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Wednesday, April 26, 1899

Rochester, New York

CHOLER A ON THE RISE! EPIDEMIC ANTICIPATED

IN ROCHESTER!
Amanda Broadmoor glanced at the imprudent headline that
emblazoned last night’s edition of the Rochester Democrat and
Chronicle. Why must the newspaper exaggerate? People would
be frightened into a genuine panic with such ill-advised news
reporting. Turning the headline to the inside, she creased the
paper and slipped it beneath a stack of mail on the marble-
topped table in the lower hallway of her family’s fashionable
home. Certain this most recent newspaper article would cause
yet another family squabble, she had hidden the paper in her
bedroom the previous evening.
No doubt the glaring headline had increased sales for the

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owner of the press. The paper had been quick to report four
recent deaths attributed to the dreaded disease, and with an early
spring and unrelenting rains, a number of prominent families
had already fled the city. After yesterday’s report, more would
surely follow. And for those who didn’t possess the wherewithal
to flee, the report would serve no purpose but to heighten their
fear.
Of course the Broadmoors were among the social elite of
Rochester, New York. Amanda had never known need or want,
and when bad things dared to rear their ugly heads, she had been
carefully sheltered from the worst of it. All that had changed,
however, when she decided to seek a career in medicine.
At twenty-one, Amanda felt she had the right to make her
own way in life, but her father and mother hardly saw it that
way. Their attitudes reflected those of their peers and the world
around them. Women working in the medical field were highly
frowned upon, and a woman of Amanda’s social standing was
reared to marry and produce heirs, not to tend the sick. Espe-
cially not those suffering from cholera.
“And Mama can be such an alarmist.”
At the first report Amanda’s mother had suggested the
entire family take refuge at their summer estate located on
Broadmoor Island in the St. Lawrence River. But that idea had
been immediately vetoed by her father. Jonas Broadmoor had
avowed his work would not permit him to leave Rochester. And
Amanda agreed with her father’s decision. After devoting much
of her time and energy to medical training at Dr. Carstead’s
side, Amanda couldn’t possibly desert her work—not now—not
when she was most needed.
Amanda glanced at the clock. Her mother would expect her
for breakfast, but remaining any longer would simply ensure
a tearful plea for her to cease working with Dr. Carstead. She

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would then need to offer a lengthy explanation as to why her

work was critical, and that in turn would cause a tardy arrival
at the Home for the Friendless. Before the matter could be
resolved, much valuable time would be wasted, time that could
be used to care for those in need of her ministrations. With
each newspaper claim, an argument ensued, leaving Amanda
to feel she must betray either her mother or Dr. Carstead. She
didn’t feel up to a quarrel today.
After fastening her cloak, she tucked a strand of blond hair
beneath her bonnet and slipped into the kitchen, where the car-
riage driver was finishing his morning repast. “Do hurry,” she
said, motioning toward the door. “I’m needed at the Home.”
He downed a final gulp of coffee, wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, and nodded. “The carriage is ready and
waiting.” He quickstepped to the east side of the kitchen and
opened the door with a flourish. His broad smile revealed a
row of uneven teeth. “You see? Always prepared. That’s my
motto.”
“An excellent motto, though sometimes difficult to achieve,”
Amanda said, pleased to discover the rain had ceased.
She hurried toward the carriage, the driver close on her
heels. Her own attempts to be prepared seemed to fall short
far too often. Since beginning her study of medicine with Dr.
Carstead, she’d made every effort to anticipate his needs, but
it seemed he frequently requested an item she’d never before
heard of, a medical instrument other than what she offered,
or a bandage of a different width. Amanda was certain her in-
adequate choices sometimes annoyed him. However, he held
his temper in check—at least most of the time.
“Did you read today’s headline?” the driver asked before
closing the carriage door.
Amanda nodded. “Indeed. That’s why we must hurry. I’m

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afraid there will be many at the clinic doors this morning.

