The Milk Juggernaut

In December of that year, following the death of their mother, Mel’s father sent notice of the sisters’ financial station within two weeks. The only sympathies expressed at their loss came from the courier who handed over the note. The letter itself made no mention of their mother. This was no surprise to either King daughter. According to the letter, the monthly allowance that had been previously allotted to their mother would now be placed into Mel’s name. This put the King girls in a precariously unique situation of independence. Where most men of their father’s status would be reluctant to let their daughters live freely and without a male presence to govern over them, the King girls were largely left to their own devices.

This suited them, Mel felt. The few times their mother had ventured to introduce them to society, Mel seemed to melt beneath the limelight of courtly affairs. So much of proper society consisted of acting at the judgment of others, and Mel had always struggled with sensing the truth in their perfumed words. Rebecca was largely unbothered by their opinions, but that was wrong too.

So the spacious confines of their country manor suited them fine. If Mel ever sought the genuine company of society outside of her sister, she was rarely unoccupied enough to feel it.

The boarding house that their mother ran closed only briefly in the period following her death. Several boarders attended her funeral. One of them, a professor of histories at Cambridge, actually drove in for the funeral, and helped lower her casket into the ground. It was a small, private ceremony, but by the time Mel and Becca had returned home, their kitchen overflowed with bushels of prepared food and goods from last season’s harvest.

Two weeks later, the boarding house reopened its doors to new guests. By February of the next year, the King country manor had been fully transformed into a bustling medical clinic.

Spring 1811

On the occasion that a boarder or nearby tenant farmer fell ill or injured, the Kings’ boarding house had been well known to treat the needing. After the house fell into the sole ownership of the eldest Miss King, its reputation as the impromptu source of medical attention became an official position.

The chaise lounges and sofas of the foyer and drawing room became sickbeds for the townspeople of Mercy. The younger Miss King was a lively nurse, tending to their basic needs, cleaning wounds, delivering cold compresses, and doling out medicines. The older Miss King served as doctor. She was well known in the town for her patient demeanor— suturing up the rugged bites of threshing machine wounds in neat stitches and extracting careful diagnoses from the most reticent, choleric infants.

When the King women first moved to the country, their father had established a library in their new home— obviously optimistic that he might someday take permanent residence with them. That hope was long abandoned now, but his collection of medical journals and textbooks remained in the house. At the age of four, Rebecca suffered her first fit of convulsions. Mel had watched her younger sister fall to the floor of the kitchen and sat helplessly by her side, desperately pinning down her flailing tiny hands. Their mother wrote to their father, who sent a fellow physician down. The doctor hadn’t been able to identify anything particularly concerning with Rebecca to have caused it, but he carried an unspoken air of indifference, as if he had already diagnosed her with something benign and incurable. As a young woman, Mel resolved that the young doctor had been informed of Becca’s history by her father before ever coming to observe her. Following that encounter, Mel had taken to the study, engrossing herself in the other things her father had abandoned.

Her efforts over the next nearly two decades placed Mel in a particular position as a young woman. She had never been to any of the women’s colleges or finishing school, but the combined focus of her studies and the clinical practice amongst her sister and neighbors gave Miss King as near to a doctor’s station with none of the degrees or qualification. Had she been educated in a manner traditional of young, noble born women, her degree of learning would have fallen far short of what she had achieved of her own ambition. In a way, Mel felt grateful that her father had neglected her education.

The clinic had seemed like a natural step, following their mother’s death. Her mother had been soft and charming in a way fitting of a boardinghouse keeper. Although Mel and Becca tried their best to maintain it, a sweeping fit of hay fever that befell the town brought a litany of patients to her house that early spring. Within the next few weeks, their country manor slid naturally into a clinic for the sick. Even after the fits of fever had passed, Mel found it too easy to keep their practice running. By March, the clinic had blossomed.

The work came naturally to her, and Becca took to the demands of serving as a nurse. Her early fascination with botany came in handy regularly, as the King sisters often relied on foraging when an apothecarist was not easily accessible. Their reputation grew quickly, and it was soon well established in the town that, should anyone fall sick or injured, the Kings were at their disposal.

It was rewarding work. Mel had never felt more confident in her own abilities as she did now. She’d also never been so well connected with the people of Mercy. In addition to a boarding house and clinic, the King home was a nursery for town gossip.

It was in this way that Mel first heard of the young doctor who had taken up the Parkhurst estate just outside of town. According to her sources— a milkmaid whose old case of cowpox occasionally caused swelling in the larynx— the doctor was a well-bred young man who had fallen deeply ill and was bed bound for weeks now. The milkmaid whispered to her that the doctor was gravely ill, and expected to die within the week. This dark piece of irony captivated the town deeply. Mel was admittedly more confused than entertained. If the man was indeed a successful doctor from London, why would he come out here, away from the resources of the city? Surely he would’ve had a much greater chance of treatment. Mel expressed these concerns, and the milkmaid grinned wryly. “Perhaps you ought to see him, Miss King,” she said.

Mel nodded. “At the very least I should like to take a look, I might be able to make a diagnosis. Perhaps bring him something for the pain.”

