Prologue
Boston, Massachusetts 1823
The brisk, icy chill in the air bit at his ears and nose which were on their way to being numb. Luckily, fine leather gloves from another life and time warmed his hands and his great coat was a barrier to the dampness that hung in the air. Arden Lambrick held tight to his black leather bag as he rapped on the weathered carved pine door. No answer. He stood for a moment observing a distant light reflecting through the window.
The house had been beautiful in its time, but now lacked the fresh paint and attention it needed to maintain respect. Cracks and splits in the aged wood reflected a hard long existence with little attention. Arden could see a movement causing the light to blink. He rapped with his knuckles again…a sturdy rap meant to grab attention. As cold as he was, the rap cost his fingers a moment of agony, despite his gloves. He had journeyed from England and was too tired to find lodging now. It was late and he was hungry. He brushed a lock of dampened dark hair from his brow as he prepared to knock one last time. Perhaps he was too anxious. He let a deep sigh of warm breath out creating a funnel of heat for his fist, forgetting for a moment that his gloves prevented any of his breath to enter. Maybe he should have rested and cleaned up from his ocean voyage before coming directly here. Perhaps some reasonable notice would have been appropriate. But his letters had gone unanswered and he took things into his own hands. Damn his impatience.
Arden had been deep in his thoughts when the door swung open revealing a man with blood smeared in rivers and droplets over a starched white smock. Rather a shocking sight to someone unprepared. The man's once-blond hair was now snowy white, with clumps of hair grabbing each other -- a man with little time for himself. Probably younger than his tired face appeared, he was agitated, yet his face beheld kindness. Dark, wrinkled smudges beneath his pale blue eyes were a telling sign. It seemed as though he had once been a handsome man, but lack of sleep and a hard life with long hours of work were difficult on a man, not to mention the natural unstoppable course of aging. He eyed Arden with intensity that could make the common man uncomfortable.
“What can I do for you, lad?” The man asked as he rubbed his bloody hands down the smock. He looked over Arden with interest again, seeing the recognizable black bag held tightly in the younger man's hand. The black bag was an intimate symbol to this man and one that bespoke volumes of who and what this stranger was. Could it have something to do with all those damned letters he gave no time to?
“Dr. Barrett, I presume.” Arden raised his black bag and said, “I've come to help you. I am a doctor in need of a practice. I hear good things about your skills. I would like to learn some things from you.” Arden had always been direct with his thoughts and communication. He was honest, too, and it had served him well. Sometimes he needed to take more time to greet people, admire the day perhaps. But he was not in a mood for that now. He didn't want to shorten the niceties that could make a difference, but it was late and the man facing him looked impatient as well. He was busy with a procedure it would seem and time was of the essence.
John Barrett looked surprised for a moment. The proper English dialect told him a lot of the handsome young man on his doorstep. His mannerisms, too, depicted that of a gentleman.
“Come inside, and let's see what you can do.“
Barrett looked skeptically over his shoulder at Arden as if challenging him.
“I am trying to save a man's leg at the moment…if you care to take a look. No better way to test your skills than something like this.”
John Barrett didn't have someone that wanted to help him show up on his doorstep every day. He wanted to be suspicious, as he should be, but was actually too tired to think that through. He had treated too many serious cases with little rest for an entire week now and it was just getting worse. Still he dreaded and actually refused to turn anyone in need away. It went against his grain. Maybe God had sent this young man to help him. He certainly prayed enough for that. It seemed his turn for a good deed to happen to him. Besides there was no better way to determine skill than watching a man in action.
Arden needed no further encouragement. He followed Dr. Barrett to the back of the house and entered a stark white lighted room. The smell of blood permeated the air. But he was used to that.
There were cupboards with their glass doors ajar, displaying colored bottles of all sorts and sizes. A big deep porcelain wash bowl dominated one wall, hosting a tall water pump that jutted from the center for cleanup. Clean white ironed linens were stacked neatly by the pump offering a thorough washing opportunity. A fire burned and crackled in a fireplace where a large pot hung with hot water ready for use. A man lay unconscious on a gurney in the center of the room, his leg bloodied below the knee. The patient lay peaceful and yet his mangled leg told a different story. Blood splatter on the floor around the gurney appeared like a vibrant wallpaper design. White linens sticky with blood cluttered the floor. It was not uncommon for this task and a familiar sight for Arden.
