The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Ella giggled.

  "Good Lord, Harriet," India said. "We're in a public place. Do keep your voice down before we're arrested on obscenity charges."

  "Oh, no one even knows what I'm talking about. Clitoris. Sounds like a brand of tooth polish. Can't you just see the advertisement on the side of a bus?"

  Ella snorted laughter.

  "Stop encouraging her!" India scolded.

  Harriet winked at Ella, then took a silver cigarette case from her jacket pocket. She lit one and took a deep drag, eliciting stares. India removed the cigarette from her lips, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with her boot.

  "First, do no harm, Dr. Hatcher," she said.

  "Hippocrates meant to our patients, Dr. Jones."

  "And to ourselves. Still smoking twenty a day?"

  "Nowhere near."

  "They cause cancer of the lung, you know."

  "It's never been proven."

  "It will be."

  Harriet rolled her eyes. "Still a barrel of fun, I see."

  India winced at that. She had been a better student, a better technician, but Harriet had been more popular. She had an easy way and a wicked tongue and made everyone laugh. India had seen her humor work wonders with patients. She could put even the most anxious at ease. India envied her that. Harriet jollied patients, whereas she lectured them. Windy Indy. Ella was right. The nickname fit her.

  "Well, ladies, I'm off," Harriet said. "I want a better view of Mrs. Pankhurst. Oh, I almost forgot to ask you, Indy... how are you getting on at Dr. Gifford's?"

  "Fine."

  "Liar. Look at yourself. You look like a fishwife."

  "All right, then. I'm coping. Barely. How's Harley Street?"

  Harriet came from wealth. Her surgery was in a prestigious neighbor- hood where the city's most eminent doctors practiced.

  "Harley's hellish. I'm bored out of my skin. If I have to listen to one more pampered little madam tell me how exhausted she is from the sea-son, or how vexing it is managing the servants, or that her neuralgia flares every time her sons come home from Eton, I'll scream." She let out a long, trailing sigh. "Indy, remember when we used to talk about your clinic? In the wee hours when we should've been studying?"

  "Of course I do."

  "I still think about it."

  "So do I. In fact, Ella and I are trying to make a go of it. We even have a director of development--Wish. We're currently seeking donations--both money and goods--and when we have enough collected we're going to look for a building. In Whitechapel."

  "You're really serious, Indy!"

  "I am always serious, Harriet."

  "How much have you got so far?"

  India and Ella traded sheepish glances.

  "Um, well, a hundred seventy-eight pounds..." India began.

  "And five boxes of rusks," Ella finished.

  Harriet laughed. "I don't think I'll be closing my office anytime soon."

  "Don't scoff," India said, bristling. "We'll get it opened eventually. It's just going to take us a bit of time to get the money together."

  "I know you will, India. I wasn't scoffing. Truly. I'm not happy in Harley Street. Not at all. If you get the clinic up and running, I'll work there. For free."

  "Really?" India asked, astonished.

  "Yes. I don't need money. What I do need is a challenge, and it sounds like your clinic would provide it."

  India gave Harriet a long look. "I'm going to hold you to this, Hatch," she said.

  "I'm sure you will. Get it going, old girl, and I'll be there. And I'll drag Fenwick with me, too. He's fed up with teaching. Told me that his current class is an even bigger bunch of blockheads than we were."

  "Coming from Fenwick, that's quite a compliment," India said.

  "Oh, look! There's one of my patients. The only one I actually like. Mrs. Bristow!"

  A beautiful woman in a pink suit and rose-trimmed hat was standing on her tiptoes a few yards away. She smiled at Harriet, then walked over. India could see immediately that she was about five months pregnant. Her well-cut suit probably fooled most eyes, but not hers.

  "Are you well?" Harriet asked.

  "Very well, thank you," Fiona said.

  Harriet made introductions all around, then asked Fiona if she'd come to hear Mrs. Pankhurst.

  "Actually I'm supposed to be introducing my husband," Fiona replied. "I was supposed to have been here an hour ago. I have to get to the stage, but I'm not sure how I'm going to get through this crowd."

  "I'm going to try skirting around the edge of the square," Harriet said. "Do you want to come with me?"

  "I've already tried that. There are so many police constables over there, no one can get by. I think I'll try the direct route. Lovely to meet you, Dr. Jones... Sister Moskowitz."

  "Be careful, please, Mrs. Bristow," Harriet cautioned.

  Fiona smiled. "Doctor's orders?"

  "Indeed."

  When Fiona Bristow was out of earshot, Harriet said, "Now there's a woman for you to approach. Richer than Midas, and very charitably minded."

  India made a mental note to ask Wish about her, and Harriet said her goodbyes. As she moved off, India said, "Well, Ella, it now looks like we have a hundred seventy-eight pounds, five boxes of rusks, and the head of our children's ward."

