses' hooves draw nearer until they arrived in the courtyard. Opening the front door to see a lone rider jump down from his mount, Hannah recognized Luke Keen from Falconbridge Manor. "Mr. Keen! Please come inside."

     As Hannah closed the door behind him, he removed his soaked cap and dashed it against his leg. "Is your father home, Miss Conroy? He's needed at once."

     John Conroy's voice came from the parlor. "Hannah, did I hear—Oh, good evening to thee, Luke Keen."

     "Sorry to bother you, Doc, but there's an emergency at the Manor."

     "I'll be right along. What is the problem?"

     "It's her Ladyship, Doc."

     Conroy turned. "What did thee say?"

     "She's in a family way and something's wrong."

     Conroy exchanged a look with his daughter. Although they had been to Falconbridge Manor, it was to tend to the household staff. They had never been summoned by the Falconbridges. "Where is their own doctor?"

     "His Lordship went to fetch Dr. Willoughby hours ago and they ain't returned. My wife says it's bad. She thinks Her Ladyship might die!"

     Luke Keen helped them hitch their horse to their buggy and then he left, to ride ahead and let Her Ladyship know that help was on the way.

     As the Conroys set off into the night, the rain pelting the leather roof of the small carriage, John snapped the reins and the chestnut mare broke into a fast trot while Hannah clasped her bonnet to her head. She searched her father's face for signs of fatigue. Although Hannah was not herself a doctor—nor could she ever be—years of assisting him had given her a sharp diagnostic eye, especially when it came to detecting the onset of a condition he had developed during the course of his research. Because of experimenting
on himself with infections and test cures, her father now suffered from a chronic heart ailment for which he had concocted a medicine—an extract of the foxglove plant which was called
digitalis
because of foxglove's resemblance to a human finger or "digit."

     But there was no fatigue on his face tonight, no telltale perspiration or pallor. He looked rugged and healthy. And then Hannah was wondering how Lord Falconbridge was going to react to their presence at the manor. The few times she had seen the baron, he had not looked pleased. It was because, when he rode through Bayfield, the citizens removed their hats out of respect. But Hannah's father did not. Like all Quakers, he refused to pay "hat honor" to any man, believing that all people were created equal in the eyes of God. She re-called the look in His Lordship's eyes on those occasions when he had looked back at the impudent Quaker—a look that now chilled her to the bone.

     "Here we are," John Conroy said when the lights of Falconbridge Manor appeared ahead through the light rain. As stable boys ran up to take their rig, Conroy and his daughter were met by an agitated Luke Keen who led them to the tradesmen's entrance which opened into the kitchen. Instead of being taken to the back stairs which led to the servants quarters, where John Conroy had seen to many an injury or illness, they were led through a corridor into the grand baronial hall that was the heart of Falconbridge Manor. It was the first time Conroy and his daughter had been in the residential part of the mansion, and Hannah tried not to stare at the suits of armor, fabulous paintings in ornate frames, and collections of exquisite porcelain and military memorabilia in glass display cases.

     After relinquishing damp capes and hats to a maid, the Conroys were led up the vast, curving stairway by the housekeeper, a somber woman in black bombazine who was pale-faced and shaken.

     The Conroys found Lady Margaret in a vast and luxurious bed chamber with magnificent tapestries, handsome furnishings and flames roaring in the fireplace. The baroness was lying on a massive four-poster bed, her rounded body covered by a satin counterpane.

     John Conroy said to Mrs. Keen, "I shall need a basin of water."

     "Yes, doctor," she said stiffly, and disappeared into an adjoining room where Hannah glimpsed beautiful gowns, hats and shoes.

     Conroy went to Lady Margaret and, laying a hand on her clammy forehead, said in a soothing tone, "Margaret Falconbridge, I am John Conroy. I am a doctor. Can thee speak?"

     She nodded.

     "Is thee in pain?"

     "No . . . pains stopped . . ."

     Conroy shot his daughter a look. The cessation of birth pains could be a serious sign. "Margaret," he said quietly. "I am going to examine thee. Do not be afraid."

     Conroy opened his black medical bag that contained tongue depressors, silk sutures, gauze and bandages, as well as arsenic tablets, powdered cocaine, and vials of strychnine and opium. He brought out his stethoscope. It was the latest design, made of rubber tubing and equipped with a listening bell and two ear pieces. With this he was able to hear the desperate faint galloping of the baroness's heart.

     "Hannah, if thee will please," he said, drawing back the white satin cover and gesturing for his daughter to lift Lady Margaret's blood-stained nightgown. Out of deference to his patient's modesty, John Conroy would have Hannah conduct the visual examination.

     Hannah did so and then said in low voice, "Lady Margaret is not in labor, Father. But she continues to bleed. I suspect placentia previa." It meant that the placenta had broken free from the uterine wall and was blocking the birth canal. If intervention was not initiated soon, the lady would bleed to death and the baby would perish.