Sometimes simply hearing about an illness causes people to
fear they’ve contracted it.” A sense of exhaustion washed over
her just thinking about the work ahead.
The driver grimaced. “I know what you mean, miss. I read
the article in the paper and then wondered if I was suffering
some of the symptoms myself.”
“Have you been having difficulty with your digestive
organs?”
At the mention of his digestive organs, the color heightened
in the driver’s cheeks. He glanced away and shook his head.
“No, but I had a bit of a headache yesterday, and thought I was
a bit thirstier than usual.”
“It’s likely nothing, but if you begin to experience addi-
tional symptoms, be sure to come and see the doctor. Don’t
wait too long.”
Still unable to meet her gaze, he touched his finger to the
brim of his hat. “Thank you for your concern, miss. I’ll heed
your advice.”
When they arrived at the Home for the Friendless a short
time later, Amanda’s prediction proved true. Lines had formed
outside the building, and there was little doubt most of those
waiting were seeking medical attention. After bidding the driver
good day, she hurried around the side of the building and
entered through the back door leading into the office Dr. Blake
Carstead occupied during his days at the Home.
She stopped short at the sight of the doctor examining a
young woman. “You’ve arrived earlier than usual, I see.”
He grunted. “After reading last night’s newspaper, I knew
we’d have more patients today. I wish someone would place a
muzzle on that reporter. He seems to take delight in frighten-
ing people. Did you read what he said?”

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Amanda removed her cloak and hung it on the peg alongside

the doctor’s woolen overcoat. “Only the headline,” she replied.
“I do hope the article was incorrect.”
Dr. Carstead continued to examine a cut on his patient’s
arm. “It was exaggerated. There was one death due to cholera,
but a colleague tells me the other deaths occurred when a car-
riage overturned and crushed two passersby. I don’t know why
the owner of that paper permits such slipshod reporting. If I
practiced medicine the way that newspaper reports the news,
I’d have a room filled with dead patients.”
The patient’s eyes widened at the doctor’s last remark.
“He truly does a better job than the newspaper,” Amanda
said, approaching the woman’s side.
Once the woman’s arm had been properly bandaged,
Amanda showed her to the door and returned to see how she
could best assist Blake that day.
“Honestly, I think the newspaper enjoys putting people in
a state of panic,” Blake said as he washed his hands.
“Trouble sells papers.” Amanda held out a towel.
Blake took it and looked at her oddly for a moment. “You
look pale. Are you sleeping and eating right?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I might ask you the same
thing. You haven’t slept in days.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping track,” he said rather sar-
castically. “But I don’t have the same privilege of going home
to a comfortable meal and bed that you have.”
“And whose fault is that?” Amanda countered. “You won’t
go home, and you won’t let me stay.”
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
She huffed. “It won’t be proper when you collapse from
exhaustion, either, but I’m sure I’ll think of something to tell
the masses of sick people. ‘Oh, we’re very sorry, but the doctor

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is a prideful and arrogant man who believes himself immortal.’

Even God rested on the seventh day, Dr. Carstead.”
“God wasn’t dealing with cholera at the time,” Blake replied,
unmoved by her comments.
Amanda let out an exasperated breath and went to wipe
down the examination table.
It was their last opportunity for private banter, as a steady
stream of patients kept them working until well past six that
evening.
Exhausted but unwilling to let on to how tired she was,
Amanda reached for her coat and suppressed a yawn.
“How are you getting home?” Blake asked.
“I’m certain the driver is waiting for me.”
“I’ll walk you out and make sure he’s there.”
Amanda didn’t argue. She wanted to ask when he planned
to leave but knew it would only stir an argument. She had no
energy left to partake of such a silly exchange, and Blake seemed
to sense this.
Taking hold of her arm, he escorted her out to the street,
where the Broadmoor carriage waited. The driver quickly
climbed down and opened the door. His coat revealed that it
had been raining much of the time he’d been waiting.
“Try to eat a good meal and take a hot bath,” Blake
instructed as he helped her into the carriage. “You’re no good
to me if you get sick.”
Amanda shook her head and fixed him with a stare. “I was
thinking much the same about you. Besides, you stink and
need a shave.”
He looked at her soberly for a moment and then broke into
a smile. “There you go again. Caring about me.”
She reached for the door. “I’m not at all concerned about
you, Dr. Carstead, but the friendless and sick are beginning to

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take up a collection for you. I believe they plan to purchase a

bar of soap and a razor.”
Amanda pulled the door shut even as she heard Blake roar
with laughter. She smiled to herself. It was good to hear him
laugh. There had been so little worth laughing about these
last days.

