Doctor Russell

By Suzy Stewart Dubot

Doctor Ian Russell is a Scot who has dedicated his life to helping the poor. Six years ago, he left Scotland when the woman he loved refused to marry him--unless he changed his sights for something more prestigious. Now, at thirty-three, he is a confirmed bachelor, but, an encounter with a woman who enjoys reading about parasites and other gruesome maladies may have him changing his mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzy Stewart Dubot
• Release date: Aug 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201946029

Suzy Stewart Dubot

An Anglo/American who has lived in France for nearly 40 years, she began writing as soon as she retired. She moved to London in 2012 and spent more than a year there with family. The spring of 2014, she returned to France, Her laptop has never had any trouble following her.Before retiring, she worked at a variety of jobs. Some of the more interesting have been : Art and Crafts teacher, Bartender, Marketing Assistant for N° 1 World Yacht Charterers (Moorings), Beaux Arts Model, Secretary to the French Haflinger Association...With her daughters, she is a vegetarian and a supporter of animal rights! She is also an admirer of William Wilberforce.(If you should read her book 'The Viscount's Midsummer Mistress' you will see that she has devoted some paragraphs to the subject in Regency times.)PLEASE BE KIND ENOUGH TO LEAVE A REVIEW FOR ANY BOOK YOU READ (hers included).

Book preview

~ Chapter 1~

Yorkshire 1815

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Doctor Ian Russell was bone weary.

He’d spent another long day travelling around the Yorkshire countryside tending to his patients. Because of their locations in backwoods and brush, he’d ridden rather than taken his caleche, and all his muscles were clamouring for rest.

It certainly wasn’t the money that motivated him, because most of those ill or dying couldn’t afford to pay him. Sometimes they might offer him a couple of fresh eggs, or root vegetables, or some home-made product to try and compensate for the treatment he gave, but he usually refused. They needed every item they could sell, every scrap of food they could garner, and besides, the absence of hens made him suspect the eggs were stolen. They’d risked high stakes to obtain them, and he didn’t want to deprive those who were desperate enough to steal.

His odd-job man, Tom Ruskin, had been waiting for his return and came out of the stables to take his horse. Ian knew he had already prepared the stall with clean straw, fresh water and the evening feed, and that his horse would now be rubbed down and his hoofs and legs checked. It had been a long day for the animal, too.

Thanks, Tom, Ian said as he dismounted somewhat stiffly. Tom had already taken the reins from the doctor.

’Evening, Doctor Russell, he greeted in his gravelly voice.

Ian detached his medical bag to take indoors with him and then went forward to pat his steed’s neck.

Thanks, Hero, he said with true affection and then watched as Ruskin led him away.

He bent over and then stretched up in an effort to ease his aching muscles. Having heard him arrive, his housekeeper, Mrs. Page, had opened the front door to welcome him home. He knew supper would be awaiting him, and it warmed his heart to have these two good people to come home to. But, before he could sit for his evening meal, he needed to wash and change. A progressist, he was particularly careful in matters of hygiene, convinced it was the basis of good health.

Ian Russell was a tall, sinewy Scot in his middle thirties who was a confirmed bachelor. He had left Scotland to move to Yorkshire when the woman he’d loved hadn’t been willing to accept his devotion to his patients and the absences his tending to them would demand. As she and her family moved in the same social circles as he, there was no point in prolonging his deception with frequent reminders. Thus, he had moved south to Springbrook House, situated a little way out of the City of York. Now, his lifestyle, and perhaps his frame of mind, didn’t leave room for romance.

Today’s clothes were simple enough—dark and warm for travelling about on a horse. His neck cloth was white with an uncomplicated knot. His riding boots that had been polished that morning were now scuffed.

He was fair complexioned with hair that was dark blond bordering on red. His eyes were a cold blue that counter-balanced the warmth of his colouring. For a fair man, his beard was well-furnished, and at this hour in the evening, it was already showing rough, red whiskers on his jaw. It was a nuisance to him and the only reason he shaved was because as a doctor, he felt it to be more sanitary.

He didn’t suffer fools gladly, and if he rarely smiled, it was because he had witnessed some of the very worst aspects of human nature. To be able to live with himself, he had the mission of trying to alleviate some of the suffering and misery he encountered, which was no easy task.

