Lady of the Butterflies (7 page)

Ned had been sweeping the stable yard and Bess had been fetching water from the pump, but as the physician dismounted a hush descended upon everyone. He was like a king riding into our cobbled yard, yet he didn’t seem in the least perturbed to find himself amidst manure and warm straw, still steaming with horse piss.

“I thank you for coming so quickly, sir,” I said shyly, as he gave a low bow.

He held up his hand to stem my words of gratitude. “Please take me to your father, child.”

I glanced at him as I led him up to the bedchamber, taking long and quick strides to keep abreast with him. Despite his eminence there was something about him that put me instantly at ease. “Have you treated many patients with ague before, sir? Forgive me for asking, but I wondered if Londoners suffered from it as much as we do in Tickenham.”

“I’ve seen enough cases of the disease to call myself something of a specialist,” he replied conversationally. “I am presently writing a classification of the fevers which I hope to publish next year. But your comment about marsh-dwellers being most at risk is very pertinent. I’ve observed for myself how particular dispositions of the atmosphere do cause a particular fever to predominate. And around marshland and stagnant rivers, for whatever reason, it is intermittent fever that prevails. An effervescence of the blood.”

“My mother died of ague. And my sister.”

“I am most sorry to hear that.”

I ushered him into the stiflingly hot chamber that was dimly lit with candles, all the drapes closed and a fire banked high in the hearth despite the hot day. As the physician approached my father’s bedside I made to leave.

“Please stay, Miss Goodricke. I shall need to ask you some questions.”

My father had stirred at the sound of a strange voice.

“Ah, remember me, do you, Goodricke, my good fellow?”

“Sydenham,” Papa murmured with surprise. “Cromwell’s Captain of Cavalry.”

I was in even greater awe of him than before and I took great heart from the fact that he was a staunch Parliamentarian, that he and my father had fought battles together before, and won.

“I’m a physician now, not a soldier,” Dr. Sydenham said. “I’d rather try to cure than kill.”

He began his examination by asking me for a full history of my father’s illness. He took out a small notebook and lead pencil in which he wrote down any physical signs and symptoms, paying great attention to everything I said, as if I were an esteemed colleague, not just a young girl.

I watched, impressed and inspired by his attention to detail and patient analysis. He must have seen hundreds of fevers before, and yet he approached my father’s case as if it were the first and most intriguing instance he had ever come across, as if he could learn more at this bedside than he could in books and were privileged to have been asked to attend. He took my father’s pulse and listened to his breathing.

I asked him if he wanted to examine my father’s water and he dismissed it as “piss-pot science for quacks,” which made me giggle for the first time in days.

“Ah, that is better.” He smiled. “See, Goodricke, I have wrought one important cure already. Your lovely daughter here had the most tragic, woebegone little face when I arrived, and such enormous wistful eyes as would break any man’s heart. Now she is smiling, and such a vivacious and dimpled smile at that, it gladdens me to see it.”

My father gave a weak smile before his eyes slid closed again.

The physician gently took hold of my elbow and drew me away from the bed to speak to me. “His humors are putrefied and need rebalancing,” he said confidentially, and I listened intently, feeling very proud to think he trusted me to carry out his instructions. “It must not be achieved by any interventionist methods. The most important thing to do is to do nothing to hinder the removal of froth through the pores of the skin.”

“You mean let him sweat, sir?”

“Just so. Just so. But don’t force it, try to cool him rather than let him overheat. Put that fire out, open windows, cover him with light bedclothes and make sure he has plenty of rest. Let nature do its work.”

“Yes. I will. Oh, I will.” I clasped his hand. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him. “I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor.”

He looked at me as if my exuberant appreciation pained him. “No thanks are due, child,” he said with a sorrowful tone. “I can’t promise that any of what I tell you will do any good. I guarantee it won’t do any harm, but it may not be enough.”

“Dr. Sydenham, is my father going to get well again?” I saw there was a practiced reply already waiting on his lips. “Please tell me the truth, sir. I want to know. Is he going to die?”

He looked at me almost in wonder. “That is a very courageous question to ask, child. In all my years as a physician I have hardly ever been asked it so directly. But I am afraid that in this instance, I honestly do not know the answer.”

“I don’t want my father to die, sir.”

“I don’t want him to die either, Miss Goodricke. I would save him for you if it was in my power to do so. But I am not God. Unlike some in my profession, I don’t pretend to hold dominion over life and death.”

“There must be something more you can do.”

He stood back as if to make a proper study of me. “What a singular child you are. Tell me, are you always so determined?”

I smiled faintly. “I am told that I am.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, gave my arm a quick tap. “As a matter of fact, there is something.” He was a wonderfully kind and caring man, I decided, even if he had deserted the plague victims. I was sure he must have had a perfectly valid reason for it. He glanced toward the bed, then stepped even further away from it, motioned me to come with him and lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. I leaned in slightly toward him, tilted my head, amused by such clandestine behavior, which seemed entirely unnecessary but rather fun. It was almost as if we were playing a game. “There’s a new remedy for ague,” he murmured, “heralded as a miracle cure. But I did not suggest it before because I guarantee your father will not want to touch it.”

“Why not, sir?” I whispered, turning to look at the still figure in the bed. “What is it?”

“Powdered tree bark, brought from Peru to Spain and just this year made readily available in this country.” He dropped his voice still lower. “It is commonly known as Jesuits’ Powder, on account of the fact it was discovered by Jesuit missionaries.” He saw that I understood instantly. This was no longer a game. Anything connected to the most despised order was highly suspect. “He will know that Oliver Cromwell himself allegedly refused the powder,” Dr. Sydenham explained quietly. “And died as a result, I believe. He will also know that it was given to an important London alderman during the last major outbreak of ague in the city seven years ago. The alderman died, and Protestants all across England, no doubt your father amongst them, scented a Jesuit plot. They believed the bark to be an insidious poison which the Jesuits had brought to Europe for the express purpose of exterminating all those who have thrown off their allegiance to Rome.”

