The Infamous Miss Ilsa Page 12

Mrs. McSheen pivoted from her tirade against walking and onto this new topic with a dexterity of a falcon. “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard that someone fell seriously ill last night. As the head of the Convalescence and Spiritual Uplift Brigade, I assumed you’d already be at the poor soul’s bedside,” Ilsa said. “But since you’re on your way there, is there anything I can do to help?”

  Mrs. McSheen’s cheeks darkened from Deep Moral Outrage pink to Poorly Concealed Embarrassment red. “Oh! Yes! Well! I was just on my way! You don’t know how tiring it is to be on so many committees. I would love to stay and chat, Ilsa dear, but duty calls.” As Mrs. McSheen bustled off, Ilsa smiled and let herself in through the front door rather than hauling her load around to the back porch.

  Inside, Jo was dusting the sill of the big plate glass window. “You look like the cat that ate the canary. Successful trip?” she said.

  “Maybe too successful,” Ilsa said. She dumped the parcels on the front counter, then shook out her arms to restore the circulation to them. “I saved us twenty-five cents this week, thank you very kindly. And I got us free eggs. I can make a pound cake for Sunday supper.”

  Jo grinned. “An excellent idea. Did Mrs. McSheen catch you on her way out?”

  Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I heard all about your indecent walking habit. She’s not entirely wrong, though. You should be sitting down. Or in bed.”

  Jo made a face. “I’m fine. It’s just dusting. I was going out to get the kindling, and the window was a disgrace.” Ilsa guided her by the shoulders and turned her around to face one of the two armchairs that constituted their reception area. Jo hesitated, so Ilsa gave her a little nudge in the small of the back. “All right! Fine.” Jo levered herself into the cushioned chair. “But just for a minute, because we really do need to fetch in more kindling. Nils seems to have gone off on a wander.”

  Nils had a habit of disappearing for weeks or months at a time without notice, usually picking the exact worst time to do so. “I don’t care if Nils is on the moon. You’re nearly nine months pregnant. I’ll take care of the heavy lifting.” She patted Jo on the arm. “I hate to admit it, but Mrs. McSheen was right. You’re stubborn as a mule.”

  Jo pretended to sulk, even as she sank back into the chair and allowed Ilsa to prop her feet up. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d take Mrs. McSheen’s side over mine.”

  Ilsa began to knead Jo’s shoulders by way of apology for her disloyalty. Jo grunted in appreciation. “You are going to take the afternoon off and . . . knit little hats,” Ilsa said. “Or whatever big fat pregnant ladies do. And I’m going to take over dinner, too. No arguing.”

  Jo sighed. “Yes, master. When did you become so extremely annoying?”

  “I learned from the best. Now, off with you!”

  With Jo begrudgingly resting upstairs, Ilsa set out to tackle the woodpile. She rolled up her sleeves and tied on a heavy canvas apron from the toolshed. It had been months since she’d split kindling, but the combination of the crisp late-autumn air and the heavy labour felt glorious.

  She was halfway through her chores when Mrs. McSheen returned, ducking her head to fit her hat through the kitchen porch doorway. She launched directly into a monologue without so much as a how-do-you-do.

  “The Johnson baby has the croup, Mr. Peterson sprained his wrist doing some fool thing with an accordion, and Mrs. Martin has a touch of dropsy, which I personally believe is caused by eating entirely too many sweets. Why, I saw her buying both a bag of toffees and a brick of chocolate, and you know that her husband doesn’t touch the stuff on account of his sugar diabetes,” she reported. “Certainly no deathbed vigils worth rushing around town for.” Ilsa had never understood why Jo seemed to have so much trouble managing Mrs. McSheen. You simply had to wind her up like a tin toy and set her loose in the direction you wanted her to go.

  “That’s so strange. Perhaps it was one of the poorer families who live out past town.”

  “That lot. You’d know more about them than I would. Although I will say that they all come scrounging for handouts whenever one of their tots gets so much as a runny nose.”

