Chapter Text
I did my best, tried to impress, my childhood dream made flesh
And my dresses and my flowering sadness, so like a woman to profit from her madness
I was only beautiful under the lights
Only powerful there
Burned down at 36
Why did you dig me up for this?
— One of the Greats / Florence and the Machine
It had been two months since Larry Russell and his father had returned to the Union Club instead of their house on 61st Street upon their return from Newport, and for the most part, Larry felt that things were going quite well in his favor.
He had been slowly working to make amends with Marian and he was determined to have a proper reconciliation after her cousin Oscar’s wedding. On top of that, the reports out of the mines in Arizona were showing an even higher amount of copper than had been predicted during the surveys, which only added to his good mood. He'd even had a letter from Gladys who, despite chiding him for leaving Newport without saying goodbye, had told him the wonderful news of her pregnancy.
The same could not be said for his father, Larry thought. Since his return from Newport, Larry had become increasingly concerned for his father's well-being. The journey to and from Newport so soon after his father's shooting had impacted his recovery, and George had been cautioned by Dr. Logan to prioritize his rest when he returned back to the Club. Larry noticed a sharpness to his father’s moods that he would have said was out of character a year ago. Nowadays, however, George was prone to short tempers, biting at the maids and staff at the Club for the smallest of things. Even the staff at the office had begun to give George a wide berth whenever his father was in the office, lest they become victim to one of his unpredictable and terrible moods.
Larry had also noticed another worrying change in his father's behaviour. While before, George had been known to enjoy a whiskey every now and then in the evenings, Larry had been hearing reports from the staff at the Club that George had been seen partaking more frequently, especially during the day. Even Larry, on occasion, had snuck many a glance at George to catch him tucking an amber bottle in the inside of his coat in between meetings at the office.
Larry had been certain that his father's health was not as it should have been, and was on the verge of reaching out to Dr. Logan himself to discuss his concerns about his father's erratic behavior – which is why he felt his stomach drop when he received a note from Church one morning informing him that his mother was ill.
Larry was ashamed to admit that he had not thought much of his mother since he and George left Newport. He had briefly heard from Marian that Bertha had returned from Newport weeks ago, and had read in Gladys’ letters that his mother had been upset at George’s abrupt leave of Newport. He knew his parents had still not reconciled, and there was a small part of him that attributed some of George’s behaviour to his discord with his wife. His parents had never quarrelled for this long before, after all, not that he could remember more than a handful of memories of them quarrelling to begin with. There had been that tense and strange energy between them for a few weeks last year, but it had blown over before Larry had even been fully aware of what the cause of it had been, even with Gladys needling him to try.
But as far as he’d been aware, his mother had been operating as though everything was as usual in 61st Street, despite the fact that her husband and son were living at the Club. If his father had received any correspondence from his mother, he never mentioned it to Larry, and Larry felt little desire to ask.
Reading Church’s note about his mother, however, made Larry feel uneasy. His mother was not prone to illness and, on the rare occasions she did fall ill, she would adamantly ignore it until she inevitably ran herself ragged and made herself even more unwell. Only the iron will of George Russell could convince her to bring the doctor around. For Church, of all people, to reach out, indicated to Larry a sense of urgency. The note did not provide much information, only to say that Mrs. Russell was ill and requesting that Larry make his way to the house as swiftly as possible.
It was only after he had begun to make his way to 61st Street, did it occur to Larry to wonder why this note had been sent to him.
As Larry's carriage pulled up to the house on 61st Street, Church came out to meet Larry on the front steps, looking uncharacteristically disheveled and tense.
“What’s happened?” Larry asked, as Church quickly rushed him inside.
“Thank you for coming, Mister Larry. It has all… happened very suddenly,” said Church, sounding quite harried.
“Your note sounded very urgent, Church. When did she fall ill?” asked Larry, and quickly was taken aback at how loudly his voice seemed to echo in the foyer. The house itself seemed dark, despite the sunny disposition of morning, and there was a dim, stale taste to the air.
Church ushered Larry towards the stairs. “She spoke of a headache four days ago and had gone to bed early without taking her usual tray. Then, for the next day or so, she expressed that she was fine.” Church paused. “However, yesterday, she complained of shortness of breath and fainted when she went up to dress for luncheon.”
Larry froze in his tracks, clutching the bannister of the staircase very tightly as he felt the world suddenly sway. Four days…fainted? “Why did you not send word before now?”
Church hesitated, a display of nervousness that was unusual for him. “I’m sorry, Mister Larry, but we had sent a note to Mr. Russell yesterday. The Mistress was refusing to send for the doctor, you see. It was only this morning that–That is–That Mrs. Bruce and I decided to send a note to you in hopes that perhaps your father had not received the previous note.”
