followed by another and another, all of them striking eleven. They sounded like a death knell to James. He had received the news about Amelia over five hours ago—forever to a cholera victim, who could perish in hours or just minutes, like Agnes’s sister who had collapsed and died outside the chophouse. Even Thaddeus, with all his training, would find it hard to halt the momentum leading toward collapse. One moment the patient would be only vaguely ill, the next . . .
A shudder overtook him, and James jerked his coat collar up around his neck, the wool rasping across the stubble sprouting on his chin, unable to fend off the chill. Impossible to get warm when the chill was coming from deep within, crystallizing like hoarfrost to coat his heart with ice. God, grant me Your mercy; give me strength.
He tripped over a break in the pavement and grabbed the iron railings surrounding a churchyard to arrest his fall. He was exhausted, couldn’t recall when he’d last eaten, and now he was stumbling about like a drunken man. The gate to the yard hung open and James went inside, collapsing onto a bench set against the iron fence. He would pause for just a moment, long enough to quiet the pounding of his heart, jittering like a fly entrapped in pitch. Ancient trees and twisted headstones rose ethereal and white, picked out by the light of the moon, monuments to others’ losses, others’ heartbreak. He rested his head against the fence and closed his eyes, pressed his skull into the hard metal as if the pain might serve as atonement.
Heavenly Father, I have failed everyone who counted on me. All those patients he hadn’t been competent enough to save; Mariah; Rachel, whose friendship he had sacrificed rather than reveal his miserable truth; Amelia. It had to be over for the child, and he hadn’t been there. So very likely she had drawn her last breath without him to witness it, her tiny hand clutched in Sophia’s, her aunt’s name the last word she would likely utter.
Because James had made so very certain the girl would never call for him.
Just as my father had not called for me.
He sobbed out his sorrow, tears that coursed hot on his face, the cold moonlight doing nothing to ease the burn. I have even failed You, God. I’ve attended church, done my duty as a good Christian, but where has my heart been?
“Merciful Father, help me though I’m undeserving,” he pleaded, turning his gaze to the heavens, dark and indecipherable above his head. “Help me see my way through these trials, as only You can. I am sorry for everything I’ve done wrong, all the people I’ve hurt. Forgive my stupid selfishness, my weakness. Give me the strength I lack. Help me accept Your will if it’s Your decision to let Amelia pass into the kingdom. Help me . . .” His voice broke as tears strangled him.
No God, don’t take Amelia. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t lose her too.
Dashing his tears from his cheeks, James pressed his palms against his thighs and stood. No more delay. The time had come to face what he had avoided for too long.
James turned down the next road and headed toward Belgravia, his feet moving him inexorably toward home. He picked up speed the closer he got, his pulse racing in time with his steps, until he was running, his heart thudding in his head.
Lord, dearest Lord, let it not be too late for Amelia. Get me there in time to hold her close one last time . . .
CHAPTER 28
Calvert, what are you doing here?” James asked, reaching his front door a few seconds after his colleague. Joe, rumpled and bleary-eyed, had just opened the door to Calvert’s knocking. “Where is Castleton? I sent for him.”
The other man sniffled, extracted a handkerchief, and blew heartily into it. “Castleton thinks he’s contracted the cholera. Sick as a dog. Sent me here to tend to the young girl in his place. Just got back from Lord Wellsley’s fete to check on her.” He pursed his lips and gave James a sweeping, censorious look. “Whoever she is.”
“She is my daughter.” He said the words firmly, without remorse. For the first time.
Calvert’s bushy eyebrows jogged upward. “Daughter? You’ve a daughter?”
“I pray I still do.” James shoved past the fellow’s corpulent frame, which reeked of cigar smoke and a long evening. “Joe, how is Amelia?”