Chapter 9
Anne’s crinoline skirts were completely spattered in blood. She was hunched over the deplorable figure of her mother, sprawled over the bed, sweat glistening on her forehead. Quickly, Anne turned to the street urchin who was still standing by the door, and beckoned her.
“Yes, miss?” the girl asked nervously.
Anne took a deep breath. “Go...go and send for a doctor, child. Be quick about it.”
The child hesitated, fiddling with the raggedy tie on her grubby bonnet. Anne sighed.
“Oh, here,” she said, pressing a coin into the girl’s mud encrusted paw. “Here. And – wait. Don’t send for that old quack Blackadder. His confounded magic spells will be no use to us. Mind you ask for Doctor Robinson, and do...do try to look half respectable.”
The girl pocketed the silver coin and hurried out the door, leaving Anne to wonder whether it had been a rash decision to trust the waif with that money and her orders. There was no time to worry, however. With the increasing groans of her mother playing like an ominous organ dirge in the background, Anne drew a basin from under the sink. She heated the kettle and poured the warm water into the basin, which she then lugged over to the bedside. Taking up a clean flannel from the cupboard, she doused it in the water and ran it gently over her mother’s burning forehead.
Mrs Lincombe gagged, and then leaned over the bed to cough more blood into the designated bowl. She stretched out a broad, shaking hand and grabbed the edge of Anne’s skirt with it. “Child,” she rasped, the veins in her neck bulging with the effort of speech, “Child, listen. I must tell you something.”
Anne knelt at the bedside and listened, still sponging the flannel over her mother’s sweat-drenched face.
“Anne, I have not been honest with you,” she gasped. “I..I...”
“Mother, do not pain yourself so,” said Anne, replenishing her flannel in the basin, “You’re delirious, Mother. You do not know what you are saying.”
“It’s true,” said Mrs Lincombe, her chest heaving under its clammy nightgown. “It’s true...” and then she turned her crimson face to the pillow and burst into fervent sobs.
“Shhh, Mother,” said Anne soothingly, brushing Mrs Lincombe’s tangled hair out of her eyes and securing it with a ribbon. “The doctor will be here soon.”
Just a few minutes later, as if summoned through Anne’s speech, there was a loud rap on the door. “It’s him,” she said, and jumped up to open the latch.
Cherubic features boasted the red cheeks of the happy – or a devotee of fortified wines. Bold, greying whiskers seemed an extension of the fringe of hair circling the doctor’s pate. The man’s waistcoat was stained and misbuttoned, one of his lapels hanging by a threat. A ragged shirt sleeve emerged from the cuff of his frock coat. It was definitely not Mr Robinson.
“Dr. Horace Maccabi,” he said, extending a meaty hand. “At your service.”
The little street urchin appeared behind him a few seconds later. “I’m sorry, miss,” she chirruped in her Cockney accent. “Doc’r Robinson, they said he was engaged at the surgery. So I went and got ‘im – I mean, this gentleman ‘ere. I ‘ope it’s no matt’r.”
Anne was slightly disheartened at the fact she was welcoming in a doctor she neither knew nor trusted, but she could not afford to waste time on qualms. She sent away the girl, performed the necessary obsequies on the threshold, and ushered the doctor in.
“I take it this is the patient,” Maccabi gestured at the prostrate, writhing form on the bed as he deposited a shiny black case on a nearby stool, and removed his coat to roll up his sleeves.
“Yes, yes,” Anne said impatiently, hanging up his coat and opening the case, as he instructed.
He drew a tarnished pocket chain out of his waistcoat pocket and used it to take Mrs Lincombe’s pulse. Then, he determined her temperature and declared, “I’m afraid phlebotomy is the solution.”
Anne stared at him blankly.
“Bloodletting,” Maccabi explained irritably. “Releases the bad blood. Could you please get the lancet for me?”
With shaking fingers, Anne fumbled in the deep case until her fingers made contact with the small, sharp knife. With a quaking step, she handed it to him and stood back. Please, God, she prayed silently, please look after Mother. When prayers did not give her fretful mind any rest, she resorted to oaths. I will never complain about seeing Mr Murdoch again, she pledged. I’ll do whatever you say, Mother, just please –
“The clean rags, please,” commanded Maccabi. Anne could not quite bear to look at the fearful thing he was doing to her mother’s wrist, though she could not help catching sight of the mesh of tubes leading into a china bowl. She doused the rags in water and did as he instructed, pressing them against the cut in Mrs Lincombe’s arm.
When Maccabi had finished the ordeal, he gave Anne’s mother what seemed to be a mixture of chloroform and opium, proclaiming it to be a sedative. She lay back limply on the bloodstained sheets, breathing faintly.
Maccabi shot his patient a concerned glance, and lowered his voice to Anne. “I’m afraid it’s the typhus, Miss Lincombe.”
Feeling faint, Anne sank into her armchair, supporting her chin with a trembling hand. “The...the typhus?” she croaked. “How could that have happened?”