The injury drew Arden closer, like cream inviting a cat's lick. Not surprisingly, Arden felt himself helpless to the magnetic pull this opportunity created. He was eager to take this on. It had been weeks since he had practiced his skill. He didn't count the injuries on the ship -- they were ordinary injuries with no challenge. No matter his exhaustion. This was the air he breathed, the nourishment he thrived on. With his exhaustion set aside, his stomach grumbling its displeasure, Arden set to work. First he removed his coats and dropped them over a chair as he marched toward the pump and basin and pumped cold water into his hands, lathering soap into his open palms and half way to his elbows scrubbing vigorously. He rinsed the soap off with another hard swing of the pump and used one of the clean linens to dry himself.
Dr. Barrett eyed Arden with new found energy and approval. He smiled at what he already learned about this young doctor.
“I have cleaned the infection out. I needed to cut quite a bit away. He will have a noticeable hole to explain, but better than losing a leg, I'd say. I am a believer in cleanliness as you may have already observed. I am pleased to see you feel the same. This man was told he needed to cut the leg off by a doctor from across town. The more affluent part of town,” Dr. Barrett smirked. “I don't cut limbs off unless there is no other hope. The man had to be a butcher, I think.” Gesturing to the patient he said, “He will be in for a hard time, but I think I got the infection under control. Why don't you clean up his leg and stitch up the wound and see what you think?”
Arden observed the good job Dr. Barrett had done. He started to sew the skin together with very small skilled stitches knowing that, although normally this technique left less scaring, in this case, with so much flesh cut away, some deformity would be imminent. There would be a pulled effect and a deep crevice since so much flesh was missing. But the man would have his leg. John Barrett went to the water pump and washed the blood from his hands and scrubbed several more minutes before drying off.
Dr. Barrett and Arden cleaned the man up and dressed the wound together creating a bond and respect that would only increase between the two. They said little to each other, working as one with complete agreement on process and procedure. They were like a well-oiled machine with wheels turning in rhythm and a new-found energy between them. Soon the room was back to rights and the patient was sleeping peacefully, his leg on its long path to recovery. Arden watched the older man closely and realized what he had heard of this doctor was true. He felt a moment of satisfaction for risking all to come to America for experience and adventure.
Later that night Arden climbed into a comfortable feather bed provided by John Barrett in the same house that served as a doctors' office and a small one-bed hospital that held their new patient. Having a light meal from the kitchen first left him feeling satisfied though exhausted. Arden had proven himself to Dr. Barrett and now he understood the flow of work and how to be productive with his new friend and future partner in business.
They worked with the impoverished, that is, the people in the poorer side of town. They were seldom paid with coin, but most often with a handmade patchwork quilt, a bowl of venison stew, a bag of onions, handmade soaps or hand knit socks. The joy came into saving lives, those of people too poor for a doctor's assistance.
As a team, they treated broken arms, infections, difficult births, fevers, and stabbings. The smiles of gratitude from these people were worth more than any coin. The little coin they did receive was what kept supplies adequate. It had always been a concern for John, but so far they had managed on this meager style of living. As the weeks turned into months, a deep relationship of respect, friendship and love bonded the two men.
It was a warm afternoon when Arden went out on the porch to leave dirty linens for Mrs. Greenwald to wash and iron when he spotted a man walking with a limp toward the front steps. Arden looked up to greet the man who now stood before him. The man was dressed in coveralls common for simple labors and needed a haircut and shave. He took off his hat in greeting. A broad smile showed off a nearly toothless grin.
“I come to thank ye for saving me leg,” the man said. “The other Doc across town wanted to cut it off. I am thankful to both you docs.” With that he held out a sack. “We grew these vegetables ourselves. Me and me wife. I wished we could pay…”
“Not necessary. We don't do what we do for the money.” Arden said as he took the bag. “How is the leg treating you Jenson?” Arden asked, now recognizing their patient.
“I can't complain. I have a leg thanks to ye.”
“The more exercise you give that leg the better, Jenson. In time perhaps the limp will be slight.” Jenson nodded his thanks and turned around to leave.
Arden watched the man hobble off. This was the best of the work they did. Seeing what they did pay off and give this man his life back. His wife and family would have a struggle without a capable man to work for what little they had.
In time, John became a mentor and second father to Arden. Arden was, after all, a second son to the Duke of Brightmore and had never experienced the mentorship and love of a father. Instead, Arden had been a nuisance to his father. Arden's older brother, Dalton, needed all the attention, training and special mentoring required of the next peer of the realm to serve England. Although it was made clear to him at an early age that he was a “spare,” when he went in search of adventure and a career in medicine, he became an embarrassment to his parents.
Second sons typically sought a paid commission in the military or a position as a clergy. Arden was seeking neither of those roles, which were acceptable to the ton, finally capturing full attention from his father who cared about fashionable society. He had witnessed his father in a rage. The older man's face had been red and his features unrecognizable. After an exchange of harsh words they parted, Arden not certain he would see his parents again. But he had made the right decision and he would stand by it.
