Page 35 of Inventing Vivian

Chapter 9

Benedict stood in the doorwayof the hospital room. The ward was loud with coughing and the noises of the sick and injured. And the smells of medicine and disease were enough to turn any stomach. At Benedict’s request, Jack had been moved to a private room and attended to personally by the head of surgery. But as Benedict looked at the pale lad, his small body nearly swallowed by the cot and blankets, he worried his efforts had not been enough. The boy’s breathing was shallow and congested, and his skin was soaked with perspiration.

A nurse in a white apron and cap took a wet towel from the boy’s forehead. She touched the back of her fingers to his cheek to test his temperature and looked toward Benedict, shaking her head.

“The fever remains?” Benedict said.

“Yes, Your Lordship.” The nurse dipped the towel into a basin of water, wrung it out, and placed it back on Jack’s forehead.

“Has he woken?” Benedict asked.

The nurse shook her head. She straightened the boy’s blanket and picked up the water pitcher, then came to the doorway. “I’m sorry, my lord, but his condition has not improved.”

“Has it gotten worse?”

“No,” she said. “But for the fever to linger for so long...” She let her voice trail off, leaving the words unspoken.

She hadn’t much hope for the boy’s recovery. “What is your name, madam?” Benedict asked.

“Nurse Pritchett, my lord.” She curtsied, still holding the water pitcher.

“Thank you for tending to him,” he said.

She turned, looking back at the boy. “Unfortunately, I see too many just like him. He works in a factory?”

“He does,” Benedict said. “Has his work contributed to the illness?”

“Caused it, I’d say,” Nurse Pritchett said. “The infection in his lungs likely came from breathing smoke or chemicals on a constant basis combined with poor nutrition and inadequate clothing—excess heat and cold are taxing on a body, especially such a small one.”

“There must be something more that can be done,” Benedict said. The very notion that this boy, and others like him, jeopardized their lives to line the pockets of wealthy factory owners filled his stomach with a heavy shame. He could not permit this to continue. People—children—were not expendable.

“Dr. Hurst has given him morphine to ease the pain and help him sleep,” the nurse said. “But we have no way of killing the infection. Jack’s body will have to do that on its own.”

The boy looked so small on the bed, and so alone. Benedict rubbed his jaw. He felt helpless. “Can the lad hear me?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Your Lordship.”

Benedict stepped into the room and came beside the bed. He pulled a chair closer so he could sit beside the boy. “Jack, you must get well. You must fight this illness. Your parents need you, and Molly needs you.” He thought of the girl. She must be out of her head with worry. He patted Jack’s hand. The boy’s skin was hot. “There’s a strong lad.”

He twisted in his seat to face the nurse. “My footman will bring his sister tonight.”

“Tonight, Your Lordship? But visiting hours...” Seeing the lift of Benedict’s brow, she nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

“Perhaps hearing her voice will give him strength.”

“One can only hope, Your Lordship.”

Benedict left the hospital an hour later, worry for the boy chewing at his insides. Surely Molly’s presence would bring some comfort, help Jack heal. And if not... He shook his head against the thought. He sat back in the carriage and closed his eyes, frustrated that there was not more that could be done.

When he stepped through his doorway an hour later, Benedict was met by the smell of hot peppers and spicy vegetables. His stomach rumbled.

He tossed his hat and gloves onto the entry hall table and started toward the kitchen but paused in the doorway of his library.

Mr. Thomas sat at his desk, writing in a leger book. He glanced up and stood when he saw Benedict. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Benedict looked at the mantel clock. The hour was nearly one. He hadn’t realized it was afternoon already. No wonder he was hungry. And he felt guilty knowing his friend would have waited to eat. “I believe Zhang Wei has prepared luncheon,” he said. “Will you join us?”

“Certainly, my lord.” Mr. Thomas laid down his pen and pulled a ribbon over the book, settling it into the gutter between the pages to mark his place. He rose and took his coat off the back of his chair, sliding an arm into the sleeve.

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