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“Boy, this isn’t for me-” I responded.
But my protest was in vain; the moment the bucket was in my hands, the boy had already turned and started running back down the alley, leaving me standing there with cold water sloshing onto my gloves.
I stood there for a moment, feeling a flicker of annoyance towards the bucket I had been so unceremoniously handed. But the girls had already entered the house, leaving me no choice but to follow them in. The water, I had to assume, was for the physician.
I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the darker interior. I had been in plenty of shady locations in my day. The brothels of St. Giles, the whorehouses of Venice, the grimiest sex clubs of Paris’s underground… I had beeneverywhere.
But somehow, I had been in very few middle-class accommodations. And therefore, I was not entirely sure what to expect from a merchant’s home. My London experience was shaped by the townhouses of Mayfair and St. James, the ballrooms of Almacks, and the dark underbelly of the city, with its brothels and pubs. The in-between, the middle-class experience, was foreign to me.
Standing in the Allen’s small drawing room, I found that I was pleasantly surprised. The interior was clean and well-taken care of, though sparse. The mostly bare walls were washed a clean white and decorated with a few small, yet appealing paintings of ships. There were no opulent furnishings or gaudy paintings, but the space looked well-loved… it looked like a home.
A young man ran into the room from the hallway beyond, his expression harried. He stopped abruptly as he took in my appearance. His eyes wandered from my cravat to the bucket in my gloved hands.
“Uh, the water, this way…” He finally stammered, leading me down the hallway and up a staircase.
I followed, having to duck my head in the small stairwell. We finally entered a windowless bedroom. There was a man laying on the bed, his eyes closed, with sweat beading along his forehead. His wound – a large gash across his upper chest – was bleeding onto yellowed cloth. Amelia, her cousin, and a woman I could only assume to be the man’s wife were crowded around the bed, their expressions fraught.
Another young man, this one wearing spectacles, was leaning over the injured body, his face twisted with concern. His attire suggested he was a physician.
“Leave the water there on the table, sir. Wash the cloth, will you?”
The physician said, barely looking up.
The man who had shown me upstairs grabbed the bucket from me and began to rinse the bloody pieces of cloth.
“What happened?” Amelia said, her voice small.
Her cousin, tears welling up in her eyes, began to explain.
“He was overseeing a shipment, and a young lad fell in between the ship and the dock… father jumped to save him, and was cut by a metal hook on the dock underside.”
“An act of heroism.” The young man said gruffly, his hands busy rinsing the bloody clothes.
Amelia stared at her uncle’s frozen body.
“And… the prognosis?”
The physician sighed, his forehead knotted with worry.
“It is difficult to say. I don’t want to give false hope. The bleeding is severe… but his heartbeat is regular.”
“Is there a fever?” I said, my question aimed at the physician.
Everyone in the room suddenly turned to look at me, as if my presence had, up until that point, gone unnoticed.
Amelia hastened to introduce me.
“This is the Viscount Marsden. He escorted me here.”
No one bothered to comment on how bizarre of a statement that was… which was probably for the better.
The physician, looking me up and down with a quizzical brow, answered.
“Yes, he’s feverish. But that is to be expected.”
I nodded, noting the injured man’s sweaty forehead. His face was flushed red. Feverish, indeed. The physician removed a cold compress from the man’s head and handed it to the older woman to be cleaned.
“What about bloodletting?” The younger man suddenly blurted.