Arden occasionally wrote his brother and parents in an effort to keep communication open but had never had a single response for his trouble. But this was not surprising coming from his unforgiving, stubborn family. Someday Arden may make a greater effort to patch things up. Someone had to make the first gesture.
John and Arden had created a good working bond over the next few years, consulting each other over cases, visiting their patients in the slums of Boston, and creating respect among the community. Even the thugs saw these two men as off limits for common crime, avoiding them when they could have picked their pockets or knocked them over the head for whatever small gifts were presented them in payment for their services. After all, these two doctors treated the likes of them too, no questions asked.
As Arden was cleaning up the gurney after a patient had been discharged, a frantic woman appeared in the open doorway looking for Arden. She marched in with purpose and desperation. Her worn woolen gown was too large for her slight undernourished frame, her dull brown hair matted and in disarray for lack of time and attention. She was a bossy sort, taking charge and demanding attention be given her -- aggressive in her attitude to capture Arden's attention.
“Doc…please, you must come. Molly is in need of ye.” As the woman was pleading her case, Arden grabbed his black bag to leave. John came in to see what the commotion was all about.
“It's Molly again, John. I ‘m certain that bully of a husband has beaten her senseless once more. I'd love to…”
“You need to leave that to the law, lad.” Arden looked at John with disappointment. They had had this discussion before. John worried about Arden, who was always ready to set things right for their impoverished patients. Arden's large muscled frame and training in boxing gave him an advantage he was always eager to use on these bullies. Arden felt real attachment to these people, and John couldn't really blame him. Doctoring here was what they could do to help, not much else. Fists would not solve these problems. They were the product of poverty and John had seen it all.
Arden looked over his shoulder at John as he followed the woman out. “You know they never do a thing about crime in this section of the city. They just turn their heads toward the rich and privileged. It's the people with power who can get them elected. They ignore these people,” Arden argued.
“You don't need to get yourself killed doing the job the law won't bother doing. I need you here and healthy, lad. That's where your real talents lay. Maybe I should come along, just in case. You might need another set of hands.” He chuckled and added, “For the patient, of course.”
The woman shrieked. “Please hurry. She's real bad this time. Ben will be at the pub awhile, but when he comes home…I don't wanna be there.”
“What's your name?” Arden asked as he and John followed her out the door.
“My name's Belle. I check on Molly now and again. She was always real good to me. Watched my youngin's when I was workin'…” Belle said as she led the way.
The three hurried down the street several blocks and mounted the stairs above a small tobacco shop. The room was in disarray with shabby broken furniture tipped over and dirty dishes on the bare wooden floor and on the wash stand. They went into the only bedroom and found Molly moaning on the bed, clothes ripped and bloodied and her face beaten so badly she was unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen shut from the blows, her lips split, but even old yellow bruising from another beating was apparent to anyone looking at her.
“Ohh, Lord. Will she make it this time, Doc? Belle asked as she sat on the edge of the dirty, tattered straw mattress and took Molly's hand in hers. “She's worse, me thinks.”
“Is she still with child, Belle?” Arden asked as he sought Molly's pulse.
“Ahhh, no. She lost that babe the last time he beat her.” Belle answered looking at Arden with concern.
John grabbed linen from a table and turned to Belle. “Get us some water and is there any clean linen available for us to use?” He gently felt Molly's face for injury, while Belle went to get the water and clean linen. “She has broken bones in her face, but with the swelling…”
John and Arden started to exam the rest of her injuries when Belle came back with water and cloth. John reached in his pocket for a coin and held it out for Belle. “Go see if you can round up some ice for us to pack on her face, Belle.” Belle took off while the two men did what they could for this unfortunate woman they had seen too many times before. They found broken ribs and maybe she had internal bleeding too. Arden set to work stitching some cuts while John bound her ribs.
“You going to make a cold poultice?” John asked as he blotted some blood from her face.”
“I'm of a mind to just pack her in ice.” John nodded his agreement.
Belle had not been gone long when the front door burst open with a hard crash to the wall behind it. Ben stumbled in drunk and bloodied from fighting. He was a big man, thick, muscled with huge hands that were flexing with the urge to hit something.
Both men turned around to see Ben look at them with rage. He looked crazed. Too much drink and anger for his lot in life. Ben took in the scene taking place on the bed and it seemed to anger him more. Here were two men doctoring his woman, like he wasn't in charge of his own business. Like he did something wrong that had to be fixed.