Her patient nodded sagely, and added, “Not to mention, I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

The doctor’s only servant opened the door cautiously.

“Are you Miss King?” the young man asked. “Lonnie at the pub told me I could expect to see you in the next few days.”

Mel nodded. Word traveled quickly, even if she failed to see how it was word at all.

Mr. Whittaker, Mel learned, had been hired as Mr. Langdon’s valet upon his move to Parkhurst. He spoke of his master’s symptoms with a deftness that Mel suspected meant he had been educated in medicine. He had introduced himself as valet, though, and not a nurse. Mel made note of this, but followed him silently to the master chambers. The rooms were dark, with velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any daylight from the large sash windows. A four poster bed stood in the center of the room, its beddings tossed messily about. Tucked into it, a sullen figure turned restlessly.

She approached the bed. The man was pale, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered across his pallid forehead. She turned to Mr. Whittaker to ask about the symptoms presented.

“He’s been in a state for a fortnight. Nervous fits for the first week, then nausea, headaches, fever. I’ve had him on a regiment of regular hydration and purging, but the pain…”

“Do you have any notion on what it might be?”

Whittaker paused, and conflict was clear in his anxious eyes.

“No ma’am. I only work as Mr. Langdon’s valet, you see.” Mel was confused as to why Mr. Whittaker was intent on hiding his clear medical experience, but for the sake of politeness. Furthermore, she made note of the fact that he had referred to his employer as “Mister”, rather than “Doctor”. In either case, it was none of Mel’s concern. She turned her attention back to the troubled Mr. Langdon. He shuddered slightly, his dark eyebrows were pinched tight at the center, and he let out a low moan as he shifted.

“Has he been in pain?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “He complains of it often.”

“And have you already treated him with Lanadum?” she asked, reaching for the small pouch she had brought along.

“No!” Mr. Whittaker barked, suddenly. He caught himself, and he readjusted his tone. “No, Miss King. No Lanadum for the sir.”

Mel took this into account, a new point of information along with his jolting shivers and pallid skin. “I see,” she said, leadingly. Mr. Whittaker gazed at her solemnly, neither confirming nor denying.

“Willow bark, then. It should ease his pain without aggravating his recovery.” Mr. Whittaker nodded, smiling slightly in relief. “I have some in my apothecary back at the clinic. If you’ll wait, I can bring it during lunch.”

“I couldn’t trouble you to travel all this way twice, Miss King. I can fetch it myself, if you’ll have my company.” For the first time since she had met Mr. Whittaker, the nervousness seemed to lift from his eyes. “I was told just to look over him during his illness and keep him from…coming into any harm on his own. But the pain he was in, I wanted to help him.”

Mel nodded. “I’m pleased you thought to call for me.” She looked to Mr. Langdon once more. His pained expression twisted, and his undershirt was translucent with sweat. He was a handsome man, Mel finally thought. She reached out and pressed her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt cool against the heat of his skin. Withdrawing, she paused to brush her fingers against his hair, pushing the wet locks away from his face. He groaned lightly and seemed to lean into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering. Mel pulled her hand away quickly, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glanced nervously at Mr. Whittaker, who looked away with a valet’s expert discretion. Mel chastised herself for chasing whatever stray urge had pushed her to touch him. Very unprofessional, even as a non-professional doctor. She bid Mr. Whittaker goodbye and told him she’d expect him anytime that afternoon. She was on the road back to town before he could offer to pay her for her time.

——

Before taking residence at Parkhurst, Francis Langdon was a surefire candidate to be Oxford’s most prominent graduate of the medical degree. First of his class, Dr. Langdon graduated into a healthy practice and was the most highly requested physician within London’s noble houses. Months after accepting his doctoral robes, Langdon was wed to the eldest daughter of the Clifford house— a noble line whose name peppered the seats of various ministries and aristocratic houses. Dr. Langdon was the successful head of a flourishing practice, the happy husband to a wealthy young woman, and the proud father to two healthy children. He had married into wealth, in every sense of the word.

So solid was Frank Langdon’s grasp on his good luck, when he suffered a minor injury during a riding incident, it felt unlikely that this brief lapse would have any real impact on his fortune.

The sharp twinge in his back proved difficult to shake in his recovery; but upon seeing a senior doctor from his program, Frank was prescribed a schedule of heavy dose Lanadum that easily washed away the pain. Until it didn’t. When he scraped the last spoonful of powder from the bottle, it was too easy to find another helping in his medicinal cabinet. And he needed it.

Eventually, his apothecarist bill became too steep a financial burden, and like everything else, a replacement came easily. Opium was by no means unheard of or scandalous in his circles, but it flowed quietly in smoky parlor rooms and the velvety dens of London. Visits with school mates to the odd opium den in the evenings gave Frank a welcome supplement to balance out his own supplies. Life was the same— better, even. Work in the daytime, society in the evenings. But when Frank’s father-in-law and his hunting party found him collapsed in the morning room, Lanadum powder still thick on his fingers and in his throat, the unspoken opium habit became too public-- too scandalous. Within the week, word had spread around the town that Francis Langdon-- the ambitious young doctor from Oxford-- had been dipping into his own medicines. A luxurious pastime for most, a scathing habit for him.