  The sweet smile that had helped her to secure discounts was now deployed to pacify Mrs. McSheen. “I’m so sorry. I must have misunderstood. Or maybe one of the hotel guests fell ill?” she suggested.

  Mrs. McSheen gave a dismissive huff. “I don’t lose sleep over hotel guests. Not when they have not one but two doctors to tend to them.”

  She spent the next thirty minutes listening to Mrs. McSheen’s complaints about how certain hotel guests who should remain nameless—she, of course, went on to name names with great specificity—thought they were superior to the people of Fraser Springs, and how her niece was acting like a wild hoyden now that she was feeling better, and if she kept it up, she wouldn’t be fit for marriage to even the lowliest rag-and-bone man, and how with winter coming, her joints were aching more than ever. Ilsa nodded along until she thought her head might roll off her neck. Finally, Mrs. McSheen swept out as abruptly as she’d arrived, leaving Ilsa alone with the answers Theo needed.

  She pushed them to the back of her mind. From what Theo had told her, this lack of news was actually the best-case scenario. It seemed that the illness was restricted to the hotel and—annoyingly—Mrs. McSheen had made a good point. The guests already had access to the best medical care the town could offer. She would see Theo soon enough. But for now, she had water to boil, a dinner to prepare, a wandering handyman to track down, a new business to plan for and, if she were lucky, a few hours of sleep to sneak in. Secret missions would have to wait.

  Chapter 10

  The days seemed to drag until Sunday night finally arrived. There had been no new illness in the hotel since Wednesday, and the stricken guests had all recovered. From what Theo could tell, Morse seemed to have kept the entire business remarkably hushed up.

  In the daytime, the basement-level spa of the St. Alice Hotel was a bustle of patients and white-smocked attendants. Unlike Wilson’s, where patients bathed communally, hot springs water was piped into partitioned rows of large tubs so that patients could soak in privacy. The tubs were decorated with elaborate tile mosaics and spouts shaped like little cherubs, making it look as if the tubs being filled with the spit of chubby winged babies: not the most relaxing notion, but Theo supposed the spa guests found it a classy touch. Nothing was purely utilitarian here. Even the lowliest supply closet was flanked by white plaster columns.

  In the half dark, however, the basement looked abandoned. The only noise came from the fountain in the centre of the room. Spring water burbled out of a jug held aloft by a bronze woman dressed in Grecian robes. Below her, four bronze fish squirted water out of their mouths and down into the marble basin. In the light from the stairwell that led up to the hotel lobby, the fountain cast a feminine shadow along the tiled floor. Theo kept turning, expecting to see Ilsa. He’d propped open the back door with a rock. The St. Alice didn’t have a night watchman, so he didn’t anticipate any trouble.

  To distract himself, he flicked on the lamp behind the marble attendants’ station and laid his equipment out on the long counter: pipettes, slides, mounting supplies, a Bausch & Lomb microscope that he cosseted like a beloved child. He picked up a glass slide mounted with a slice of leaf and clipped it onto the stage. Viewed through the eyepiece, the ordinary leaf transformed into an elaborate latticework of cell walls. Theo twiddled the knobs, calibrating the lenses’ delicate focus. He loved this process. It was like getting a private look into a world that only God had been able to know.

  Theo looked away and rubbed his eyes under his spectacles. He’d lit only one lamp, which wasn’t an ideal light source, but it would have to do. He couldn’t trust that Dr. Greyson wouldn’t go snooping in his study, and it wouldn’t do to bring Ilsa back to his rooms. No, this would have to suffice.

  “What are you looking at?” came a quiet feminine voice, startling him out of his reverie.

&n
bsp; He spun around. Ilsa stood just inside the propped door, carrying a cloth satchel bulging with something he suspected was glass, since it clinked softly as she walked towards him.

  “A leaf. Just killing time until you got here.”

  Ilsa walked slowly around the room, sizing up the competition. She ran her hands over two wooden cherubs that stood guard over a chromed towel rack. “I’ll give them one thing, they certainly have us beat when it comes to baby angels.” She kept her voice to a whisper, which somehow made the faint lilt of her accent more pronounced.