Thursday, April 27, 1899

“You’re late,” Blake growled out as Amanda entered the
examination room the next day. “I know I told you to rest, but
I didn’t mean all night and all day.”
“Oh, hush. I’m only a few minutes late. The driver was
delayed this morning.” She hung up her coat and immediately
pulled on her apron. She gave Blake a cursory glance. “I see
you took my advice. Now at least you won’t drive people away
in fear.”
Blake touched his clean-shaven chin before pointing to the
door. “The Rochester Health Board has sent examiners to check
us out. I didn’t want to look shabby for them.”
Amanda dropped to a nearby chair. She gasped as a fleet-
ing pain sliced through her midsection. Once again she had
hurried out of the house without breakfast in order to avoid
a confrontation with her mother. This time, however, she was
certain that had she eaten breakfast, she would have embar-
rassed herself in front of the good doctor. She swallowed and
clasped her open palm tight against her waist. “Has there been
any further word regarding the quarantine?”
Dr. Carstead nodded toward the crowd gathered outside his
door and touched a finger to his pursed lips. “We don’t want

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to cause undue worry.” He leaned forward, his dark hazel eyes

radiating concern. “You’re not getting sick on me, are you?”
“No, of course not. I experienced a brief moment of dis-
comfort, but I’m feeling fine.” She stood and brushed a wrinkle
from her faded navy blue skirt.
Shortly after beginning her work with Dr. Carstead, she’d
acquired a uniform of sorts. The doctor had been quick to advise
that if she was serious about learning medicine, she’d best save
her expensive silk and satin day dresses for leisure and adopt a
more utilitarian form of dress for her days at the clinic. At first
she’d been affronted by his remark, but he’d been correct. Even
though she had covered her serge skirts and cotton blouses with
a canvas apron, the Broadmoor laundress still complained of
the stains that required extra scrubbing.
“I’m sure we’ll hear of the examiner’s decision soon. Why
don’t you go through the line and separate those who have
complaints that suggest they’ve contracted cholera. Place them
in the office at the end of the hallway. When you’ve completed
that, let me know and I’ll examine them.”
Amanda retrieved a pencil and paper. She preferred keep-
ing notes while she spoke to the patients, especially when there
were so many. Otherwise important details could easily be
forgotten.
Before exiting the room, Amanda poured a glass of water
and quickly downed the contents. The cool liquid slid down
her parched throat, but her stomach immediately clenched in
a painful spasm. Perhaps she should have eaten breakfast after
all. Forcing a smile, she replaced the glass and hurried out of
the room with her stomach still violently protesting.
Dr. Carstead waved another patient into his office, and
Amanda stopped beside the next person in line. Although the
older man appeared disgruntled when she approached, he finally

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complied when she advised him that he couldn’t see the doc-
tor until he’d answered her questions. A brief look at the lump
on his head and a view of his scraped knuckles confirmed that
today’s visit had nothing to do with cholera. After spending
too much time at the local tavern last night, he’d challenged
another patron to a fight.
Amanda managed to maintain her composure for a while
longer but stopped short when she came to the sixth person in
the long line. Clutching her stomach, she pointed her finger
toward the ceiling. “I’ll be back,” she promised, then dropped
her pencil and paper on a nearby table. Grabbing an enamel
basin, she raced into a room at the far end of the hall and divested
herself of the water she’d swallowed only minutes earlier. The
liquid burned the back of her throat, and her stomach muscles
ached in protest, but that was soon forgotten when gripping
pains attacked her lower intestines. The intensity sent her run-
ning for the bathroom.
When she returned a short time later, Dr. Carstead was
waiting. “You’re sick. You’re as white as a sheet and shaking.
Why didn’t you tell me earlier? You may have infected all those
you came in contact with today.”
Amanda clutched her stomach. “You think I have cholera?”
She shook her head in denial. “I failed to eat breakfast and my
stomach is upset—nothing more.” Another spasm gripped her
midsection, and her knees buckled. Had Blake not held her
upright, she would have collapsed at his feet.