“Get away from that harlot, you hear me? This is my bloody house and you ain't welcome! Now get the hell out before I rip you in two.” Ben bellowed as he drew a long knife from his belt and lunged for Arden. Without thinking, John dove in front of Arden blocking Ben from stabbing Arden in the chest. John was cut across the shoulder which caused the knife attack to slice a shallow wound on Arden's chest, instead of the intended stab to the heart.
While John and Arden stared in disbelief at their wounds already bleeding profusely, Molly reached with her fingers beneath her mattress and pulled out a gun. She lifted her head up from the mattress and leaned to the side to avoid the two wounded men leaning over her. With focused effort, she was able to open one swollen eye just enough to see the monster she called husband and shot without hesitation. The smoke cleared to show she had hit Ben in the head and he lay dead on the floor. There was quiet for a moment as everyone took stock of the bloody scene. John and Arden looked at each other before seeing Molly drop the gun and sink back down on the mattress with a groan.
Belle ran into the room and screamed. “Oh, Lordy. I heard a shot!” Her eyes were wide with surprise and horror. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.
Arden looked at John and his bloody shoulder for one second when he said, “Know a good doctor?” John's lips quirked up a fraction…almost a smile.
“We have a long night ahead of us, lad. Now we need to get the constable, if he'll come.”
Belle handed John the ice she had in a cotton sack in her hand and said, “I will go fetch him. There was one in the pub where I got the ice.” She rushed out the door, obviously glad to be useful and out of the house.
Later than night, John and Arden drank their brandy as they were recovering from their attacks. They had bandaged each other with the skill they used every day on their patients.
“Bloody hell, John. You should never have jumped into the way of that knife. You could have been killed.” Arden said as he watched the man he had grown to love like a father. He had been so focused on his patient that he hadn't even paid attention to Ben coming at them with a knife. His friend had saved his life and risked his own.
“But if I hadn't, you would be dead, my friend. He was aiming for your heart. Even as drunk as he was, he had perfect aim. Besides, you are like a son to me. I always wanted a son just like you. I'd do anything for you, lad.” John sipped his brandy as he settled back in his comfortable chair in the library.
“But what of your daughter? Surely she brings great satisfaction…” Arden said in response.
“And she does. She reminds me of my dear departed wife. Did I ever tell you she died in child birth?” He gave a painful sigh. “I wasn't here. I was treating some damn drunk that got his fool head bashed in. I think about that all the time. I saved his life only long enough so he could get himself killed in a gambling argument seven days later.” John said with regret. “My daughter is precious to me. She is the only part of my Beth I have left. But my daughter is not here in my life,” John added with emotion. “You are.”
“Why not bring her home? Make her part of your life. As it is, you spend bare little time with her at school during the holidays. Why don't you bring her home for the holidays?”
“Because I can't have her here in this slummy part of town, having her see into the bowels of hell and the even worse of mankind. I sent her away for more than an education. I keep thinking I will move. Start treating another kind of patient,” John said and sighed.
“But you won't move. You can't give up what has been your passion…your reason for being, what's in your heart…” Arden said with understanding. “But Amy will be eighteen soon enough and she will want to come home to you.”
“What can I offer her?” I have spent every penny I have on her clothes and schooling…insuring she has a better life.”
“Offer her your love. Believe me, that's the biggest gift you can give her. I grew up without love and yet had the advantages money can buy. It's not what it's cracked up to be.”
“That sounds good, lad. But who will she marry? Another…Ben? I just can't see what choice I have. I must protect her the best way I can.” John poured them a second drink.
Arden had never experienced such devotion and love in a family. He felt an alarming burst of love for this man who took him on without much thought. Arden had worked hard to make certain John never regretted that decision. He wished he could do something in return for this kind man, make his life easier in some way…
The mail came about once a week depending on weather or a number of things unbeknownst to Arden. He never heard from his brother Dalton or his parents. He received pamphlets on medicine and reports on the latest discoveries in medicine. John and Arden would enjoy a colorful discussion on those articles with a glass of whisky or brandy.
Then one dreary day in September Arden received a letter from home. He stood in the library reading it and rereading the same words that never changed on the one page of parchment. It was curt with no other information to soften the message. The ink was smudged and nearly illegible. But the message was clear just the same. Arden could not have felt more wounded if he had been stabbed in the heart. The dreary cold September day gave a sobering atmosphere to this message. The weather was a suitable setting for such news.
“My God, lad…what is it?” John asked as he came in to the library to banter with Arden. “You look like you'll seen a ghost.” He put an arm around Arden's shoulder in a gesture of support.
Arden turned and looked to John with such pain and agony, that John stepped back a step to better take the news. “My brother is dead. I must go back.”