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A Curative Touch:

From the time I was a small child, I have been exceptionally healthy. No disease or accident can fell me, nor anyone around me. It is as if I am protected, and by extension, those around me are as well. If I touch someone, they are cured.

I know I cannot tell anyone for fear I will be called a witch and hunted down or thrown into Bedlam. But I cannot squander my gift either. I have an extraordinary ability—I must use it to help as many people as I may.

I plan to marry a doctor so that I might assist him in his practice of medicine. It would be the perfect shield for my unusual pastime. I cannot allow myself to be distracted by a handsome gentleman from Derbyshire, no matter how rich or intelligent he is.

Falling in love would ruin everything.

A Curative Touch

Chapter 1

I was six years old when I realized I was not like the other children.
My sisters came down with a pox, from Jane down to baby Lydia. So did Joseph the stable boy and nearly all the tenants’ children. I was the only one not covered in itchy, painful sores. Jane’s fever was dangerously high, and Lydia was so bad, the apothecary told my parents to prepare themselves, for she likely would not live more than a day or two. My mother wept and wept, sobbing so loudly she could be heard in every room of the house.
My father was also ill—only my mother had had the pox as a child and remained untouched—so I offered to hold the baby that she might rest. As the only healthy child, I had been rigorously quarantined for a week. I had overheard the apothecary say they should keep me far from my sisters, so that if the worst happened, they would not be entirely childless. My mother had gasped and my father had looked very grave. When he saw me lurking in the doorway, he sent me away with a stern look.
After I snuck into my mother’s room, I convinced her to let me hold my sister and settled into the chair by the fire. It was proof of her exhaustion that she allowed me to do so. She handed me the squalling baby and watched us carefully as Lydia settled down and quietened.
That was the other strange thing about me. Babies stopped crying when I held them, or played with them, or stroked their downy hair. At first we had thought it was only Kitty, but it was the same with two different tenants’ babies, young Maria Lucas, and now Lydia.
I promised to wake my mother if the babe fussed even a little as she wearily lay down on her bed; she was asleep within moments. A few hours later, after I had hummed every song I knew to my youngest sister, my mother woke with a start.
“Lizzy, how is the baby?”
“She is well, Mama. You may go back to sleep.”
My mother looked at me suspiciously and rose from her bed to investigate my assertion. She gasped when she saw Lydia.
“See. I told you she was well.”
My mother’s face was pale and her eyes wide. “Give me the baby, Elizabeth,” she said, her voice shaking.
I did not understand what she was so upset about. Lydia was sleeping peacefully. She had not cried in nearly three hours, and her skin was no longer the angry red it had been before.
As my mother took the babe from my arms, she had a pained look on her face. I could not understand it. Was she not happy Lydia was no longer suffering? Her expression changed to shock when she brought the babe closer to her face. Then she placed a hand on her chest.
“She breathes!”
“Of course she does. I told you she was well.” My mother did not always speak sensibly.
“But she is so pale…”
I could not understand what she was going on about. “She only looks pale because she was so dreadfully red before. She is a normal color now.”
My mother looked at me strangely then, as if she were trying to understand me, and began to examine the baby. She checked her arms and legs, her torso, her neck. She changed the napkin and continued to exclaim her wonder.
“It is extraordinary!”
“What is, Mama?”
“Lydia. Her spots are completely gone. As if she never had them! I have never seen the like.”
“It has been like that for a while.”
She looked up at me quickly. “It has?”
I nodded.
“When did her spots begin to fade?”
“I do not know, but you had not been asleep long. You had not begun snoring yet.”
“I do not snore.”
I wisely remained silent.
“Well.” My mother took a deep breath and stared harder at my sister. “So curious.”
She finally looked back at me and said, “Go on to bed, Lizzy. You have been a great help, dear.”
I left my mother’s chamber and stopped by the nursery. My father had insisted I be kept from my sisters lest I fall ill, but I wanted to check on Janie. I slipped into the dark room and crept over to my sister’s bed.