  Theo grinned. “But I hear the staff at Wilson’s are far superior.”

  She smiled back at him. He did love to see her smile. “Speaking of which. Since you’re not allowed to come to Wilson’s, I brought massage oil in case we have time to work on your legs.” Before he had time to respond, Ilsa rustled through her purse. “But first: samples of the water from the pump at Wilson’s, the soaking tub, and the lake.”

  She handed Theo three little jam jars filled with water. Attached to a string tied around each bottle was a little paper tag that explained the water’s origin.

  “Thank you,” he said. “These are perfect.”

  “And I asked around. Nobody’s sick outside of the hotel. The Johnson baby has the croup, but otherwise we commoners are a healthy lot.”

  “That’s disappointing.” Ilsa tilted her head and gave him a look. Oh. “I mean, not disappointing that you’re healthy. That’s wonderful. Of course.” He set the little jam jars down on the marble countertop with a clink. “Anyway, I should take a look at these.” He selected a slide and cover slip, then picked up the pipette, calming himself with the familiar routine.

  “Is that a microscope?” Ilsa asked. He startled a bit—she was closer to his shoulder than he’d expected.

  “Yes. Do you want to see?”

  She nodded and sat down at the bench. “What do I do?”

  “Look into the eyepiece.”

  She leaned in close, and then frowned. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Close one eye, then look into the eyepiece with the open one.” She squinted into it as if she were sighting down a gun barrel.

  “I still don’t see anything.”

  “Here, let me help.” He stood behind her and covered one of her eyes with his hand. Her eyelashes brushed against his palm.

  “Look now,” he said softly. “It should be in focus.”

  After a moment of silence, Ilsa gave a little gasp. “What is that?”

  “A fern.”

  “Look at the patterns!”

  He had to remember to keep his voice down. It didn’t take much to set him rambling about microscope slides, especially if he had a willing audience. “I know. It always reminds me of stained glass.”

  She looked up, and he removed his hand from her face. He hadn’t meant to let the edge of his thumb linger along her cheek, but it was so soft . . . . He jammed his hands into his pockets.

  “What are you looking for in the water?” she asked.

  “I’ll show you.” He opened the jar marked “Lake” and used a pipette to siphon up some of the water. He placed a drop carefully on the glass side, then slid a round cover slip over the top.

  Ilsa stood to allow him to sit down at the microscope. He peered into the eyepiece and adjusted the viewer. A teeming world came to life before his eyes: jagged salt and iron crystals, some bits of plants and algae, a few tiny cyanobacteria and miniscule insects, but not one single cholera bacterium. They were distinctive enough that he wouldn’t have missed them. “This one’s clean,” he said. “You can take a look.” He got up and offered her the seat.

  Ilsa looked into the microscope again. “All that’s in our water?”

  Theo nodded. “It’s all totally safe. If there were cholera here, you’d see something that looks like tiny sausages with long, skinny tails.”

  That drew her attention. “You’re looking for cholera?” she hissed, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Just an example,” he hastily explained. “I can’t be sure exactly what I’m looking for at this point. But your water is definitely safe.”

  “Did you see much cholera when you were doing your training?”

  “No, not really. I have a special interest.” He had to fight to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. The field was esoteric even by the standards of his medical school, and he hadn’t had anyone to talk to about it for months. “Epidemiology is a new field, but very promising. In less than a decade, some doctors think that we’ll have stopped these outbreaks entirely. And these little creatures hold the key to it all.”

  To his surprise, Ilsa was looking attentively at him. “Is that more interesting than doctoring?”

  “Let’s just say that a Cryptosporidium has never asked for my calling card, and a Giardia lamblia has never tried to introduce me to its daughter.”

  She smiled again: even in the dark, he could see the colour in her cheeks. He longed to touch them again. “Fair enough. So do you want to be an epidemiologer?”

  “—ologist,” he corrected. She’d even attempted the proper term. His mother dismissively referred to it as “that germ nonsense.” “I do. But I need to go to Europe for more training. Dr. DuBois in Paris has already agreed to take me on.”