For a moment, all Larry could do is stare at Church, unable to comprehend the words that he said. George Russell was many things, but even he would not ignore requests from his household staff regarding his wife’s health, despite their estrangement. Then Larry remembered the amber bottle of laudanum and the tray on his father’s desk at the Club that had been filled with many days worth of unopened correspondence, and all he could do was rub his face and sigh.
“No, I apologize, Church,” Larry said as he and Church resumed their walk up the stairs, heading in the direction of his mother's room. “My father… has been preoccupied with a business matter at the office for the last few days, and hasn't been at the Club.” The lie burned as it came out of his mouth.
“I appreciate the thoughtfulness shown by you and Mrs. Bruce regarding my mother,” he added, weakly, suddenly feeling quite unequipped to manage the staff’s perception of his parents’ marital discord.
“Of course, Mister Larry,” said Church, a tone in his voice that Larry could not place.
As they approached Bertha’s room, Larry cleared his throat and paused before the door.
“You said she refused to call for the doctor?”
Church nodded. “Yes, sir. After she came to, she continued to insist that she was well, though Mrs. Bruce managed to convince her to take bedrest for the rest of the day.”
Larry could infer that that had been no easy feat by Mrs. Bruce and felt his respect for her rise considerably.
“Mister Larry, I should warn you,” started Church. “Last night, Mrs. Bruce checked in on her before she went to bed and Mrs. Russell had… undoubtedly taken a turn for the worse. She could not get a word out without exhibiting a terrible cough and seemed feverish.” Church glanced at Bertha’s door before looking back at Larry, his voice suddenly a bit more hushed.
“Given the Mistress's condition, Mrs. Bruce and I felt it prudent to… go against her wishes and call for the doctor ourselves.”
Church admitted this in a manner akin to one confessing to a mortal sin which, for a brief moment, made Larry feel mildly amused before it was quickly replaced by a sense of deep gratitude.
“Nonsense, Church,” said Larry, hoping to allay his fears, which proved to be the right thing to do as Church’s demeanor relaxed instantaneously. “You and Mrs. Bruce were right to do so. I assume the doctor has been to see her?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Logan came by last night to examine her – he believes Mrs. Russell has contracted influenza."
Larry blanched. “Influenza? My god…”
Church nodded, his face grim. "He said he would look in on her again before midday," he informed Larry.
There was no doubt that Church was hoping that Larry would stay long enough to be present for Dr. Logan, and Larry felt the familiar pricklings of shame crawl up his spine as he entered his mother's bedroom, suddenly very aware of how his and George's behaviour looked to Church and the rest of the staff.
The first thing Larry noticed was that the stale air – less noticeable in Bertha's bedroom than the rest of the house – was tinged with a hint of something tangy and metallic. The second thing Larry noticed was the room was silent — the only exception being the terrible, awful wheezing sound that was coming from a figure on the bed.
His mother. Bertha.
At her bedside was Mrs. Bruce, wringing a cloth from a bowl set on a tray next to her, who beckoned him over upon noticing his arrival.
“It’s good to see you, Mister Larry,” she greeted him quietly, giving him a small smile which only caused another wave of guilt to wash over him, as she began to dab the cloth across Bertha's forehead.
Larry — throat suddenly tight — did not trust his voice enough to do more than nod at Mrs. Bruce in return. It was jarring to look at Bertha: she looked frightfully thin, looking much more angular, a sharp contrast to his last memory of her in Newport where she had been glowing and triumphant at her victory over Mrs. Astor. Her face was now sickly pale with an unnatural flush, a sure indication of the fever that Church had mentioned previously. Her hair, which had at one point been neatly braided by one of the maids, was now mussed and clung to her damp forehead. The sounds of her wheezing breaths were even more horrible up close, as Larry now could see the way her body laboured over each breath, each one sounding more pained than the last.
He reached out to grasp her hand, and was struck by the heat radiating from her. He looked at Mrs. Bruce, questioningly.
"Dr. Logan was most concerned about her fever, which rose last night. He gave instruction to try and keep her as cool as possible," she said, her voice low and hushed. She gave him a gentle look that Larry decidedly ignored, keeping his eyes fixed on Bertha.
He nodded, trying to quell the panic that was rising through him. He could see the efforts of the staff to try and keep his mother cool — she was in a thin nightgown, and the bed had been turned down with only a light coverlet, as opposed to the heavier spread his mother was accustomed to — but they seemed to have done very little to lessen the intensity of the fever.
Larry sat at Bertha's bedside, clutching at her hand, as a twisting feeling settled in his stomach. Bertha did not stir, not even to Mrs. Bruce's ministrations, but every so often, she would let out a wet, thick cough that seemed to jolt her entire body.