A generous private income from his maternal grandfather meant he did not have to work, but it had been obvious from an early age that he was passionate about all he undertook. While on a trip into Edinburgh at ten years of age, he had discovered poverty at its worst, and the indifference shown by his fellow man had rankled with him. After that, there had never been any question of remaining inactive when social conditions were so lamentable. He had studied arduously to become a general physician, not drawn to the prestige of a higher calling.

Sinking into his hot bath, the day’s tension began to ease away, but out of courtesy for Mrs. Page, Ian dared not linger too long. She did her best to have a meal ready for him every evening when he got home, usually at nightfall. Although food was often the last thing on his mind, he hated to disappoint her efforts of ‘spoiling’ him. At least now, she had reduced the quantities knowing his appetite was curbed after a harrowing day.

Tomorrow’s schedule was already forming in his mind as he rubbed soap on his hairy chest.

The first stop would be at the Cole’s hovel. The few pennies young James Cole earned unpicking clothes would be compromised until the infection on his hand healed. Ian had impressed upon James’ mother the necessity of keeping the hand clean, free from dirt, and it seemed she had finally seen the sense in it. He would check on how well he was progressing.

A bag of apples would go with him because James needed fresh fruit; they all did. He was under no illusions, though. The apples would probably be sold for a few pennies. The best he could do would be to cut one into unsellable fragments and give each a piece; let them sell the others.

He had herbs for fifteen-year-old Clotilda Harper who was slowly recovering from the death of her newborn. That in itself was not something out of the ordinary. Even the rich lost babes at birth. Where Ian was troubled was the idea that the child had been the result of incest. She lived alone with her father in an isolated corner of nowhere, surviving off the patch of land included in the cottage’s rent. He could only hope they’d had a visitor nine months earlier, possibly one who had paid, because, otherwise, Clotilda could expect more pregnancies, and he was helpless to do anything except provide the herbs that could prevent conceiving, if she were consistent with their use...

There was Elie, a veteran, who had returned home from war a damaged man; old Mother Matthews with a canker on her leg; the Jones, husband and wife, now both showing marked signs of the syphilis that had been stewing in their blood for years, and poor little Polly, a three-year-old who had every chance of losing her left eye.

‘Stop!’ he told himself. He already knew the route he would be taking tomorrow. Sleep would not come to him if he revisited all his patients in his head even before he’d stepped into his stirrups.

Standing, he rinsed himself with the now tepid water from the jug next to the bath.

Better to think of those who had recovered, like the businessman, Thomas Trubridge, who had suffered a syncope upon learning his only son was missing in action in France, fighting against Napoleon. His daughter, Constance Trubridge, had had a hand in his recovery with her stoic influence. As a gesture to her missing brother, she was now doing what she could to help homeless veterans who were abandoned in the streets of York; a commendable effort.

Miss Trubridge had asked for his help with the ailing veterans, but he had too many people to see on a daily basis without taking on others. He’d suggested Doctor Nab, a retired, one-handed naval surgeon, living in the City of York, who had jumped at the chance of being useful again.

Retirement did not suit him.

Although he was Dutch, his travels throughout the world had rendered him a man from any nation.

Smiling, he remembered his friend Doctor Nab commenting on Miss Trubridge’s admirable work. There had been a gleam in his eye even as he’d complimented her.

Drying himself absentmindedly, Constance’s image came to him again. It was true. She had much to recommend her, but knowing she had to be in her late twenties and a spinster, it seemed obvious that she preferred independence to marriage.

He, himself, did not have the time or inclination to court a steadfastly, determined woman such as she. Perhaps, Zachary Nab might endeavour the task? Good-natured Nab was someone who was always ready to take on a challenge, being gifted with a natural cheerfulness.

At the thought, Ian grimaced. He wished he’d been blessed with the same buoyancy.

Zachary Nab had had his left hand severed while their vessel had been under attack by pirates in the Caribbean. It had put paid to his usefulness as a ship’s surgeon but, once over the agony of the wound, he had been ready to put his services to use elsewhere. Although touching forty, he still had the enthusiasm for life of a young man.

Russell stepped into old, but comfortable trousers after putting on a soft cotton shirt. In a show of appreciation for Mrs. Page’s efforts, he then slipped on a russet-coloured woollen vest she’d knitted for him. Another mark of her care of him. It wouldn’t matter if he delayed shaving until the morning

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~ Chapter 2 ~

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Another day had been and gone, but this day had been one of the better ones.