  “So you’re going to Paris?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “I would imagine it’s simpler for you than it is for most anyone else.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re already a doctor and you can afford the ticket.”

  He shrugged. She was right: he had advantages that the average medical student could only dream of. But it wasn’t a simple matter of booking a steamer and brushing up on his French. Not with the parents he had. He changed the subject. “Shall we start on the rest of your samples?”

  Over the course of an hour, they studied the contents of Ilsa’s jars as well as the samples he’d taken from around the St Alice. He saw spores and minerals and bacteria, but no cholera. And no Giardia lamblia, or Cryptosporidium, or any other microbe he knew that might cause illness in humans. For days, he’d nursed visions of bursting through Greyson’s office door, brandishing the slide with proof of his theory. The old man would be forced to admit that Theo had been right, that Dr. Whitacre had saved the day, thank you very much, and maybe modern science wasn’t so bad after all. But here he was, in the odd position of being unhappy that a town had clean water.

  If it wasn’t cholera, then what was wrong with the hotel’s guests? Maybe he simply hadn’t located the correct source yet. “Is there anywhere else the town gets its water? A well, or another spring somewhere?”

  Ilsa nodded. “There are two streams farther up the mountain. They’re out of the way, though.”

  “I’d like to check them.”

  “I could show you next week. I get almost all Sunday off.”

  He paused. “I don’t want you to waste your day off on what might be a fool’s errand.”

  “It’s no trouble. It’ll be good to get away for a little bit. It’s a nice walk—there are some beautiful views.”

  “Then, yes. Thank you. You’ve already helped so much.”

  Ilsa smiled. “It’s been interesting. And I’ve never seen anything through a microscope.” She looked around the darkened basement. “I don’t have to be back for another half an hour. Can I look at something else, besides the water?”

  “Of course.” He had a small box of calibration slides packed away neatly in the microscope case, although he hadn’t used any except the fern in years. He slid the little wooden box open and pulled out a slide at random: “Silk: Cocoon of B. mori.” He began to place it into the clips, and paused. “Would you like to learn how to set this up yourself?”

  “What if I break it?”

  “You won’t break it. You have a very light touch.” And even if she broke every last slide he owned, it would be worth it to make her happy.

  • • •

  On her last visit to Vancouver
, Ilsa had paid a penny to look through a kaleidoscope at a fair. She’d been stunned by the swirling colours and patterns. But this was so much better. One slide led to another, then another: a feather, a thin section of bone, a fly’s wing, a piece of purple onionskin.

  How lovely to sit beside Theo and talk about this magic lantern show created by such everyday things. Everyone she knew in Fraser Springs listened out of the corner of their ear, especially the men. How many times had she tried to tell a potential suitor something about her day or her own interests, only to find that he was staring at her chest, or looking out the window, or counting the seconds until it was his turn to speak again. Tonight felt different. Whenever she asked a question or tried to describe what she saw, Theo responded quickly, alert to her every word, trying as hard to listen as to explain. She was used to male attention, good and bad. But being taken seriously, as if her thoughts and opinions mattered? That felt like a gift.

  When the slides ran out at last, they lapsed into silence. She wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but Theo’s arm was nestled around her waist. She stretched out her neck and rolled her shoulders, which were stiff from stooping over the eyepiece for so long. He snuggled her closer, and she leaned into the comfort of the connection, resting her head against his shoulder. He smelled . . . expensive, like milled soap and heavy cloth and tasteful cologne.

  Neither of them said a word. She listened to the water in the fountain, the hum of the pumps and generators somewhere farther off in the basement’s depths, to the gentle rush of Theo’s breathing, and the steady thump of his heartbeat.

  Sharing secrets in whispers under the cover of darkness with Theo was so easy and familiar. And yet unfamiliar: he simply wasn’t the same person as the frail young man she’d loved in Vancouver. He was stronger now, broad and tanned, and he carried himself with the confidence that came with education and skill and fashionable clothes. She indulged herself, letting her fingers stroke the impossibly soft wool of his lapel, and he shifted on the bench so that she was practically sitting on his lap.