An Embarrassment of Riches (62 page)

Maura reached him before Caitlin could do so.

‘There, there, my pet,' she said soothingly. ‘There's nothing to be alarmed about. You've been brought here because you're not very well. My name is Maura and this other lady's name is Caitlin. We're going to put you to bed now and you're soon going to feel well again, I promise.'

He stopped crying and looked up at her. Maura felt her heart lurch in her chest. He didn't look like Alexander in the way that Felix looked like Alexander. His hair wasn't as dark as it had appeared to be on the photograph, and his eyes were blue, not grey. Yet there was something about him that was so much like Alexander that she wanted to cry.

She held him close and hot little arms slid hesitantly and gratefully up and around her neck. She continued to hold him, rocking him gently, until the house-maid entered with the nightshirt and hot-bottle and lemonade.

Ten minutes later he was tucked up in bed, one chubby hand still holding tightly on to hers. Fifteen minutes later Dr Bridges was with them.

‘How long has he had the fever?' he asked as he removed his top hat and laid it on a chair.

‘I don't know. He was under someone else's care until half an hour ago, they think they know when he caught the contagion. They think it was ten days ago.'

Dr Bridges was a tall, thin, aesthetic-looking man who rarely wasted words. He crossed to Stasha's bed, pulled back the sheets and looked down at him.

‘I think it's chicken-pox,' Maura said in deep concern. ‘His nurse says that an ill-looking boy with sores on his face lifted him from the crowd after the
Rosetta
and
New Dawn
race …'

Dr Bridges dropped the sheets loosely over Stasha's tossing and turning, fever-ridden body. ‘It isn't chicken-pox,' he said briefly. ‘The child will have to be removed to a fever hospital immediately.'

‘No.' Maura's response was instant.

The reputation of the fever hospitals was nearly as bad as those of the tenements. Having his son admitted into one of them was the very last thing Alexander would want. Or that she wanted.

‘I'm afraid you have no option, Mrs Karolyis,' Dr Bridges said gravely. ‘The child isn't suffering from chicken-pox. He's suffering from smallpox.'

‘Smallpox?'
Maura felt as if she was going to faint. ‘How can you be sure? How can you tell?'

‘Chicken-pox rash begins on the body and only then spreads to the face and hands. This is smallpox, Mrs Karolyis. I haven't a single doubt of it.'

‘Dear God,' she whispered, her face bloodless. Felix had also been at the races. He, too, had been in the crowd that Stasha had stumbled into. ‘My son was with Stasha on the day he became infected,' she said unsteadily. ‘Will you have a look at him, Dr Bridges?'

‘I will, but I would prefer it if you did not accompany me, Mrs Karolyis. No-one who has been in contact with the sick child should carelessly be in contact with anyone else for several days.'

‘Yes. Of course.' Maura could hardly speak for fear. ‘If you call for a maid when you leave the room, she will take you to the nursery.'

As he left the room Caitlin's horrified eyes met hers. Maura knew exactly what she was thinking. Smallpox could kill. Even if it didn't kill it could result in permanent blindness and it would certainly result in life-long facial disfigurement. And they had both handled the blanket and clothes Stasha had arrived in. They had both held his hand and stroked his forehead in an effort to soothe him. The very least the disease would do if they caught it was to destroy their looks for ever. And if Felix was incubating it, he could die.

The next five minutes were the longest of her life.

‘There is no need for concern where the other two children are concerned,' Dr Bridges said unequivocally as he re-entered the room. ‘As for this child, I will arrange for him to be admitted to a fever hospital immediately.'

Maura shook her head, weak with relief over his verdict on Felix, her mind made up as to what she must do in regard to Stasha.

‘No,' she said again. ‘As far as Caitlin and myself and the footman who carried Stasha up the stairs are concerned, the damage has already been done. I'll arrange for the footman and Caitlin to go into isolation for whatever length of time you suggest and I will nurse Stasha. I'll arrange for Bridget to take Felix and Natalie immediately to Tarna and I will instruct all but the minimum of household staff to take paid leave.'