I blinked, fixed my eyes on him. “But you do not believe that, sir?”

“I do not. However, I’ve not had the opportunity to conduct proper trials of the powder, though I hope to soon, but I’ve heard from numerous other sources that it is very effective.” He looked across at my father, his expression a great deal less impartial now. “If we could only get him to take it, I believe it would be worth a try.”

“What is?” my father mumbled, his eyes still closed. “What’s all this whispering?” When neither of us answered, my father’s eyes snapped open. Somehow he guessed what we had been discussing and I swear his yellow skin turned white. “I’ll tell you now, I’ll not touch that newfangled potion peddled by Jesuit priests. I’ll not be Jesuited to death.”

“Please, Father.” I tried not to sound desperate.

“It has been used in Peru and Italy with remarkable results,” Dr. Sydenham persuaded.

“Bah.” My father exploded in a coughing fit that turned his face puce. “The work of the Devil. How could you, Sydenham? You who matriculated at the very center of Oxford Puritanism?”

“You’ll not die for Puritan intolerance, I trust, Goodricke?”

My father had marched into war beneath a banner proclaiming, “Down with the Papists.” He’d risked fines and imprisonment and the plundering of his property rather than renounce his principles and his faith. He was a zealot.

Of course he would die for Puritan intolerance. And there was nothing I or anyone else could do about it.

MR. MERRICK HAD BEEN CLOSETED with my father, the chamber door firmly shut, since after dinner. Whatever it was they were discussing at such length, I only hoped it was not tiring Papa too much.

I wandered out into the garden but there was no escaping the somber tolling of the church bell that announced the coming death and called everyone to the bedside to pay their last respects. I wanted to run from it, to put my hands over my ears to try to block it out, but it would have been a pathetically childish thing to do and I knew, already, that I was leaving childhood behind me forever. I went down onto the moor, watched the dragonflies and damselflies flashing azure wings, listened to the willow warblers, the booming of a fat little bittern in the reed beds, the joyous call of lapwings and the low, soft whistle of a wigeon. Life was going on all around, heartlessly, even whilst my father’s life was ending.

When finally Mr. Merrick emerged he looked like a cat with a dish of cream. He said that my father was asking for me so that he could give me his special blessing. I walked into the darkened chamber feeling much older than twelve. During the fever I had done as Dr. Sydenham suggested and opened the drapes and the windows, but now that my father was close to death, he had wanted them all closed again. If I was dying, I thought, I’d demand to be taken outside, into the brightest sunshine.

“You must not grieve too hard, child,” my father said quietly, seeing my stricken face. “You must not grudge Him for taking me when it is my time. I just pray that I can make a good death.”

How could there be such a thing?

I knelt on the plaiting of matted rushes by the bed and took his hand and felt him place his other hand upon my lace cap. “My little Eleanor, may your father in Heaven bless you and keep you. May He watch over you when I can do it no longer.”

I was so determined not to disappoint him now, to appear brave and composed and accepting as he would want me to be, but the effort of holding back tears was making my head hurt terribly. Like a seawall holding back a great weight of water, the pressure was building up behind it. There was a pain in my throat as if I had tried to swallow a rock.

I sat on a low stool, holding his large hand in both of mine. It was neither cold nor hot now, but somehow desiccated. “I wish I could make up for all the times I’ve ever displeased you, Papa,” I choked, lifting his hand to my lips and kissing it, holding it to my cheek. “I am sorry . . . so sorry.”

“You are a good girl,” he said, then gave me a wan smile. “For the most part. Just try to live the rest of your life as you know I would want you to live it.” His once commanding voice was now so feeble that I had to lean in closer to hear him. “John Burges has given me his word that he will tutor you as best he can, but he will not have as much time to devote to it as I have done, nor the inclination to teach the things I did. You must continue those studies in private. Promise me that you will?”

“I promise,” I said waveringly, fighting for control. “I promise.”

“Don’t be sad for me, little one. None should fear death, for it sets us free. It is better than birth, for we are born mortal, but we die immortal. Remember the butterflies. Remember how they rise from their coffins on shining wings.”

“Papa, do you swear to me that is true?”

“As God is my witness, it is my firmest belief that it is.”

“I keep thinking . . . I’m worried . . .”

“What are you worried about, my little darling?”

“All the thousands of people dying of plague and all the millions of people who have ever lived and died. How can there be room in Heaven for them all?”

“I am a great advocate of scientific exploration, but Heaven forbid it takes such precedence that nobody believes in anything unless they can fully explain or understand it.” He pointed to his cup and I held his head, tilted the cup to his lips and helped him drink some water, guessing he was girding himself for a final sermon. How bitterly I regretted the times I had inwardly groaned as he had begun one before. Now I was determined to listen closely to every precious word he spoke. It was the last guidance I was to have from him and I must take good note so it could sustain me for the rest of my life. Oh, but there was so much I wanted to ask him, would never have the chance now to ask.

“The whole purpose of studying nature is to bring us closer to God through a better understanding of His creation,” he said, with a heartrending echo of his previous fervor. “It is not to cast doubt over His works and throw His very existence into question.” He grimaced, continued, his voice weakening again. “Science must not lead us to a godless world. We may strive to learn but we must never take a bite from the tree of knowledge.” He laid his head back on the pillow, exhausted from his short speech.