Blake Carstead stared at Amanda’s pale face while he tucked a

heavy blanket over her quivering body. He raked his long fingers
through his unruly mass of dark brown hair and turned toward
the door. How could he possibly manage without Amanda’s
help? The crowd continued to increase by the minute.

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“Quincy! I need your help,” Blake shouted to Amanda’s

uncle, the proprietor of the Home for the Friendless. If Amanda
contracted cholera, her parents would hold him responsible.
Neither had encouraged her to pursue medical training. In
fact, her father had used every ruse possible to keep her out of
medical school. When Blake had suggested she could work with
him and receive training, she’d readily accepted.
Amanda stirred and touched his arm. “Water. I’m so thirsty,”
she whispered.
He offered her only a couple ounces, for he knew what
would occur. She clutched the glass and downed the small
amount of liquid he offered. Immediately, she pointed to the
nearby basin. Fear shone in her eyes as she heaved relentlessly
before falling back onto the bed.
Where was Quincy? He rushed to the door and peered into
the clamoring crowd of patients. All of them wanted to see a
doctor—and none of them wanted to wait in the overflowing
room. They all feared the same thing. The person sitting beside
them might carry the dreaded disease. When he finally spotted
Quincy, he stepped farther into the room and shouted above the
din. Two men, neither one appearing particularly happy, stood
inside the front entrance. Blake recognized them as officials
from the Health Department. They shook their heads, obviously
agitated and anxious to be on their way. They pushed a paper
into Quincy’s hand and hurried from the room.
After Quincy read the paper, he shoved it into his jacket
and then cupped his hands to his mouth. “The Home for the
Friendless has been placed under quarantine. The authorities
have tacked a formal notice to the front gate.”
A hum of dissent quickly escalated into angry voices. Quincy
retrieved the wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and waved

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it overhead. “This is a letter of explanation. No one is to leave

the building.”
Blake wasn’t surprised when the gathered patients rushed
out of the waiting room and onto the streets. They looked
like mice fleeing a sinking ship, and there was no one to stop
them. Within minutes few remained, and those who did were
too infirm to leave under their own power. By the terms of the
quarantine, no one should have left the building, but neither
Blake nor Quincy possessed the power to hold them prisoner.
And the authorities didn’t have sufficient time to enforce the
orders. They were too busy delivering them.
The behavior of the patients came as no surprise to Dr.
Carstead. He’d seen the same reaction in other cities. People
understood the need for quarantines, but they refused to be
inconvenienced. He’d discovered many were willing to remain
within the confines of their own homes, but they didn’t want
to be held in an unfamiliar institution such as the Home for the
Friendless. And he understood their behavior. He, too, would
have preferred to be surrounded by the comfort and convenience
of his own home, where the downstairs had been converted into
a doctor’s office with all of the latest equipment to provide care
for patients able to afford his medical services.
Recently Blake’s volunteer work at the Home was consuming
more and more of his time. There was little doubt he would be
needed here during the days to come. The living conditions of
those who required free medical care made them all the more
susceptible to diseases. Besides, there were sufficient doctors
within the city of Rochester to care for those patients who could
afford to pay for medical treatment.
According to the terms of the notice, they would be quar-
antined at the Home for the next five days. Further evaluation
would be made at that time. And with several patients showing

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definite signs of cholera, Blake guessed the quarantine would

be extended. If they were to stave off the spread of the disease,
it would take more than quarantines.
He lifted his gaze upward. “We need you, Lord,” he whis-
pered before finally gaining Quincy’s attention. When the older
man drew near, Blake grasped him by the arm and pulled him
closer. “It’s Amanda. I’m afraid she’s suffering from cholera.”
Quincy peered across the threshold. The sight of his niece
caused him to pale. “I greeted her when she arrived this morn-
ing. She looked fine. When did this . . . How could this . . . Her
parents will never forgive me. They’ll blame this on me.”
“They can’t possibly blame you. They—”
Quincy shook his head with a vehemence that caused his
hair to settle in unfashionable disarray. “You mark my words.
If Amanda doesn’t recover, I’ll face my brother’s wrath for the
remainder of my days. Jonas Broadmoor can hold a grudge
longer than any man I’ve ever known.”
Both of the men turned when Amanda stirred. “My stom-
ach. I need help,” she groaned.
Blake tightened his hold on Quincy’s arm. “We must locate
a woman to help her. She’ll be in further distress if I attempt to
assist her while she’s in the throes of elimination.”
Quincy agreed. They had both assisted one of the men
who’d gone through several days of suffering. The poor fel-
low had died soon thereafter. The episode was an immediate
reminder of debilitating scenes of violent vomiting and unrelent-
ing evacuation of the bowels accompanied by gripping pain and
spasms that left the victim dehydrated. Nothing good could be
said of what lay in store for Amanda.
Blake would oversee her care, but he didn’t want to cause
her embarrassment. She had been surrounded by wealth all her
life. Now she’d be subjected to suffering this terrible illness in