Dr Bridges frowned unhappily. ‘If you do as you are suggesting, the chances of you contracting the disease are extremely high.'

‘If I don't, and if Stasha goes into one of the fever hospitals, then the chances of his dying will also be extremely high.'

It was true and Dr Bridges didn't attempt to deny it.

‘I will be able to give you very little help, Mrs Karolyis,' he said warningly. ‘I cannot possibly continue visiting and also continue seeing other patients. The disease is highly contagious as you are so obviously aware.'

‘Just tell me what to do.'

He nodded. ‘All right. I can't help but admit that what you are suggesting is in the child's best interest. Blood relations are always the best nurses and …'

‘I'm not a blood relation.'

He stared at her, highly disconcerted. ‘I'm sorry, I had assumed … as the risks of nursing the child are so high …'

She wondered what he would say if she told him that Stasha was her husband's illegitimate son.

She said instead, ‘Just tell me what to do, Dr Bridges. Tell me how to save his life.'

Caitlin refused absolutely to go into quarantine.

‘You can't possibly nurse the little one twenty-four hours a day single-handed, ma'am,' she had pointed out practically. ‘And I'm strong as an ox. I've never gone down with anything in my life, not even famine fever and that's just as contagious as smallpox.'

Maura had known better than to argue with her. Gratefully she had accepted her offer of help and had immediately issued instructions, from behind a closed door, to Haines.

The household staff were all to be told of the contagion that had entered the house. Bridget was to leave immediately for Tarna with Felix and Natalie. Word was to be sent to Miss Millbank informing her of the nature of Stasha's illness. He was to check that there were adequate food supplies in the house and that all Dr Bridge's requirements were bought in, and then he and the rest of the staff were to take a month's paid leave.

‘But what about the cooking and cleaning, ma'am?' he had queried, and to her amazement she detected genuine concern in his voice.

‘The little cooking that we are going to require I can do myself. The cleaning, apart from the sick-room which Caitlin and I will do between us, can wait. The house won't fall down for want of a duster.'

‘No, ma'am.' Haines cleared his throat. ‘I hope the young gentleman quickly recovers, ma'am.'

It was the first touch of warmth there had ever been between them.

‘Thank you, Haines,' she said appreciatively. ‘If word can be got to Mr Karolyis, please see that he is informed that his …' She stopped herself just in time. ‘Please see that he is informed of his nephew's illness and whereabouts.'

‘Yes, ma'am. Good luck, ma'am. Goodbye.'

From the moment she had made the decision to nurse Stasha at home and not have him sent to a fever hospital she had known she was undertaking a task of frightening responsibility. If he died, then it would be said that the outcome would have been different if only she had allowed him to be sent away. Alexander would never forgive her. Not ever. If Caitlin caught the disease then that, too, would be her responsibility.

She sat by Stasha's side, talking softly and comfortingly to him when he was conscious, sponging his sweat-soaked forehead ceaselessly when he wasn't.

He vomited bile with appalling frequency. His sweatsoaked bed-sheets needed changing a half-dozen times a day. At every opportunity she spooned sweetened boiled water between his lips, trying to replace the fluid sweating out of him.

As the fever grew in intensity he lapsed into delirium, calling out for his nurse; for his teddy bear; and once for ‘Uncle Xander'.

Days and nights merged into one. When she was too exhausted to sit by him any longer, sponging him and comforting him, Caitlin would relieve her and she would snatch a few hours'sleep in the adjoining room.

She kept wondering if Haines had managed to get word to Alexander and if the
Jezebel
was already on its way back to New York. She kept thinking about Genevre. Of how much Alexander had loved her. Of how different his life would have been if Genevre hadn't died giving birth to the child tossing and turning in delirium only yards away from her.

The spots on his face and body became large and began to suppurate. With unspeakable horror she tended each and every lesion with diligent care, hoping against hope that they wouldn't leave deep, scarring pits in his skin.

It was early morning when he fell into a coma.

That evening an imperceptible change came over him and Maura was seized with the certainty that he was about to die.