An unassuming estate was purchased for him in the country, in a town fittingly named Mercy. A young man was hired as Langdon’s nurse, given the costume of a valet, and sworn to secrecy. He was a mousey boy who rode out to the countryside with Langdon, mopping at his forehead as he labored through withdrawals the entire carriage ride out. A small tin of opium powder burned a whole in Frank’s waistcoat pocket. They had failed to check his person before shipping him away.

He had been given the barest few hours in the small hours, just before dawn, to bid goodbye to his children. They had been distressingly calm, Langdon reflected. Even within their short lives, it was hardly a rare occasion that Langdon would be pulled away for weeks at a time for some various work or research calling. He wished he could have imparted some amount of urgency onto them— some understanding that this was a strange and wrong thing, that their father was leaving in a more consequential way. Instead, he had kissed them goodbye, and into their soft, messy hair, he whispered an apology that would only settle in once they noticed he was really gone.

His wife stood a few paces back, blinking hard at the marble floor. Langdon stepped to her, taking her hand softly. She allowed him to hold it, but the without weight or purpose. When he leaned down to kiss her, she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. She gazed up into his eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, an indication that he was unaffected. With a sinking heart, Langdon recognized that he could not be sure. He left his family with the heavy feeling that they were only losing a great burden.

It rained the night Langdon drove into Mercy, though he hadn’t noticed until the carriage wheel bumped heavily into a pit in the country road. The carriage had careened through the mud, just far enough to strike a passing wagon. The young boy driving the wagon had been bucked from the coach box, landing in the road. The collision had jostled Langdon inside the carriage, slamming his head into the wall hard enough to startle him from his stupor, but not enough to incapacitate him. Langdon felt this was a great misfortune. His head pounded from the impact. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering at the metal tin. He was not necessarily opposed to recovering his sobriety, but why should he suffer?

The young man from the wagon was wailing outside, sitting brokenly in the mud. The valet— Mr. Whittaker, Frank later learned— had already leapt out. He was straightening the boy out, sloughing mud off the lad’s body to identify what injury had taken him. Langdon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to resist what he already knew would happen. He had lost his medical license. He had broken his oath. He was under no obligation to step foot out of this carriage.

The mud came up past his shins as he leapt down to the road.

“Valet, in my case— fetch me a roll of dressing and antiseptic fluid.” Whittaker snapped to, his nursing training clear in the urgency and efficiency with which he moved.

He knelt over the collapsed driver. The boy seemed young, perhaps four or five years older than his own. “Son, my name is Doctor- Mister Langdon. I can be of some assistance. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy continued to wail, clutching at his left leg. Langdon sighed. Sweeping more mud out of the way, he pressed gently against the leg that the boy was guarding. His wailing grew with the pressure. Running his fingers along the line of his leg, Langdon felt a discrepancy in the skeleton of the boy’s shin— just below the knee.

The valet arrived at his side. “I have the dressings, sir.”

Langdon nodded. “Set them on the wagon, then come help me lift him into our carriage. We cannot treat him in the mud.”

Whittaker did as he was told, then awaited further direction. At Langdon’s instructions, the two men lifted the boy up, mindful to keep his leg extended. He was set up in the floor of the carriage, and Whittaker set about making him comfortable. Langdon turned back to the wagon that the boy had been tossed from and felt along the edges of the wagon itself. The undercarriage of the wagon consisted of long, thin planks of wood. As Langdon had hoped, a few were loose and easy to pull away. Langdon tugged at these slats, coming away with two straight splints of wood.

He set about working on the boy’s leg, Whittaker handing him supplies as he worked. Taking the vial of antiseptic material, Langdon washed away mud from the leg, squinting in the darkness to identify any open wounds. To the best of his ability, the majority of the outer damage were merely scrapes. After cleaning the area, Langdon wrapped the leg with the bandages and loose cotton.

“Alright man,” Langdon indicated to his valet, “hold these pieces straight.” Whittaker placed his hands on either side of the leg. The rain was picking up, the horses nickering with anxiety, and the boy continued to bawl. Langdon’s head screamed with pain. “Hold it steady, now. It needs to be straight.”

Langdon took hold of his shirt hem and ripped the bottom inch off, tearing it into several thin strips.

With Whittaker holding the wooden slats tight, Langdon set about binding the splint with his makeshift cloth ties.

The boy’s leg was set and splinted within the next few minutes. Whittaker let out his breath, turning to Langdon in shaky relief. The two men stood like wet dogs in the pouring rain. Langdon ordered Whittaker to ride in the carriage with the boy and mind that he kept the leg straight. He would ride with the driver in the coach box. Although they had set the leg to heal properly, the boy continued to sob. Langdon took in a heavy breath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the tiny tin. Whittaker eyed him as he did.

“Lanadum,” Langdon said, “Allow him half the tin now. We’ll leave it with him when we go.” He pressed it into Whittaker’s hand, feeling glass shards in his spine.

“Excellently done, sir,” Whittaker said.

“Obviously.” Langdon settled into the coach box and promptly passed out.