Wadham College, Oxford
Mark reread the letter and realized what Duncap was saying.
There was a chance, a strong chance, of him joining the ranks of dons at a college in Oxford as soon as he finished reading for his Fellowship. Likely even the one he’d studied at years ago as a student. His skin tingled. He could visit next week, and if a position became available, he could move at the end of the spring term and be taking students in the fall. And Ellen would be having their baby in early fall. It would be perfect.
Ellen puta hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
“Do you need a minute?” Amelia paused counting the donated medicine to watch Ellen closely.
She shook her head, swallowed the queasy feeling back down, and opened her eyes. “I can keep working.” Oh, how she hated morning sickness. Though clearly the term was coined by a man, because morning sickness could pop up any time of day. “Have we received donations from this chemist before?” She knelt beside Amelia, opening her own crate of brown glass bottles in the dispensary waiting room.
Medicine near its expiration date filled the bottles, nestled in the crates filled with straw and sawdust.
Ellen pulled one bottle out and blew away the sawdust to read the label. “Arsenic.” She pulled another bottle out. “Camphor with opium.”
“Yes, I’ve received donations from this chemist before,” Amelia said. “Mrs. Daugherty said we were running low so I went out yesterday after my neighborhood rounds and begged. He’s trustworthy; I trust his medicines.”
At the end of the month, if the chemist had medicine he wouldn’t be able to use or sell, or had canceled orders, he sometimes donated it to any medical charities who got there first. This time Amelia had won the race.
The door to the dispensary banged open with such force it made Ellen and Amelia jump, sending bottles rattling. Ellen glanced up to see a boy of about fourteen standing sheepishly in the threshold. Curly black hair escaped from under a brown plaid cap.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to slam. I’ve got a message to deliver.”
Ellen wiped her dusty hands on her apron and stood. “I’ll take it.” She held out her hand.
But the boy shook his head. “Not on paper. There’s a fancy carriage sitting up on the big road with a pretty lady inside. She told me to come fetch you. Says she has something for you.”
Ellen glanced at Amelia, who shook her head in confusion. She looked back at the skinny boy. “Did you catch her name?”
His face screwed up. “Mrs.…Finley, maybe?”
Surprise shot through Ellen. “From the quilting circle?”
“I don’t know nothing about a quilt. I was just told to fetch you and I’d get a sixpence.” The boy stepped outside. “Are you coming? Because I want my blunt.”
“Very well, then.” Ellen untied her apron and got her hat and coat from the rack, then followed the boy into the cold. “Lead the way.”
It only took a few moments to reach Oxford Street. Ellen paused at the corner and looked around.
“There.” The boy pointed to a black carriage with red trimmed wheels sitting on the other side of the street. Two bay horses swished their tails, patiently waiting. Up on the box the coachman was bundled and slouched in his chair, hat covering his face.
Bemused, Ellen crossed the busy street with the boy, sidestepping horse apples and other rubbish. She reached the door of the carriage and knocked.
It immediately swung open, the velvet curtain swaying from the motion.
Mrs. Finley’s slender form emerged from the carriage, her face pinched and pale. “Here,” she said.
Ellen blinked, surprised when suddenly white paper appeared in Mrs. Finley’s hands as she leaned out of the carriage. “What is this?” Reflexively she took the paper.
“A cheque,” Mrs. Finley said. “My husband made it out to Dr. Hart this morning for me. It’s for the cost of a wheeled chair.”
Ellen peeked inside the envelope and saw the scrawl of the bank cheque, then looked up at Mrs. Finley. “What’s this?”
The banker’s wife flushed. “I was thinking about what you said. About how we should donate what’s actually needed rather than what’s in our linen closet. And…I felt bad.” She rushed through her words. “I did my best on the baby booties, though! Did…did the mothers like them?” The hope in her eyes pricked Ellen’s conscience.
“Yes,” Ellen told her. “The mothers loved the booties.” She wasn’t there when the booties had been handed out by Mrs. Daugherty, but she felt it was safe to assume so.
The woman’s eyes sparkled. “I added bows to the blues ones,” she admitted in a hushed tone. “For the baby girls.”