After what felt like an eternity, he offered to take over for Mrs. Bruce, sending her off to rest despite her protests, feeling ashamed that he hadn't thought to do sooner. She made him promise to send for her when Dr. Logan came, and it was only after he assured her that he would did she finally leave, leaving him alone with his mother for the first time in months.
Swallowing thickly, Larry resumed patting the cool cloth over Bertha's face and neck. His mind flashed to a vague, hazy memory of his childhood, when he had been bedridden with some illness not uncommon for children his age. Larry did not recall much, outside of perhaps a runny nose and sore throat, but one memory stood out above all. His mother, sitting at his bedside, nursing him and his fever, feeding him hot broth and soothing him as he cried about how terribly he felt.
"My sweet boy," she had said. And then she had gently brushed his hair from his forehead, before bending to press a soft kiss to his brow.
As if controlled by some unseen force, Larry moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand moving to brush her hair away from her face, just as she had done for him all those years ago.
Bertha stirred slightly, and Larry froze, hope brimming in his chest, as she turned her face towards his touch.
"Mother, it's me," he said, softly, pressing his hand against her cheek. "Can you hear me? I'm here."
"George…" she murmured, her voice hoarse and rough from disuse, before drifting back to her heavy, dreamless sleep.
Gazing upon his mother, all the righteous indignation he and George had been wielding over Bertha for months suddenly vanished.
What had he even been so angry about? Larry could hardly recall, truthfully. Bertha's disapproval of his engagement to Marian seemed like a forgotten memory. Marian had always expressed an affection for his mother, and Larry knew Bertha had a fondness for her as well, which is perhaps why it stung when Bertha had been disappointed at their union. Regardless, Marian spoke of Bertha to Larry with some regularity now, and he could admit sometimes even pointedly, which to him seemed to indicate that their relationship had mended since their past engagement.
And Gladys seemed over the moon, gushing in her letters about how Hector was hovering over her and the baby, practically waiting on her hand and foot. He missed her terribly, of course, but even Larry could see the love that had grown between her and Hector. He'd barely recognized her in the short time he shared with her at Newport — she seemed to have grown into a confident woman while in England.
Marian had recently made a comment to him in passing, about how seeing Gladys and Hector in Newport had reminded her of his parents. Larry had scoffed, and quickly changed the subject, unwilling to endure any conversation that compared his father and Hector. In retrospect, he could see what Marian meant. Hector seemed quite devoted, steadfast in his love for Gladys not too dissimilar to how George was with Bertha.
Had been with Bertha, Larry thought sadly, thinking back to his father's behaviour in recent months. For all Gladys thought him to be unobservant, even Larry knew George and Bertha's open affection for each other to be unusual amongst their peers. It did not seem coincidental that both of his parents seemed to be unwell during their separation from each other.
Larry leaned back in his chair, determined in his resolve. After Dr. Logan's visit, Larry would go to the Club to shake some sense in his father, and to drag him home where he belonged.
True to his word, it was just before midday that the door to Bertha's room opened, and Dr. Logan strode in, closely followed by Church. Larry rose to meet him, still clutching Bertha's hand in his own.
"Ah, young Mr. Russell, good," greeted Dr. Logan, setting his bag down next to Bertha's bedside, "how fares Mrs. Russell?"
Larry and Church dutifully reported on Bertha's health, and Larry — remembering his promise to Mrs. Bruce — quickly had Church send a maid to fetch her, as Dr. Logan began his own brief examination to assess Bertha.
Brief was an understatement, in Larry's opinion. He seemed to have barely set down his tools before he started packing them back up, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.
"Mr. Russell," he began, his face maddeningly neutral, "what I'm about to say will be difficult to hear."
A cold sensation crept up Larry's spine. Dr. Logan removed his glasses, fiddling with the ears in a way that made Larry uneasy.
"Your mother's condition is worrying," Dr. Logan continued, "and what I am most concerned about is the fever. It has not subsided since last night, and if it continues to remain like this, the possibility of it causing irreparable damage increases."
Larry stared at him blankly, dumbfounded, mouth agape.
"Irreparable damage?" Church said from behind him.
Dr. Logan flicked his eyes to Church before settling his gaze back on Larry.
"The human body was not meant to endure sustained exposure to temperatures of this level," he said, his voice cold and clinical. "In most cases, it leads to death."
There was a noise from the door, and all three men spun to see Mrs. Bruce, looking horrified, hand covering her mouth as her eyes glistened with tears.
Larry turned back to Dr. Logan, his heart hammering in his chest.
"What are you saying, Dr. Logan?" he stammered.
Dr. Logan gave Larry a sympathetic look.
"I'm saying, Mr. Russell, that it might be best to prepare for what should happen if Mrs. Russell's fever does not subside by this evening."