The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  The day Sid had brought Jessie to see her, they had established a fragile d�nte--one governed by an unspoken rule: talk about anything and everything but what mattered most--their feelings for each other. It al-lowed them to be cordial. To be friends. Their conversation was good-natured and careful now, and India hated it. She preferred their old habit of yelling at each other on the streets of Whitechapel.

  "Well, I guess I'm off, then," Sid said.

  "To where?"

  "To nick the crown jewels. Feel like a challenge tonight, me."

  "Sid, that's not funny. You have to stop. You have to leave the life. You know what Freddie means to do."

  "And speaking of jewelry..." Sid cut in.

  "But we weren't speaking of jewelry. Not anymore."

  "Where's your watch? You're not wearing it. What did you do? Barter with it again?"

  "In a manner of speaking," she said. "But that's not--"

  His eyes darkened. "Bloody hell, India! Why'd you do that?" he asked angrily, the forced civility gone.

  "Because I--"

  "You should have come to me if you needed something. Why are you always so bloody stubborn?"

  India tried again to reply, but he wouldn't let her, he kept railing at her.

  "May I speak?" she asked hufflly.

  "No. Because I know what you're going to say. I can't accept that, Sid. It's blood money, Sid. Well, fuck that."

  She whistled at the profanity, but he continued, unheeding.

  "You need that watch. How are you going to take a ...a bleeding pulse and all that? What did you buy with the money? Whatever it was, I'd have gotten it for you."

  "You couldn't have."

  Sid snorted. "Of course I could. What was it?"

  India grinned, enjoying the sparks, the flash of real feeling, and said, "My bloody freedom!"

  Chapter 45

  Joe Bristow, tired, haggard, and sick with worry, ran up the steps to the door of Guy's Hospital. He'd arrived home from a trip to Leeds an hour ago

  to find a police constable sitting in his foyer, his butler white as a sheet, and his cook crying. Apparently Fiona had gone missing for nearly twenty-four hours and had only just been located. According to the constable, she'd been found by police officers in Limehouse and had been taken to Guy's, where she was currently in the care of a Dr. Taylor.

  He barged through the door into the foyer, then breathlessly asked the nurse at the front desk where he could find Dr. Taylor. The woman pointed him toward a short, barrel-chested man berating a young nurse whose shoes were merely shining, not gleaming.

  "Dr. Taylor?" Joe asked. "I'm Joe Bristow."

  In an instant the nurse was forgotten and the doctor was leading Joe down a hallway to his office.

  "What's happened? Is my wife all right? Is the baby all right?"

  "The baby's fine. And your wife will be, too."

  "Will be? She's not now? What happened to her?"

  "I'm glad you came, Mr. Bristow," the doctor said evasively. "Mrs. Bris-tow told me that she wanted to make her own way home, but I wouldn't allow it. I wanted her released into a family member's custody. I thought it better for her to be accompanied home."

  "Where was she?"

  "In Limehouse. At a place called the Barkentine."

  "Bloody hell."

  "You know it?"

  "I know of it."

  "She was attacked there, Mr. Bristow. She was very nearly raped."

  The doctor took Joe into his office, then told him everything that had happened. How the police had brought Fiona in, how worried she'd been for her baby, how he'd examined her and treated her wounds. When he'd answered all of Joe's questions, he asked one of his own. "Mr. Bristow, do you know what she was doing in Limehouse?"

  Joe did know, but he didn't reply.

  "I only ask, sir, because I don't understand what a woman of her position--and in her condition--would be doing in such an area alone at night." The doctor paused, then said, "Mr. Bristow, has your wife been behaving at all erratically? Wandering in her thoughts, perhaps?"

  "Why are you asking me these questions?"

  "Because I'm worried that she may be delusional."

  "What? Why?"

  "There's one thing I didn't tell you, and that's that Mrs. Bristow says she saw a man killed at the Barkentine. Right in front of her eyes. Sergeant Hicks, one of the officers who found her, sent half a dozen con-stables to check the pub, but there was no dead body. No report of a dead body. No witnesses. Nothing. They did find blood on the cellar floor, but the publican claims it came from some chickens he killed to make a stew."

  Joe nodded. He said nothing. It did indeed sound crazy--if you didn't know who frequented the Bark. Dr. Taylor knew it was a bad place, but Joe was quite certain he had no idea how bad.

  "Sergeant Hicks came back here and told Mrs. Bristow what his men had found, but she wouldn't accept his explanation. She still insists a mur-der was committed. You can see why I'm concerned. She's had a dreadful shock and she must now have rest and quiet both for her sake and for the baby's. Keep all newspapers away from her. She's to have no upsets. No excitement or agitation. I have tried to impress this upon her. I hope that you will do the same."

  "I will, Dr. Taylor."

  "Very good. If this fails to effect a change in her behavior, please do inform me. I can recommend a very good doctor at the Bethlehem Hospital who works wonders with female hysteria."

  Bedlam. Joe shuddered at the very thought. He quickly thanked the doctor, then asked to see his wife.