Having a cynical outlook on life can have its advantages, thought Ian. Little Polly’s eye had improved to the point where he now thought she had every chance of keeping it. Her mother had followed his instructions to a fault, fearing for her daughter and her future chances of making a good marriage. No doubt, life was hard enough for the Cooper family without the little girl losing an eye.

Clotilda had been grateful for the herbs to prevent conceiving, which sadly confirmed the doctor’s notion she was either subject to incest or paid intercourse. Too soon, she’d had to cope with everything life threw at her, a woman before her time. He wished he could do more, but interfering in any way might make things worse. When he’d left Clotilda, he had not been at ease with himself. Her plight must seem hopeless to her with no education, clothes barely better than rags and barefoot as well. He’d learned that she had no other relatives to whom she could turn.

Ian rarely mentioned his patients to Mrs. Page or Tom Ruskin and certainly never gave names if he commented on his day’s work. With Clotilda, he might broach the subject with Mrs. Page, and see if she had contacts who could help. Someone might be willing to train her in the kitchen where she could hope for a small wage. Failing that, he supposed Mrs. Page might be happy to have a younger person to help her with her chores. She’d be company for her, too.

He sighed.

It wasn’t possible to save everyone from their situation, but almost invariably, rescue missions tended to snowball. He had Constance Trubridge as an example of that. She was now devoted to helping ex-soldiers get back on their feet. An heiress, she funded her own efforts.

Tom Ruskin had been the first of those he’d helped beyond the call of duty.

A soldier invalided out of the army, he had lost his voice due to an infection from a sabre cut to his shoulder. A big muscular man, it had been, perhaps, the extra flesh on his body that had saved him from a more serious wound. The infection, however, had immobilised his arm, as well as his voice. Although he’d been taken in by his married sister, the strain on their family resources had not helped the healing process. Frustration due to his inability to work or speak had played on Tom’s mental state. At twenty-seven, he’d been ready to give up.

Doctor Russell had used the excuse that it would be far easier to treat him daily if he moved into his home. From there, the return to good health had transformed Tom from patient to odd-job man. He had regained the use of both his arm and voice, although his voice was now much rougher. He’d never given Ian any reason to regret his decision to hire him.

You look a new man, Mrs. Page commented as she put the dinner plate in front of her employer. I would guess that you’ve been rewarded for treatment to your patients, no?

You don’t miss much, Mrs. Page. Today was one of my better days with positive results.

She nodded with a knowing smile as she patted his shoulder.

You’re a good man, she thought. It wasn’t often she credited a man with that evaluation.

She turned to begin preparing the package lunch he would take with him the next day.

His trips into the country did not often allow him to have lunch in an inn or public house, and he needed the energy the meal provided.

Another good meal, Mrs. Page. Your meals are also healers for my weary body. Thank you.

Wish I could do more for you, Doctor, she replied.

With her comment, his thoughts returned to Clotilda.

Would you be interested in having someone to help you? You do so much already that I’d like for you to have a little time for yourself, Ian said.

Mrs. Page was quick to latch onto the direction his thoughts were going. She’d seen how he’d helped others who were desperate. It took her less than ten seconds to reply.

Well, now that you mention it, I’m not getting any younger, she said, putting a hand on her back. I would appreciate a hand now and then, if you can afford it, Doctor? It wouldn’t have to be every day, but when it comes to changing beds and doing some of the housework, an extra pair of hands would be welcome.

Ian nodded his head. I have someone I think might suit. I’ll let you know. He got up from the table ready to retire for the evening. Have a good night, Mrs. Page.

And you too, Doctor.

Tomorrow would be another day of sifting through the pathetically poor folk who were considered the detritus of humanity.

If he could save a portion of those he encountered, he might be able to sleep peacefully. That peaceful sleep was not for tonight, though, or any time soon.

~ Chapter 3 ~

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A messenger had arrived in the morning before Ian had set off on his rounds. One of the grooms from the Trubridge estate had given him a note from Doctor Nab and Constance Trubridge asking for his assistance in operating on a man with a high fever due to an infected bullet wound.

He’d told the groom that he had to tend to one of his own patients first but would come as soon as he could. He knew that if Doctor Nab was asking for his help, it had to be fairly serious. Although Ian had surgical experience from necessity, Doctor Nab was a trained surgeon, so would not exaggerate a patient’s condition.

His first patient that morning was Mrs. Dinah Fullerton. She was expected to give birth any day, and from what he could ascertain, it was