     Mrs. Keen returned with a porcelain basin filled with water. Setting it on a small writing desk, she watched in curiosity as Dr. Conroy retrieved a bottle from his bag. As he decanted a dark purple liquid into the water, the housekeeper wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell that rose up. When Conroy removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves to plunge his hands into the horrible stuff, her eyebrows shot up. What on earth was he doing?

     She was suddenly alarmed and, remembering that Quakers weren't like normal Christians, she wondered in panic if John Conroy was going to do something unorthodox to Her Ladyship.

     Mrs. Keen opened her mouth to protest when loud noises exploded in
the hallway beyond—booming shouts and stamping feet. The door to the bedchamber flew open and Lord Falconbridge rushed in. Still wearing a wet cloak and top hat, he fell upon the bed and drew his wife into his arms. "Maggie, my love. I am here! The main road was washed out. We had to go around. Maggie, are you all right?"

     A second man entered the chamber at a more sedate pace—portly and white-whiskered, calmly handing his top hat, cape and walking stick to Mrs. Keen. He barely glanced at the Conroys as he went to the bed, standing opposite His Lordship, and lifted one of Lady Margaret's wrists between his thumb and finger. Hannah and her father recognized him as Dr. Miles Willoughby, doctor to Bayfield's wealthy and privileged.

     "If Your Lordship will permit me," he said in an authoritative voice.

     Falconbridge eased his wife back onto the pillows. Margaret was unconscious now, her face as white as the sheets.

     Pulling out a gold pocket watch, Willoughby counted Her Ladyship's pulse, then laid her arm down. He pursed his lips as he looked at the rounded abdomen beneath the white nightgown. He then looked at Margaret's face. "Mrs. Keen," he said to the housekeeper without taking his eyes from his patient, "when did the labor cease?"

     "About half an hour ago, sir."

     "Very good," he said. "Now if Your Lordship won't mind giving us some privacy?"

     "Save her, doctor," Falconbridge pleaded as he rose from the bed. "I could not bear to lose her." The baron's face was the color of cobwebs.

     "Do not worry, Your Lordship. A little blood-letting is what Her Ladyship needs."

     John Conroy stepped forward and said, "Friend, blood-letting is not wise. Margaret Falconbridge has suffered a separation of the placenta and is hemorrhaging. What must be done is to deliver the child and stop the bleeding."

     Willoughby barely looked at him. "Mrs. Keen, I suggest you assist His Lordship to his private chambers."

     "Yes, Doctor," she said and waited anxiously while Falconbridge tore himself away from the unconscious Margaret. The baron was a thin, severe
looking man in his forties, known for being humorless and a crack shot at pheasant shooting, and not very popular among his tenants and the villagers. Margaret was his second wife, and he was as yet without an heir.

     Falconbridge turned to John Conroy, noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

     "I was summoned," Conroy said.

     The baron nodded vaguely, cast a final woeful glance at his wife, and then strode out of the room with the housekeeper close on his heels. When the door closed behind them, Willoughby set his medical bag on the bed and undid the buckle. "You can go, too," he muttered without looking at the Conroys. "I'll take over now."

     Dr. Willoughby pulled a stethoscope from his bag and applied it to Her Ladyship's chest. It was the old fashioned kind—a long wooden tube, one end of which was applied to the patient's chest, the other end for the doctor's ear. The length was designed to keep a doctor's face from coming too close to a female bosom, and the instrument was not nearly as accurate as the modern stethoscope Hannah's father used.

     "My daughter can help," John Conroy said. "She is a trained midwife."

     Willoughby ignored the suggestion as it was beneath consideration. That a country girl of little breeding should attend to the wife of a baron.

     Hannah took no offense. She had never imagined she would attend to ladies of title and high birth.

     Willoughby re-considered his choices for treatment. All disorders of the body, from a simple head ache to cancer, were universally treated with one of four prescribed methods: bleeding, purging, vomiting and blistering. In this case, purging of the bowel to relieve pressure on the womb was out of the question as the patient was unconscious and would not be able to swallow the mercury preparation. Likewise Willoughby could not administer an emetic to cause vomiting. He decided that blistering, created by the application of a caustic chemical on the skin, would not be sufficient in this case. That left his initial choice of blood-letting.

     "Friend, I suggest thee hurry," Conroy said. "The baby has but minutes."

     "Sir, the baby is fine," Willoughby replied as he set aside the stethoscope and placed his hands on Lady Margaret's large, round abdomen. "The labor
was false. And the hemorrhaging you are so overly concerned about is simply a matter of Her Ladyship having too much blood. It is putting pressure on the womb. After I have treated her, the pressure will be relieved and her pregnancy will resume its normal course."

     He paused and lifted his nose, sniffing. "What is that?" pointing to the bowl of purple liquid on the writing desk.

     "Tincture of iodine."

     "Tincture of what?"

     "Iodine. An element extracted from seaweed."

     "Never heard of it." Willoughby wrinkled his big nose. "Why is it there?"

     "I wash my hands in it."

     "And why would you do that?"

     "It is a solution of anti-sepsis and it—"

     "Oh not that humbug!"