Faces of the Wind

Chapter 44

LONDON – June 1850

It is as if birds hold their opera shows when one feels a dire need for a half-an-hour nap before the day's dreaded labour begins. Not everyone is as grateful for a new day and a new beginning. Adrian turned to his side in bed and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the feathered orchestra outside.

Birds hate to be ignored. He grudgingly flipped the thin blanket, throwing it off his body, and got out of bed. He peered through the window and opened it to allow some dewy air in; its smell reminded him of when he was a boy and woke before the break of dawn to wait for his father's return from London. The road was bluish, but the neighborhood has already begun to rise. Bob Macy saw him from outside, smiled broadly and waved eagerly like a little boy. How this man managed to stay in one piece and pull a happy mood was a miracle.

There was a soft knock on the door. Lydia's weekly visit that is. It must be Monday; he often lost track of what day it was until something reminded him. She has been visiting almost every Monday since he survived the cholera epidemic that took a grip on London the previous year and claimed some fourteen thousand lives. It was a miracle he survived, and it was a miracle he spared the neighborhood this infection—thanks to Lydia. She kept him in an isolated room at the hospital and gave him plenty of clean water and salt solution. John Snow, the relative of that vile woman Kathleen, speculated that the epidemic might have spread through contaminated water, but his wisdom went unheeded, so why would anyone listen to a woman and treat the patients with clean water as she did? Women are miracle makers, which is probably what frightened men most and planted in their fragile egos the desire to 'tame' them.

One thing he was glad of; Edgar Medley's establishment was not spared the disease. It killed Paul Martin, the impostor. Maybe now he can pretend to be a painter in purgatory... or in hell. It also killed several of the brutes who beat him on various occasions... and whom he attempted to beat. It is a shame, though, that Edgar and Caleb hid like mice in Deane until the whole craze ended.

The door squeaked loudly as he opened it grumpily to be met with Lydia's sunshine grin—so full of sarcasm, the substance that ran through her body instead of blood. He went to place the kettle on the fire.

"Still not sleeping well enough?" She asked, walking inside and closing the door behind her. She now looked like a common nurse and she seemed to own it. How tiring life made some folk happy. The skin on her cheekbones was littered with freckles, her shoes dull and bulky and her dress and hat plain. All that mattered to her now was comfort and her patients—there was no room for vanity in her life. Not the same person he was accustomed to back in Steventon... until she opened her mouth to speak.

"Smile while you still have teeth, dear," she said, her tone cool, "it shows gratitude."

He grimaced instead. His linen shirt hung loose over his wrinkly trousers. He tucked one side in then placed two thick-rimmed mugs on the table, one of which was missing a handle.

She placed the basket she brought on the table before taking her hat and thin cape off and gently laying them on the back of the shortened chair.

"That one is too short," he said, beckoning her to sit on the other chair, "sit here."

"I can sit where I want," she replied, checking on the kettle... then on her cousin's weary face.

"Yes, you have made that clear on several occasions," his voice was deeper than usual and his speech a tad slower. "Those lousy birds find it fit to party when I need my sleep most."

"The birds are not lousy, dear," she sat on the chair and, as always, smiled—it made her feel like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears, "it is you who has become a grumpy old man sooner than is normal. Even Uncle Charles isn't grumpy."