The Infamous Miss Ilsa Read online

  She let the silence hang for a long moment, running her hands up and down his neck to stimulate the blood flow. The odour of the mint salve mixed with the scent of his cologne. His back was such an interesting contradiction of strength and weakness.

  “Have you found anything that helps yet? Your leg, I mean.”

  “Morphine,” he replied curtly. “But I’d rather live with the pain than start down that road.”

  She had no ready answer to that. She knew that people could become addicted to laudanum and morphine, but to choose pain when relief was available seemed so grim.

  “You can do what you like,” she said at last. “I’m going to start working down to your left leg—let me know when it hurts.”

  Stretching the contracted muscles was torturous for both of them. The heat of the soaking tub had eased some of the tissues, but not nearly enough. She would stretch and straighten the knee as far as Theo could bear, and then hold that position and count aloud to ten with him. After the first count of ten, Theo’s voice was ragged with pain.

  They went through three more rounds before she stepped back and wiped her hands on her apron. “That’s enough for today.”

  He made something halfway between a groan and a sigh before clumsily turning and twisting to sit upright on the treatment table. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated hugely. She knew it was from the pain and exertion of the stretching, but it reminded her of the last time she’d seen him without his shirt on. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as he reached for the undershirt she held out for him. Their hands touched for a moment and that, too, was so familiar.

  “Thank you,” he said, quietly. “I . . . ”

  She turned away and busied herself by tidying up the towels. Whether it was from his expression, the warmth of his hand, or simply the physical effort of her work, she was feeling uncomfortably overheated. Time to wrap this up like a professional. “I think that went as well as could be expected. But one session on its own won’t do much. If you would like to book another appointment, talk to Mary at the front counter. Have a good afternoon.”

  With that, she gathered the bowls and towels and whisked out of the room, heading straight for the kitchen, where he wouldn’t follow. She set them on the table, then sank down into a chair. She was being terribly rude. He certainly wouldn’t make another appointment. Which was for the best, but she hated to scare away a paying customer. He was just trying to set things right between them, and now she was the one making a hash of it. Everything felt so tangled up.

  After waiting long enough to be fairly sure that Theo was gone, she smoothed the front of her apron and headed to the parlour to meet her next client. Men’s hours were ending soon, and Mrs. McSheen’s sickly niece would be her final appointment of the day; she was unusually grateful for the change in gender. After that, she’d be finished out front and could take her frustrations out on mashing the potatoes for dinner.

  Mrs. McSheen’s niece hadn’t arrived yet, but Annie was there waiting, grinning broadly. “I think that new doctor is sweet on you,” she said. “You should see the tip he left. And he already booked appointments through to next month.”

  Chapter 7

  During their rounds at the St. Alice Hotel over the following week, Theo and Dr. Greyson saw to a dozen gentlemen and old ladies with symptoms ranging from “malaise” to “general irritability” to “a touch of palsy.” The latter had excited Theo momentarily—it might be an actual medical case, perhaps the lingering effects of a small stroke—but it turned out that this palsy only came on when the patient hadn’t eaten and could be remedied by a scone and a bit of jam. They were all more interested in his calling card than his diagnosis. Many were from Vancouver and were friendly with his “dear mother.” A few found him “charming” and “very distinguished.”

  It wasn’t medicine. It was just the same old social calls that his mother made, only with a stethoscope substituted for a cup of tea, and a little good old-fashioned hucksterism thrown in for good measure. To every patient, Dr. Greyson prescribed his “vitality water” to cure their ailments. A bargain at just two cents a bottle, he kept declaring, until he reminded Theo of a carnival barker. They could have enjoyed the same miracle draught from the hotel taps for free, but that wasn’t Theo’s place to point out. Oh well. Nothing in the hot springs water was likely to do any harm. It was just a waste of money.

  During his lunch break on Tuesday, he took a walk to stretch his leg before his appointment at Wilson’s. He had to admit that the treatment had helped. This was the first time in recent memory he’d walked and stood for hours at a time without needing to lie down after. It was a shame the deep massage had to be accompanied by Ilsa’s hands on his body, and Ilsa’s body so close to his own, and her voice counting along with him.