  Dr. Taylor led him upstairs to a room on a private ward. "I'm sure you would like a bit of time to yourselves. Please send for me if you need me."

  Joe entered the room. Fiona was sitting on her bed dressed in torn and dirtied clothing. Her hands were in her lap, her head was down. There were newspapers on the bed next to her.

  "The doctor said you weren't supposed to have those," he said. "Where did you get them?"

  "From the other patients," she said quietly.

  "He thinks you've lost your mind. Thinks you're one step away from the loony bin."

  Fiona made no reply.

  "Is it true? Was a bloke really murdered?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "It was the man who attacked me. Another man, a man named Frankie, did it."

  "Jesus Christ, that's Betts. The same sod who killed Alf. Who burned me warehouse to the ground. And you saw it? You were there when it hap-pened?"

  "Yes."

  Joe felt sick. There were men who went to pieces over witnessing some-thing like that, never mind a pregnant woman. She should never have seen it. She should never have been anywhere near Sid Malone and his pack.

  "Still think he's some poor stray dog, your brother?" he asked her. "Still think all he needs is a pat on the head and a biscuit or two and he'll come round?"

  "He didn't do it."

  "He may as well have! You know who Frankie Betts is, don't you? Don't you, Fiona? No? Well then, I'll tell you. He's your brother's right-hand man. The heir apparent. Not just a hard man, a bloody lunatic. And you were in the same room with him! It could have been you he killed!"

  "Charlie wants to go, Joe. He wants to leave the life. Frankie Betts said so. He told me to stop meddling. To leave Charlie alone. But if I could just see him, just speak with him, he would leave. I know he would."

  Joe made no reply. He turned away from Fiona. His rage was so great that he wanted to upend the bedside table, throw the water jug across the room. It took all his self-control not to.

  "Do you have any idea how angry I am?" he asked, turning back to her. "How could you do it, Fiona? How could you put yourself and our baby in such danger? After I told you ten times not to?"

  Fiona still made no reply.

  "Did you ever think, for even one bleeding second, what it would be like for Katie to grow up without a mother? For me to become a widower? Answer me!"

  She lifted her face then and the sight of it broke his heart. It was horribly brui
sed. Her lip was cut. One of her eyes had been blackened. There were livid finger marks on her neck.

  She picked up one of the newspapers on the bed. He saw that it was the Clarion. A shrill headline quoted Freddie Lytton's latest diatribe against Sid Malone. Staring at it, she started to speak.

  "Once, when I was ten years old and Charlie nine, we were coming back from the corner shop when we saw a group of boys--there were five of them--tormenting a cat. They'd tied its front legs together and were kicking it, trying to make it run, then laughing when it fell over. They were older than us. Bigger, too. Charlie handed me the tea and sugar we'd bought, walked up to the ringleader, and punched him in the face. He didn't break his nose, but he bloodied it. The boy started crying. Charlie punched a second boy in the stomach and they all ran off.

  "When they'd gone, he picked up the cat. It was in a bad way. One of its legs was broken. He took it home and made a bed for it out of rags and an old egg basket. When our Mam saw the poor thing, she didn't have the heart to make him put it out again. He sat up with that animal the entire night, keeping it close to the fire, feeding it milk with a spoon. He even made a splint for its leg. He was so kind, my brother. Even as a little boy." She gestured at the paper. "And now this... this is what that little boy has come to. How, Joe? How?" Her voice broke.

  Joe sat down next to her. He put an arm around her. They sat that way for several minutes, then she said, "Can we go home now?"

  He shook his head. "No, luv, we can't."

  She looked up at him, confused.

  "Not until you promise me you'll never do this again. Never."

  "I can't do that. You know I can't. Please don't ask me to."

  "I am asking. Choose. Right now. Me or Sid Malone."

  Fiona looked at him with huge, wounded eyes. "But Joe..."

  Joe's heart sank. "I guess I have me answer, don't I?" he said. "You'd do it again, wouldn't you? You'd tear the world apart with your two bare hands if it would bring him back. Nothing I could say would change that. I'm only wasting my breath."

  He tried not to show the grief he was feeling. He tried to summon the courage he needed to do what he had to do. She was everything to him; he didn't know how to even breathe without her, but he didn't know what else to do. He didn't know how else to make her stop, and he refused to simply stand aside and allow her to destroy herself and their family in this mad, doomed pursuit of her brother.

  "Our carriage is downstairs," he said. "I'll tell Dr. Taylor that you're trav-eling alone and I'll have the driver wait for you. I'll make me own way back in a cab."

  "Joe, please. Don't do this."

  "I'll be at the Coburg until I find something more permanent. I'll have Trudy fetch my things from the house. I love you, Fiona, and I love Katie. More than my own life. I hope you change your mind."

  "You're leaving me? You're leaving me again?"

  "First time was my fault," he said. "This time it's yours."

  Fiona's face crumpled. She dissolved into tears. He nearly faltered at the sound of her weeping, but he forced himself to stand up and leave.