  "Is she good?" Ella asked.

  "Very. An absolute marvel with little ones."

  Ella looked at her watch. "It's quarter past four," she said. "I think they were supposed to start fifteen minutes ago. Shall we stay and listen to Mrs. Pankhurst?"

  "Yes, let's. They'll probably start soon. Probably just waiting for Fiona Bristow," India said, squinting at the stage. She could see a handful of peo-ple sitting behind a podium. And one empty chair. "I wonder if she made it up there? Do you see her?"

  India's voice was drowned out by excited cheers and whistles as a woman rose from her seat on the stage.

  "Let's get a bit closer," Ella said. They tried, but made little progress. People were standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Mrs. Pankhurst took the podium. The cheers increased. India knew that she was a firebrand. She hardly looks the part, she thought. Diminutive, with delicate features, she seemed more fragile than feisty. Until she started to speak. Then she seemed about as fragile as a bricklayer.

  "Welcome. Welcome to you women. And you men. Welcome to the officers of the law I see stationed three deep! You may ask why we are here today. We are here not because we are law breakers; we are here in our ef-forts to become law makers."

  Cheers went up again, only this time they were challenged by loud booing. India looked to its source--a group of men, pints in hand, standing outside a pub.

  "Go home to yer washin', ya meddlin' bitches!" one shouted.

  Mrs. Pankhurst ignored him and kept speaking.

  More cheers went up, and then a fight broke out near the pub. Several constables quashed it. It was orderly for a few minutes, then a man's voice bellowed, "Votes for women when hell freezes over!"

  Catcalls were heard, this time from women. India looked behind her-self uneasily. Not far from where she and Ella stood, a blowsy group, the cut and color of their dresses advertising their profession, hooted and laughed. One screeched an obscenity. India squinted at them, her doctor's eyes automatically searching for any visible signs of venereal disease, but saw none.

  "Ella..."

  "Aye?"

  "There's something odd about those women over there. They don't look like..."

  "Whores," Ella finished flatly.

  "They're too healthy."

  "Too well fed."

  "They look like they're onstage. Like they're only playing prostitutes."

  "That's exactly what they're doing."

  "I think something bad is about to happen," India said.

  "We should go. Now."

  India nodded. She turned around and started to head for one of the square's outlets, then stopped suddenly and said, "Ella, wait! Fiona Bristow ...did she ever make it
to the stage?"

  Ella looked around, scanning faces. "No. She's there. Halfway to the podium. See her hat?"

  India nodded. "Mrs. Bristow!" she shouted. "Mrs. Bristow! Over here!"

  Her voice was drowned out as Mrs. Pankhurst was booed again. A tomato sailed through the air and hit the floor near her feet. She flinched, but kept speaking. The tension was growing. It was a tangible thing now. India could feel it moving invisibly through the crowd like a tiger in the tall grass. She knew what was coming. She'd treated victims of riots and she knew how quickly a crowd could turn into a mob. And Fiona Bristow, five months pregnant, was right in the middle of it.

  "We've got to get her," she said.

  "We'd better hurry," Ella said grimly. She clasped India's hand and to-gether they fought their way through the crush of people.

  When they finally reached her, they were sweating and out of breath. India placed a hand on her back and Fiona turned toward them. India wasn't pleased to see that Fiona's face was flushed.

  "We're leaving," she told her. "You must come with us. You can't stay here. Not in your condition."

  "I've been trying to leave. I can't get through the crowd. There's no-where to go."

  "We just fought our way up here, we'll fight our way back. I'll lead. Stay between us and mind your belly--" Her words were cut off by shouts and the harsh blast of a police whistle.

  A brawl had broken out between one of the prostitutes and two consta-bles. A man, drunk and shouting, joined in, harassing the officers. As India watched, a second man swung at the first. A cry went up; she was pushed forward as the crowd surged toward the combatants. Suddenly there was the sound of horses. Riot police had entered the square on its west side and were fording the crowd, truncheons swinging.

  India just had time to wonder how they'd gotten there so quickly before one horse spooked, reared, and clipped a woman with its hooves. She screamed. Blood poured from a gash on her cheek.

  "This assembly is hereby declared unlawful!" a man's voice blared over a bullhorn. "Emmeline Pankhurst, I order you to cease speaking!"

  A cheer went up, and then an enormous roar of protest drowned it out. Mrs. Pankhurst kept on speaking. A command was shouted and the horses began moving in unison toward the podium. The women standing close to it screamed with terror and surged forward, frantically trying to get away from the podium. But there were so many of them, they could barely move. India glanced back at Fiona. Her hat was gone. Her hair was falling down around her pale face. India feared she would faint in the crush. She looked all around the square. It was lined by shops and pubs, but there was no way they could reach those places before the horses reached them. She looked back at the podium and had an idea. She grabbed Fiona's hand and changed direction.