“Feel better, Janie,” I whispered. She thrashed about in the bed, her face covered in a light sheen of sweat and itchy, red spots. I placed my arm on hers to quieten her. “Shh. All will be well. Lydia is already feeling much better. I am certain you will soon be better, too.”
Jane stilled under my touch and I slipped out of the nursery before nanny caught me.
The next morning, I tapped on my mother’s door to say good morning and ask how the baby fared.
“Good morning, Lizzy. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. How is Lydia?”
“She is doing very well indeed. Are you still feeling well yourself?”
I nodded vigorously. I felt the same as I always felt, though rather bored.
“I have good news from the nursery. Jane seems to be recovering.”
I smiled so broadly I my cheeks ached. “Truly?”
“Truly. Nanny says her fever has broken and more than half her pox are completely gone, and the remainder look to be fading.”
I returned my mother’s happy smile. “That is wonderful! May I see her?”
“I do not think it wise. You have still not had the disease and I do not wish you to become ill.”
I must have looked guilty for my mother immediately became suspicious and squinted at me. “Elizabeth? Did you sneak into the nursery to see your sisters?”
I stared at the floor.
“Elizabeth.”
“Only for a minute! And I only saw Janie. She was hot and sweaty and moving about. I only spoke to her for a second to calm her. Then I left. I promise!”
My mother looked at me sternly. “You were only there a minute?”
I nodded.
She exhaled heavily. “It seems you are safe this time, but I insist you stay out of the nursery.”
I said I would and made my way to the chamber I was temporarily imprisoned in. As I passed by my father’s door, I heard him speaking to his man, Simms. I tapped on the door tentatively.
“Come in, Elizabeth.”
“How did you know it was me?” I asked as I peeked my head around the door.
“You think I do not know the steps and knock of my own child?” asked my father with a glint in his eye.
“How are you feeling?”
Simms left through the servants’ door and my father bade me closer. “I am doing better, my child. Are you still well?”
I nodded. Why did everyone continue to be surprised by that fact?
“Might you sing me a song? I have not heard any music since this wretched business began.”
I smiled and scampered onto the bed beside him. He patted my hand and I began the song he had taught me that summer. He and my mother often sang together in the evenings. No one knew it, but my father could play the pianoforte better than most and my mother had a lovely singing voice. Father often said I sounded like her when I sang. His eyes drooped and I lowered my voice until he drifted off with my hand still in his. I slid off the bed and tiptoed to the door, sneaking back to my room before my mother caught me.
***
My father was up and about the next morning, but Kitty and Mary remained ill for several more days and I was banned from the nursery. Kitty had always been small for her age and had been sick several times already in her two and a half years of life, and my parents were most worried about her.
Mary was of a stouter constitution, but my mother worried the scars would mar her beauty. Mary and Jane were both possessed of large blue eyes, rosebud mouths, and dainty little noses. I had heard my mother say several times that Jane and Mary had gotten their looks from her and she hoped Lydia would have them as well. I took that to mean Kitty and I did not look like our mother, but I could see no great difference between me and my sisters.
By the end of another week, Kitty and Mary had recovered, but my mother’s fears had come true. Mary appeared very scarred indeed. The apothecary said the scars would likely fade in time, and promised she was still a lovely girl—he was kind like that—but my mother bemoaned the loss of Mary’s perfection like it was her death.
Mary herself did not seem to fully understand, but my mother’s tears upset her.
Two months later, I was playing in the garden with Millie, one of the wealthier tenants’ children. She fell and hit her head and it bled horribly, all down her face and over the front of her clothes. I instinctively grabbed the handkerchief from my pocket and covered the wound, and my mother came running over. She had been having tea on the terrace with Mrs. Goulding and had seen the entire thing.
Mother pushed me out of the way and gently lifted the handkerchief, apologizing to Millie for any pain she might cause. Millie screwed her eyes tight and my mother used the cloth to gently wipe away the blood to see the wound.
“Was she bleeding from her hair, Lizzy?”
“No Mama, it was her forehead.”
“Hmm.”
I looked over her shoulder and saw what she was staring at. The place where Millie’s skin had split open, where blood had been flowing from quite readily, was a thin pink line, like a faded scar.
“That is odd,” said my mother.