  His back and neck had buzzed from mint salve and the massage, and he could imagine so easily the path her hands had taken. It felt as if they were still on him, and he could almost hear the lilt with which she’d pronounced the muscle names in her low voice. It was so easy to let his imagination wander to the moments in his darkened childhood bedroom.

  No, those thoughts were dangerous. He had to pretend that she was an entirely different person. In a way, she was. Hopefully, he was nothing like the boy he’d been at sixteen. Ilsa’s touch was just another type of medicine now. Her fingertips skimming along the hair at his neckline was no more erotic than when he laid a hand on someone’s back to feel the wheeze of their rattling chest, or felt under someone’s jawline to palpate their thyroid.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone running up the boardwalk. He turned to see the hotel’s porter, his face flushed and breathing hard. “Excuse me, Dr. Whitacre, sir,” he gasped. “Mrs. Deighton’s taken sick and I can’t find Dr. Greyson.”

  Theo hustled back in the porter’s wake as best he could. He entered Mrs. Deighton’s room expecting to see yet another case of too many petit fours at tea. Instead, he was immediately assaulted by a terrible odour, one that reminded him of the Vancouver slums down by the riverfront. The woman in the bed was pale as wax, and her lips were chapped.

  He approached the bedside. “I’m sorry you’re feeling unwell, Mrs. Deighton. What seems to be the trouble?”

  Mrs. Deighton croaked as Theo got out his thermometer.

  “She’s got vomiting and . . . and very loose stool, sir,” the porter said in an undertone.

  As he waited for the thermometer to finish its reading, Theo pinched the skin on the back of the woman’s wrist and watched with increasing alarm as it bounced back far too slowly. She was terribly dehydrated.

  “She was healthy at breakfast, sir,” said the porter.

  A limited number of things could cause such a sudden and severe onset of symptoms, especially since she did not have a fever. This looked, in fact, an awful lot like cholera.

  Theo took the porter by the elbow and marched him to the door. “I need you to get the cook to set a pot of water to boil. Bring it to boiling for a few minutes, then let it cool. Stir in six tablespoons of sugar and a half tablespoon of salt, and bring it up as fast as you can.”

  The porter nodded gravely. “Right away, sir.”

  Theo returned to his patient’s bedside. “We’re going to get you feeling right as rain, Mrs. Deighton. We need to replenish your fluids.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered open, and she managed a nod. “Is it food poisoning?” she croaked. “I’ll have their heads if it’s food poisoning.”

  “I don’t think so.” If it was cholera, water was the most likely source. “You’ve been with us only a few days, so it could be you picked something up on your journey here. But I’ll need to run some tests to know for sure.”

  As he waited for the porter to return, Theo opened the window to air out the room. Then he removed some test tubes from his bag and carefully took samples from Mrs. Deighton’s half-empty water glass and the washbasin by the bed.

  He had just put the stoppered test
tubes into his bag when Dr. Greyson knocked at the door. He entered without waiting for a response and nodded to Theo as if relieving him from duty.

  “My dear Mrs. Deighton,” he said as he crossed the room to her bedside. “I’m so terribly sorry. The porter only just notified me of your indisposition.” His face darkened as he looked across the room to the open window. “Close that window! Honestly, are they teaching you anything at medical schools these days?”

  Theo sighed. If this was cholera, it wouldn’t matter if the windows were open, closed, or made of solid gold. Doctors had stopped giving credence to the miasma theory in the ’50s. But arguing in front Mrs. Deighton would not ease her mind. Theo did as he was told.

  “Sir, may I speak to you privately?” he asked.

  Dr. Greyson ignored him. “Sounds like you have a nasty tummy bug. I know it’s unpleasant, but these matters run their course in a day or two. I’ll stop by later on this evening with a lancet, and we can reduce that fever for you.”

  “She doesn’t have a—” Theo began to say, but thought better of it. “Sir, could I speak to you in private?”