The portly doctor looked out of the window disapprovingly. “It’s the air, ma’am. Not the most hygienic place, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Then...then how will she heal?” asked Anne.
“For the moment, to keep her out of fever, get half a gill of brandy, some honey, and a root of angelica. Add some boiling water and make an infusion out of it.”
“Yes,” said Anne, the pitch of her voice rising, “But what about treatment for the long term? Infusions and drinks will not assure her convalescence.”
Maccabi sighed. “I didn’t want to mention it, miss, for...” he cast another glance out of the window, at the decrepit building in its deplorable address.
“Sir, please do not waste time sparing my feelings,” said Anne.
“Well, miss, I would recommend a change of air,” said the doctor, shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to mention it, for it looks like you mayn’t have suitable means, or...”
“Where exactly would you advise my mother to go?”
“Abroad, miss, if you could manage it. The Alps would be perfect.”
“And if we cannot?”
“Then a seaside resort, miss,” he said, his voice brightening. “It is not the best solution, but it will suffice. Maybe you have relatives somewhere...”
Anne thought quickly. “I have an aunt,” she finally said, “living in Brighton. I am not sure whether she would take my mother in, but if she knew of her condition...”
“I am sure that will meet your requirements, Miss Lincombe,” said Maccabi, breaking Anne out of her musings. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. It’s already late, and I have many other appointments to see to.”
“Yes. Of course,” said Anne, springing out of her seat. “Thank you, Doctor Maccabi.”
After the doctor had departed, Anne collapsed wearily in her armchair, dragging it to her mother’s bedside. Mrs Lincombe, deep in delirium, drifted in and out of dreams. Feverishly, she called to Anne, speaking as though she were walking through a thick mist. Her fingernails dug deep into her daughter’s hand, but Anne bore it. Then, finally, Mrs Lincombe opened her eyes.
Anne’s mother looked around agitatedly, her breathing jerky. “Where...what...” she started, sucking in deep breaths of air.
“Don’t worry, mother,” Anne said in an attempt of pacification, “I’m here.”
Mrs Lincombe’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s the typhus, isn’t it? I ‘eard him...I ‘eard snatches of yer conversation...ye thought I was delirious, but...”
“Yes, Mother,” said Anne, trying to sound cheery. “But it is alright. You’re to stay in Brighton, with Aunt Sara. I’m sure she’ll take you in, when she understands that a trip is your only resort.”
“But what of you, Anne?” asked Mrs Lincombe anxiously. “Your aunt is a cranky woman who would only take one of us in, I am sure of it.”
Anne flailed in her resolution for a minute, but managed to contain herself. “That presents no problem, Mother,” she said evenly, “I will merely stay here.”
“Here? Alone? With you being just nineteen, an’ all?” Mrs Lincombe shook her head firmly, despite her frail disposition. “I will not allow it.”
“You must, Mother,” said Anne. “There is no other way about it. Besides, I am perfectly able to look after myself.”
A strange, nebulous look washed over Mrs Lincombe, seeming to defeat her strength. Her head sank into her pillows, and she murmured things inaudibly. Her eyes were cloudy and glazed over, yet she seemed full of purpose.
“I cannot hear you, Mother,” said Anne, standing up and bending over her mother so she could understand her mumbling.
“It’s true...” she was saying. “It’s true...I wasn’t delirious.”
Anne sighed. “You still are, Mother. It will take a while for the fever to slacken, and...”
“Hush, Anne,” said her mother. “Ye do not understand. I...I must tell you the truth, Anne, before I leave. Or I will never be able to forgive myself.”
Still not fully believing her mother’s consciousness but deciding to humour her, Anne nodded.
“Take off your brooch, child,” ordered Mrs Lincombe.
Her forehead wrinkling in perplexity, Anne did so without further interrogation. She could not understand why her mother was asking her this, finding no explanation other than delirium. It was the same brooch she had worn every day – a simple, modest ornament of black and white enamel, lightly fringed with silver, fastening with a simple C catch.
“Turn it over,” said her mother, and Anne was quick to oblige, her swiftness propelled by an itching curiosity. “Now lift up the pin stem, and press down on the back.”
Anne did so, and was surprised to see that the back of the brooch swivelled, reversing on itself to reveal a glass panel in which was displayed a double cameo. A man and woman; the former posessing a grave but kindly countenance with a broad forehead, dark brow and intelligent black eyes. The latter was a small-boned woman with large hazel eyes, aquiline features and a gently curving mouth.
Mrs Lincombe pointed at the two people depicted in the cameo, and took in a deep breath.
“Can you explain this, Mother?” asked Anne. At this, Mrs Lincombe held her daughter’s hands tenderly, and searched her eyes for a trace of irritation or impatience. Finding none, she found no alternative but to oblige.
“The people in this cameo,” said Mrs Lincombe, her voice hoarse with coughing so strenuously, “these people, are your real parents.”
research, it really payed off in this piece. Seriously, it was great. 