She woke an exhausted Caitlin, saying urgently, ‘I think we're losing him, Caitlin!'

Caitlin grabbed her rosary beads off the bedside table and hurried into the sick-room. There was no fever now. Beneath the angry, deforming pustules his skin was like marble.

They knelt down at either side of the bed.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,' Maura began.

She felt dizzy with weariness. It was so hot in the room she could hardly breathe. She tugged at the back of her dress, pulling it open.

‘Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,' she continued.

Her head was throbbing and she felt sick. Was going to be sick.

‘His breathing is changing, ma'am!' Caitlin was saying, almost sobbing in relief. ‘He's sleeping naturally, ma'am! I swear he is!'

Stasha's face swam before Maura's eyes. She tried to focus properly and couldn't.

She was suddenly aware of a new note in Caitlin's voice. A note of sheer horror. Yet it couldn't be for Stasha. Stasha was going to be all right.

Dimly she realized that Caitlin was crying out her name, was rushing around the bed towards her.

‘Oh God!' she whispered as realization came. ‘Oh no!'

Her hands went to her face. There were no pustules there as yet, but there would be. And they would scar her just as they were scarring Stasha.

‘Alexander!' she cried. ‘
Alexander
!' and then she pitched forwards, plunging into unconsciousness.

Dr Bridges abandoned all his other patients and moved into the house within hours, bringing with him three fever nurses.

An exhausted Caitlin was relieved of all her duties. Stasha continued to recover and the pustules on his face and body began to heal, leaving deep pits in his skin. Spots began to appear on Maura's face and hands and then on her body. When they began to suppurate Dr Bridges put cotton gloves on her hands so that she didn't touch them in delirium and a nurse applied camomile to them almost constantly.

‘Where the devil is Mr Karolyis?' he asked time and time again as Maura tossed and turned and vomited.

No-one knew. The
Jezebel
had not berthed at any of the yacht clubs along America's East Coast. It was tentatively suggested that perhaps the
Jezebel
had sailed further south than Florida, towards the Bahamas, or even that Alexander was attempting an ocean crossing to Ireland.

Three weeks later, as Caitlin entertained a nearly fully recovered Stasha by helping him to cut figures from a magazine and as Maura lay pale and spent, her face barely visible beneath a thick application of pale pink camomile, Alexander returned.

The
Jezebel
berthed at the New York Yacht Club and Alexander made his way from the club to the Fifth Avenue Hotel by hansom.

The gentleman receptionist stared at him wide-eyed as he strode through the opulent reception area. Without halting near the desk Alexander made his way towards the elevator. The receptionist ran after him.

‘Mr Karolyis! Mr Karolyis, sir!'

Alexander turned towards him impatiently, his mind on Stasha. It had been over a month since he had seen him and he was looking forward to their reunion.

‘Yes?' he said abruptly.

‘Mr Karolyis, sir! There have been urgent messages asking as to your whereabouts every day …'

Alexander shrugged dismissively. No doubt there had been. He was a man people were always wanting to contact; to meet.

‘You gave them to my secretary?'

‘Yes, Mr Karolyis …'

Alexander turned away and waited as a bellboy slid back the elevator door for him.

‘Mr Karolyis, sir! They are very important. Your nephew had to leave the hotel because he was taken sick. We were asked to get word to you that he had smallpox and …'

Alexander whipped round on his heel so suddenly he stumbled.

‘Smallpox?'

‘Yes, sir. We were told in order that we would realize the importance of trying to make contact with you. We did try, sir, only you were sailing off Florida and …'

‘Where is he?'
Alexander demanded, chalk-white.

‘At your Fifth Avenue home, sir.'

Alexander broke into a run. He ran through the marble-floored reception area, he ran down the steps of the colonnaded entrance. He didn't pause to demand that his carriage was brought round and he didn't hurl himself into one of the waiting hansoms. Fifth Avenue was choked with traffic and he wasn't going to sit imprisoned in a slow-moving carriage. He began to run south, past the Union Club, past the Belmont mansion.

Several times he was recognized. Several times people called out his name in bewilderment as he ran past them like a madman.