  “Not now, boy.” He crouched down and patted the old woman’s hand. “Never fear, Mrs. Deighton. We’ll have you up and about in no time. You rest, and I’ll return tonight with a bit of something to help you sleep.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Greyson,” Mrs. Deighton croaked. “You’re so very kind.”

  “I’m sorry if this young man bothered you. He’s still in training, but he means well.”

  Theo gritted his teeth. “I hope you feel better soon,” he told the patient.

  Just as they were leaving, the porter returned with the mixture Theo had ordered. “Here, sir. I hope it’s cooled enough.”

  “Very good,” Theo said. He turned and crouched down by Mrs. Deighton’s side. “Now, ma’am, you’ve lost a great deal of fluid. This mixture is designed to restore your energy. You can sip slowly, but drink as much as possible. Ring the porter, and he can bring you more when you’re done. It’s vital that you drink as much as possible.”

  The woman looked to Dr. Greyson, who was scowling. “It can’t hurt,” he finally muttered. “You drink that, try to get some rest, and I’ll be back to see you soon.”

  The walk back to Greyson’s office was a tense one. Clearly, Theo had broken protocol again, but what was he supposed to do? Ignore a desperately sick woman until Greyson finished his three-course lunch and nap? Cast aside science to placate the old man’s pride? If this was cholera, they had to act quickly.

  Once inside the office, however, Greyson did not leave much room for debate. “I don’t know what was in that concoction of yours, but you are not to treat my patients without my permission again. The lady has the stomach flu, pure and simple.”

  “She doesn’t have a fever,” Theo said as calmly as he could.

  “I held her hand, and her temperature was clearly elevated. You don’t need to go jamming thermometers into everyone’s mouths to see that. Bedside manner, Teddy.”

  “It’s not the flu.”

  “Oh? What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” He pronounced doctor as if it were an insult. “Some rare tropical pleurisy? A case of the purple-spotted kahoots?”

  “Sudden onset, violent diarrhea, and vomiting. No fever. Fishy odour. Extreme dehydration. She’s in desperate need of rehydration, not bloodletting or opiates.” Theo took the test tubes out of his kit. “I’ll have to run some tests, but she presents with all the classic symptoms of cholera. The hotel staff need to start boiling the water.”

  Dr. Greyson’s face had turned from mottled red to purple. “The most reputable hotel this side of the Rocky Mountains most certainly does not harbour cholera. Cholera is a disease transmitted by beggars and streetwalkers, not people like Mrs. Deighton.” He snatched the test tubes from Theo’s hands.

  “If it’s not cholera, what’s the harm in my running a test to confirm that I’m wrong?”

  “Because!” Dr. Greyson sputtered, dropping the tubes into the work sink with a carelessness that made Theo wince. “Because it’s a waste of time and energy. A wild goose chase. And I will not permit it! A microscope won’t help you if you don’t have a doctor’s intuition, and you, Little Teddy, don’t know the first thing.” He practically spat out the words Little Teddy.

  Doctor’s intuition wouldn’t help a bit if that doctor were operating on assumptions fifty years out of date. It took all of Theo’s self-control to keep his own face calm and impassive. He’d spent his entire childhood being shouted at and belittled; in a good mood, his parents could make an angry Greyson look like a pussycat. Instead, he did what had served him best through his mother’s hysterical crying fits. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, sir. Is there not even a small chance it’s cholera?”

  “There is no . . . ” Greyson checked himself and lowered his voice to a hiss. “No cholera in this hotel!”

  “Yes, sir.” Time for a change in tactics. “I’ll run the tests just to get some practice, then. I hope to study with Dr. DuBois in Paris after my tenure here. He’s the leading expert on communicative disease and has done some very interesting work mapping the sanitary—” The redness of Dr. Greyson’s cheeks suggested that he did not care one whit about Dr. DuBois or epidemiology. “Even if it’s not cholera, running the tests would be a great help to me.”