  "Come on! Back the other way! Quickly!" she shouted.

  "Where are we going?" Ella yelled.

  "The podium! It's our only chance!"

  India battered her way through the crowd, fending off flailing hands and elbows, never relinquishing her grip on Fiona. She couldn't see the horses anymore, but she could hear them and knew they were closing in. The front of the podium was draped with an enormous banner emblazoned with the words, votes for women now! India knew it had been constructed just for the rally. She hoped it was a jerry-built job.

  The push to fiee the podium had opened up space around it. India finally broke through the crowd and ran the last few yards to the structure, pulling Fiona along with her. She grabbed the bottom of the banner, lifted it, and found what she was hoping for--no wooden sheathing, just a cross-hatched maze of posts and beams.

  "Crawl inside!" she shouted. As Fiona did so, India reached back for Ella--but Ella wasn't there. She searched the crowd frantically, then spotted her struggling in the arms of a constable several feet away.

  "Behind you, Indy! Behind you!" she screamed.

  India turned and saw the horse, black and looming; she saw its huge, frightened eyes far too close to her own. It reared. She raised her arms, trying to shield herself, stumbled backward, and fell to the ground. The horse whinnied; its metal shoes crashed down against the cobbles. They seemed to be everywhere at once, a thousand slashing hooves all around her. India curled into a tight ball. A hoof came down on her thigh; she screamed. She rolled to her right, trying to get out from under the animal, trying to get to the podium, but it was too late. There was a blinding explosion of white inside her skull. And then there was nothing. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 28

  "Jesus, Frankie, what the hell happened?" Sid Malone asked, looking at the scores of women in the receiving area of the Whitechapel police station. "The Harrods white sale get out of hand?"

  "Some suffering women's something or other," Frankie said, gingerly touching his fingers to his swollen eye.

  "Make sense, will you?"

  "I don't know, guv. Something to do with suffering. They had a rally about it and it turned into a Donnybrook."

  "Suffrage, you git. The beak's sending all these women down? Where's he going to put them?"

  "He's only keeping the ringleader. Mrs. Pankhurst, she's called. He's let-ting the rest go. Just giving them their clobber back now. Held 'em overnight. One of the screws down the men's cells said they didn't even take names. Beak just wanted to give them a scare. A wee taste of the nick."

  "Wonder if it'll work. Never seems to have any effect on you," Sid said. He'd gotten word a few hours earlier that Frankie was arrested the night before for brawling. Again. None of his men had been around to go after him, so Sid had had to go himself, and trips to the nick did not make him happy.

  "Sorry, guv."

  "Who was it this time? Donaldson inventing things again?"

  "Madden's crew."

  Sid's ears pricked up at this. "Where?"

  "Wapping. In the Prospect of Whitby. Two of them sitting there bold as brass, drinking and having a laugh and ordering everyone about. I saw red, guv. Couldn't help meself. They ain't laughing now."

  "Big Billy with them?" he asked.

  "No."

  Sid nodded. Maybe it had just been two wild lads on a spree. Maybe. That's what Billy would say when he asked him about it. And he would ask him. There'd be apologies, promises never to let it happen again. And it would be bollocks, every last word of it. Sid knew that Billy Madden wanted the East End. He'd probably gotten wind that Freddie Lytton was after the Firm, probably thought their days were numbered. Sid would have to keep his ear to the ground. Send the lads out to the pubs. See if anyone else had been nosing around where they shouldn't be.

  "They charging me?" Frankie asked.

  Sid shook his head.

  "Who'd you put the frighteners on?"

  "No one. A few quid in the right hands and suddenly nobody saw nothing. Money talks, Frankie. Remember that."

  "I will. Thanks, guv," Frankie said. He looked relieved and a little disap-pointed. Negotiations based on words and money held little allure for him. He liked the drama of intimidation, the crack of knuckles against bone. He was still young, though. He'd learn.

  There was a sudden commotion in one corner of the room. Sid turned to see what was going on, then frowned.

  "It's that flippin' Devlin," he said. "Let's leg it before he takes a picture of us and we have to smash his camera again."

  "He already saw me and couldn't have cared less. Word has it a couple members of the quality got nicked at the rally along with all the tarts. Wants to do a story on fine ladies slumming with the riffraff. Dodgy morals

  of the upper class mething like that." Frankie shrugged into his torn,

  ...so

  bloodstained jacket, then took a comb from his pocket and raked it through his hair. "I like the sound of dodgy morals, me. Can you imagine stuffin' it to some randy duchess? Makes me hard just thinking about it."

  "Spare me, Frankie, will you?" Sid said, heading for the door.

  "Heard your friend's mixed up in it."

  "What friend?"

  "The lady doct
or."