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There was a moment’s awful silence. He had no idea what he had done.
Pomeroy was stunned.
“You gave loxa quinine to John Airdrie!” he accused, realization flooding into him. “You did it behind my back!” His voice rose, shrill with outrage and betrayal, not only by her but, even worse, by the patient.
Then a new thought struck him.
“Where did you get it from? Answer me, Miss Latterly! I demand you tell me where you obtained it! Did you have the audacity to send to the fever hospital in my name?”
“No, Dr. Pomeroy. I have some quinine of my own—a very small amount,” she added hastily, “against fever. I gave him some of that.”
He was trembling with rage. “You are dismissed, Miss Latterly. You have been a troublemaker since you arrived. You were employed on the recommendation of a lady who no doubt owed some favor to your family and had little knowledge of your irresponsible and willful nature. You will leave this establishment today! Whatever possessions you have here, take them with you. And there is no purpose in your asking for a recommendation. I can give you none!”
There was silence in the ward. Someone rustled bedclothes.
“But she cured the boy!” the patient protested. “She was right! ’e’s alive because of ’er!” The man’s voice was thick with distress, at last understanding what he had done. He looked at Pomeroy, then at Hester. “She was right!” he said again.
Hester could at last afford the luxury of ceasing to care in the slightest what Pomeroy thought of her. She had nothing to lose now.
“Of course I shall go,” she acknowledged. “But don’t let your pride prevent you from helping Mrs. Begley. She doesn’t deserve to die to save your face because a nurse told you what to do.” She took a deep breath. “And since everyone in this room is aware of it, you will find it difficult to excuse.”
“Why you—you—!” Pomeroy spluttered, scarlet in the face but lost for words violent enough to satisfy his outrage and at the same time not expose his weakness. “You—”
Hester gave him one withering look, then turned away and went over to the patient who had defended her, now sitting with the bedclothes in a heap around him and a pale face full of shame.
“There is no need to blame yourself,” she said to him very gently, but clearly enough for everyone else in the ward to hear her. He needed his excusing to be known. “It was bound to happen that one day I should fall out with Dr. Pomeroy sufficiently for this to happen. At least you have spoken up for what you know, and perhaps you will have saved Mrs. Begley a great deal of pain, maybe even her life. Please do not criticize yourself for it or feel you have done me a disfavor. You have done no more than choose the time for what was inevitable.”
“Are you sure, miss? I feel that badly!” He looked at her anxiously, searching her face for belief.
“Of course I’m sure.” She forced herself to smile at him. “Have you not watched me long enough to judge that for yourself? Dr. Pomeroy and I have been on a course that was destined for collision from the beginning. And it was never possible that I should have the better of it.” She began to straighten the sheet around him. “Now take care of yourself—and may God heal you!” She took his hand briefly, then moved away again. “In spite of Pomeroy,” she added under her breath.
When she had reached her rooms, and the heat of temper had worn off a little, she began to realize what she had done. She was not only without an occupation to fill her time, and financial means with which to support herself, she had also betrayed Callandra Daviot’s confidence in her and the recommendation to which she had given her name.
She had a late-afternoon meal alone, eating only because she did not want to offend her landlady. It tasted of nothing. By five o’clock it was growing dark, and after the gas lamps were lit and the curtains were drawn the room seemed to narrow and close her in in enforced idleness and complete isolation. What should she do tomorrow? There was no infirmary, no patients to care for. She was completely unnecessary and without purpose to anyone. It was a wretched thought, and if pursued for long would undermine her to the point where she would wish to crawl into bed and remain there.
There was also the extremely sobering thought that after a week or two she would have no money and be obliged to leave here and return to beg her brother, Charles, to provide a roof over her head until she could—what? It would be extremely difficult, probably impossible to gain another position in nursing. Pomeroy would see to that.
She felt herself on the edge of tears, which she despised. She must do something. Anything was better than sitting here in this shabby room listening to the gas hissing in the silence and feeling sorry for herself. One unpleasant task to be done was explaining herself to Callandra. She owed her that, and it would be a great deal better done face-to-face than in a letter. Why not get that over with? It could hardly be worse than sitting here alone thinking about it and waiting for time to pass until she could find it reasonable to go to bed, and sleep would not be merely a running away.
She put on her best coat—she had only two, but one was definitely more flattering and less serviceable than the other—and a good hat, and went out into the street to find a hansom and give the driver Callandra Daviot’s address.
She arrived a few minutes before seven, and was relieved to find that Callandra was at home and not entertaining company, a contingency which she had not even thought of when she set out. She asked if she might see Lady Callandra and was admitted without comment by the maid.
Callandra came down the stairs within a few minutes, dressed in what she no doubt considered fashionable, but which was actually two years out of date and not the most flattering of colors. Her hair was already beginning to come out of its pins, although she must have left her dressing room no more than a moment ago, but the whole effect was redeemed by the intelligence and vitality in her face—and her evident pleasure in seeing Hester, even at this hour, and unannounced. It did not take her more than one glance to realize that something was wrong
.
“What is it, my dear?” she said on reaching the bottom stair. “What has happened?”
There was no purpose in being evasive, least of all with Callandra.
“I treated a child without the doctor’s permission—he was not there. The child seems to be recovering nicely—but I have been dismissed.” It was out. She searched Callandra’s face.
“Indeed.” Callandra’s eyebrows rose only slightly. “And the child was ill, I presume?”
“Feverish and becoming delirious.”
“With what did you treat it?”