  “There. Is. No. Cholera. In. This. Hotel.” Dr. Greyson said, pounding the desk beside Theo to punctuate each word.

  Theo sighed. Now was clearly not the time for talks about his future. “Very well, sir. I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Go do something useful. Update your charts.”

  Dismissed, Theo returned to his little cubby of an office and shut the door behind him. He took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and began to unpack his microscope. Dr. Greyson could forbid him from testing Mrs. Deighton, but he couldn’t keep him from looking into the hotel’s water supply. He would test every well and spring in the province, if that’s what he felt was necessary. Maybe this would make a fine paper, something to show Dr. DuBois. He could imagine it already: “A Case Study in Cholera Transmission in a Spa Community.”

  But first, he needed the samples. Theo didn’t know which was worse: not being able to use his medical training or using his medical training and having no one listen to him. When he had proof, they would have to listen, especially if more guests at the St. Alice fell ill.

  He was going to be late for his appointment at Wilson’s as it was. He would be seeing Ilsa, though. That, at least, would be something that went right today. He didn’t bother to change his shirt or his suit—he’d only be stripping out of them in a half hour anyway.

  He made it less than halfway down the boardwalk to Wilson’s Bathhouse before his nascent good mood was flattened. A tall, yellow-haired man had fallen into step alongside him somewhere around the general store. He looked to be Theo’s age or a bit older, but he was built like a bull moose, exuding an aura of disgustingly wholesome athleticism. He was also the man who had danced with Ilsa four times. Which was four times more than Theo had ever danced with her. He didn’t even know the man’s name, and he loathed him on sight.

  They tramped on in silence for a while, Theo’s limping gait setting the pace. He wished to God the fellow would simply lengthen his stride and pass him, but he must have been determined to be polite and not show up the poor cripple. Nevertheless, manners were manners.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he offered.

  “No,” the other man agreed. “Nils Barson. You’re the new doctor.” Not much of a conversationalist, then.

  “I am, yes. You’re also headed to Wilson’s?”

  He nodded. “I do odd jobs there sometimes. Most days, really.” He paused, and then added, “Ilsa works there, too.”

  “Ah.” They walked the rest of the way in mutual silence. What on earth could Ilsa possibly see in this man? She was so clever, so light and quick, and this Barson fellow was a clod.

/>   But he was a very handsome clod. The world was a truly unjust place. He glared at Barson’s broad back all the way to the front porch of the bathhouse, and kept right on glaring as the man disappeared around the side of the building. Probably headed to chop wood for five straight hours and then lift a series of increasingly heavy rocks. Yes, Theo definitely loathed him.

  His second session in the big communal soaking room was more comfortable than his first, and yet he found himself responding to the other men’s questions and stories with monosyllables, or simply drifting off into his own distracted thoughts. He couldn’t shake the image of Ilsa dancing, light and graceful as thistledown, with that lug of a handyman. His pale, twisted leg seemed more repulsive and useless each time he looked at it, refracted under the surface of the hot springs’ fizzing water. By the time Ilsa arrived at the edge of the tub to escort him to the treatment room, his gruff mood was attracting odd, wary glances from his fellow patrons.

  They walked down the cedar-panelled hallway to the treatment rooms without saying more than the minimum “Hello” and “How are you feeling today?” Once the door was closed, he stripped down to the waist and settled onto the cold enamel-topped table without waiting to be asked. Ilsa raised one pale eyebrow at this, but she let the moment pass without comment.

  Like the communal room earlier, the massage process felt less alien the second time around, the sensations of slippery oil and sure hands on his bare skin less startling. Ilsa’s presence, however, remained as distracting as ever. In fact, without her easy small talk and her soothing narration of each new stage of the massage, it was even harder to ignore the fact that Ilsa was treating him in such a clinical, professional way. She didn’t flirt. Her touch didn’t linger significantly on his body, as she had let her hands linger on Nils Barson’s strapping chest and shoulders when she’d danced with him.

  It was impossible to tell how much time had passed before she finally broke the silent tension. “Are you okay? It’s like your muscles are fighting me here.”