It was odd. I had seen the cut myself. I had seen the blood. Even now, wet, red spots covered the side of Millie’s face and splattered across her frock.
My mother sent her to Hill and had her wrap a bandage around her head, then had the stableboy walk her home. I did not understand why she wrapped a bandage around a wound that was already closed, but that evening, my mother came to my room.
“Elizabeth,” she said strangely.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Did you say anything in particular to Millie today? When she hit her head?”
I looked at her in confusion. “I asked her if she was all right.”
“Yes, but did you say anything else? Perhaps a prayer? Or did you wish she might heal quickly?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She looked at me strangely and continued to watch me until I felt like one of the bugs on a pin in my father’s bookroom.
“What is it, Mama?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. When you held Lydia when she was ill, did you pray for her?”
“Of course!”
She smiled conciliatorily. “Yes, but did you say anything specific?”
Why was she talking in riddles? “I only sang her a few songs. The ones Nanny sings to us.”
She nodded. “And when you went to see Jane, did you sing to her?”
“No, there was no time. I was only there a minute.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
I shrugged. “I snuck into the nursery and Janie was rolling about in her bed. I stroked her arm and shushed her, told her to get well soon, and I left. Why?”
Her eyes took on a strange light. “You touched her?”
“Only her arm.”
She nodded. “And you visited with your father? I heard you singing.”
I looked at the floor. “Only for a little while.”
“It is all right, Lizzy. I am only trying to understand.”
I swung my feet where they hung off the bed. “I sat by him on the bed and sang him the song he taught me, then I left when he fell asleep.”
“Did you touch him?”
“Only his hand!”
“It is all right, my dear. I am only asking. You are not in trouble.”
I sighed and nodded.
“But you did touch him?”
I nodded again.
My mother pursed her lips and looked at me in a way I had never seen before. “I want you to promise me you will never speak of this to anyone, Elizabeth. Do you understand?”
I did not know what I was not supposed to speak of, but I promised never to repeat the conversation.
“Might you do something for me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering what she would ask.
“I have a sore tummy, right here.” She placed a hand on her lower belly. “Might you hold my hand and sing me a song like you did for your father? Perhaps it will help me to feel better.”
I agreed readily. I did not know what illness my mother had, or what she thought a song could do, but she had been sad ever since Lydia was born seven months ago and I was glad for the opportunity to make her happy.
She settled next to me on the bed and wrapped her arm about me, and I snuggled into her side. We had not sat thus in a very long time and I was so happy I squeezed her tightly to me. She laughed lightly and said, “Shall we sing, my Lizzy?”
She began to hum and I joined her, our fingers locking together. We sang three songs and it was not until the fourth that I realized our joined hands were resting over my mother’s belly, where she had said she was sore.
When the song was finished, I whispered, “What is wrong with your belly, Mama?”
She took a shaky breath, then said just as quietly, “Life is very hard for women, my dear. The bearing of children is rewarding, but it is not without consequences.”
I scrunched my face up in confusion, not understanding her at all, but she held me a little tighter and I felt tears on my head. I said a silent prayer that whatever was wrong with my mother’s body would be made well.
***
Over the next month, my mother would repeat this strange occurrence thrice more. She would invite me to sit next to her on her bed, or on the settee in her favorite parlor. Once, she invited me for tea and Cook made the little cakes that we only had on special occasions.
“Are you well, mummy?”
“Yes, child, perfectly well. Why do you ask?”
“We are having special cakes,” I trailed off, not wanting to ask if there was terrible news and she was trying to soften the blow. “Is it Granny?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“She is perfectly well as far as I know.”
I continued to squirm and finally my mother said, “Would you like to sing with me?”
I agreed and we went to the pianoforte and squeezed onto the bench together. My mother could not play properly or well, or so she said, but she could pluck out a melody easily enough. She tinkered at the keys as we sang together for the next quarter hour and for years it remained one of my happiest memories of my mother.
Until I understood what she was truly about, that is.