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pitiable conditions. And all because of him! He should have

insisted that she remain at home when the first cases of cholera
had been suspected. Instead, he’d encouraged her to continue
working alongside him. He’d told himself he was furthering
her medical career, while in truth he’d both wanted and needed
the caring hands she offered. Only now did he acknowledge his
motivation had been borne of selfishness. What had he done?
While Quincy hurried off in search of some willing soul
who might lend aid, Blake dragged a wooden screen from across
the room and placed it beside Amanda’s bed. It would offer a
modicum of privacy.
She moaned, and her eyes fluttered open. “Water. Please
won’t you give me water?”
The result would be the same, but he couldn’t refuse. He
placed a basin on the table and then poured her a drink.
She’d barely finished drinking when she retched and emp-
tied the contents of her stomach into the basin. Blake brushed
the damp strands of hair from her perspiring forehead. Surely
she must have had some of these symptoms before she’d come
to work this morning. Why hadn’t she stayed home where she
could be properly cared for?
Before he could ask, Quincy peeked around the screen.
“Mrs. Donner has offered to lend a hand.”
“But only for a price,” the woman said. She tapped her
index finger in the opposing palm. “Don’t forget you promised
to pay me in advance.”
Blake met the woman’s intense gaze. “You might consider
helping for the sake of simply doing good for another, Mrs.
Donner.”
“Don’t you go judging me, Dr. Carstead. If I die from
cholera, Miss Broadmoor’s father won’t take it upon himself

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to feed my children. I learned a long time ago that God helps

them that help themselves.”
“If I recall, you and your children have been living in the
Home for the Friendless free of charge for well over three
months now. Aren’t those beds and food worth a speck of
charity from you?”
When she shrugged, her tattered shawl slipped from one
shoulder, and she yanked it back into place. “You’ll not convince
me to change my mind. Do you want my help or not?” She
turned to face Quincy.
“We want your help.”
Blake motioned to a pitcher and water. “You’ll need to be
careful to wash your hands after you’ve had contact with Miss
Broadmoor.” He glanced at the woman’s dirt-encrusted fingers.
“In fact, I had best teach you the proper method for scrubbing
before you begin your new duties.”
“Soon as I get my money,” she said.
Quincy offered an apologetic look. “She’s the only one who
would even consider coming back here.”
Blake removed several coins from his pocket and placed
them in the woman’s outstretched hand. “This will have to do
for now. We have no way of withdrawing money from the bank.
The quarantine, you know.”
Her hand remained open. “I’m guessing Mr. Broadmoor
can offer a little more.”
Quincy withdrew two bills from his pocket and gave them
to her.
The older woman grinned and tucked them into her pocket
along with the coins. “Now let’s have that lesson in hand
washing.”
While Blake led Mrs. Donner to the washbasin, Quincy

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followed along, reciting Scripture. “ ‘And above all these things

put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness.’ ”
Mrs. Donner squared her shoulders and pointed her finger
in Quincy’s direction. “I don’t need you reciting passages about
charity. It’s easy to be charitable when you got food on your
table and money in the bank.” Anger flashed in the woman’s
eyes. “If you want my help, you’ll pay me with money and keep
your preaching for them that want to hear it.”
Blake sent a warning look in Quincy’s direction. If he was
left to care for Amanda through this undignified illness, she’d
never be able to look him in the eye. He didn’t want Mrs. Don-
ner to leave him stranded in such a circumstance.

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