  "I hope you do choose, Fee," he whispered, on his way out of the door. "And I hope to God you choose me."

  Chapter 46

  "You know, I think old Florrie Nightingale was snifflng the ether when she wrote this book," Ella said, holding up her copy of Introductory Notes on

  Lying-in Institutions. "Twenty-three hundred cubic feet for every patient? Plus a window?"

  India nodded, frowning. "We're going to have to make do with less, aren't we? A lot less. Less space, fewer windows. Less water, fewer sinks and privies."

  "The only thing we'll have more of is patients."

  "But it's not a bad building, is it?"

  "No, it's in rather good shape, I think. Roof seems sound. No water dam-age. Lights work. Plumbing works. Sinks on every floor. It's bare bones, but it has what we need."

  "We'd have to put in toilets. A kitchen. Or at least a stove."

  "I'm sure we could do that for under a thousand. But then how do we pay for sheets and towels? Syringes and bedpans and scalpels and..."

  India sighed. "I know. I know. We need twenty-four thousand, not twenty-four hundred."

  India and Ella were standing inside an old paint factory on Gunthorpe Street that Mrs. Moskowitz had heard was for sale. Cheap. Twelve hun-dred pounds reduced from fifteen hundred. The owner was bankrupt and needed to sell it quickly. She had told Ella and India to go look at it, and they'd laughed.

  "Mama, it may as well be a million pounds!" Ella had said. "We don't have the money. We have only the twenty-four hundred our donors gave us. It's nowhere near enough to buy the building, renovate it, and furnish it."

  "Is there so much harm in looking? God gives the nuts; He doesn't crack them," Mrs. Moskowitz had said.

  And so they'd gone. The estate agent had escorted them through the building, then told them that in his opinion they could offer a thousand. He'd gone for a cup of tea and left them to wander the premises.

  "Only a thousand," India said now.

  "A bargain," Ella said.

  "You know what your mother would say."

  "I do, but I think God will have to rob a bank if He wants to help us with this one."

  "Hullo!" a voice shouted from the doorway. "India, Ella... are you in there?"

  India turned in time to see Harriet Hatcher take a long drag on a ciga-rette, then flick the fag end into the street.

  "Harriet!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  "I stopped by the caff for a visit. Wanted to see if you two had made any progress with the clinic. Ella's mum told me where you were. Look who I brought with me," she said, smiling impishly.

  A bulky figure hurtled in through the open door. "Jones!" a familiar voice boomed. "Still dreaming those pipe dreams, are we?"

  "Professor Fenwick!" India cried, delighted to see her teacher. "What brings you here?" But Fenwick had already veered off to inspect the gas lighting.

  "Word's out about what you two are doing in the Moskowitzes' back-yard," Harriet said. "It's all anyone talks about. At the school. At the hospi-tals. Fenwick wanted to come and see for himself. Says he's giving up teaching. Says he can't bear this year's graduating class."

  "Dunces, every one of them!" Fenwick bellowed, striding past them toward the staircase. "They spend more time at estate agents asking about the prices of fancy premises on Harley Street than they do with their case-books!" He disappeared up the steps.

  "We were thinking of putting the children's ward on the first floor, Pro-fessor," India called up after him.

  "No, no, no, no, no! This is an old building. Who knows how good the water is? Put the maternity ward up here. It requires the most hot water. Pressure's bound to be better on the first floor than the second or third. 'Gads, Jones, you have been inside a hospital, haven't you?"

  Harriet gave India a quick thumbs-up. "He's in!" she whispered, grinning.

  "You'll need an administrator, you know. Someone to run the place. Balance the books. Hire and fire," Fenwick said, walking back downstairs. "Arthur Fenwick. How do you do?" he added, extending his hand to Ella.

  "Do you know of anyone who might be interested, Professor?"

  "Don't be cheeky, Jones. When you get this place up and running, give me a call."

  "If, Professor, if," India sighed. She explained what had happened to her cousin and the clinic's funds they'd raised.

  Fenwick frowned. "How much is the owner asking?"

  "Twelve, but the agent thinks we could offer a thousand."

  "Offer them eight, settle at nine, and I'll give you the down payment. Twenty percent should do it. And you may use me as a guarantor on the mortgage."

  India was nearly speechless. "Seriously, Professor? You'd do that?"

  "Consider it done."

  "But why?" India asked, amazed by his generosity.

  He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "Student I once had-- absolute ninny of a girl--t
old me she wanted to become a doctor to make a difference. I think I'd like to see what that's all about."

  India flung her arms around her teacher and hugged him tightly.

  "Oof! That'll do, Jones," he said.

  She released him, beaming, then embraced him again, despite his protests, then the four of them took another look around the building, noting its strong points and its weaknesses. Fenwick said that the Royal Free Hospital was getting rid of some old beds, and if they could get a carter to pick them up, he was sure they could have them for free. And he'd heard Dean Garrett Anderson talking about modernizing the library. He would be sure to have her save any unwanted furniture for them.