by Renée Dahlia
‘You can come back now. They’ve finished their private discussion,’ said the older Mrs Ghoshal in his mother’s tongue. He stepped forward into the larger room. Dr Carlingford still had the handkerchief tied around her face, but he could see a deep pink flush on the tops of her cheeks. She cleared her throat, and he waited cautiously. She stood up and pinched the bridge of her nose, nodding to her footman who picked up her bag.
‘Are you feeling well?’ asked the younger Mrs Ghoshal. Dr Carlingford coughed quietly and blinked.
‘Yes,’ she said, although her voice wobbled a little. The older woman leaned over and placed her hand on Dr Carlingford’s forehead.
‘You are burning up with a fever. You must stop working so hard, and have some rest.’
Dr Carlingford nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’
‘Your man over there? Will he be able to get you home safely?’
Ravi blinked. ‘I’m not her man,’ he said. ‘I’m her lawyer.’
The older woman waved her hands in the air.
‘Good. Do your job and get Dr Carlingford home to rest,’ she said.
Dr Carlingford seemed amused by this discussion. The edges of her eyes crinkled with laugh lines, and he wanted to rip off that handkerchief to see her mouth. The sudden urge made him step backwards, and he looked away.
‘Did you bring your lawyer because we owe money?’ whispered the young mother. His whole body tensed, alert, and his gaze refocused on Dr Carlingford.
She shook her head. ‘No, no. He’s my father’s lawyer, not mine. I …’ she paused to glance at him. ‘Don’t worry about the money. I won’t charge for today’s check-up. And the rest … We will work out something. Please don’t worry. You and the baby’s health come first.’
‘Thank you. You are the best doctor in town. Please look after your own health too.’
A short while later, they were back in Woodleyville’s hackney and on their way to the Carlingford residence. Dr Carlingford removed the handkerchief, and sat with her head resting back on the seat. Her cheeks were flushed, and an occasional shudder made her hug herself. Ravi wanted to wrap her in his jacket to keep her warm. It was a totally inappropriate desire—to want to care for her. He was just the lawyer. He would deliver her home to her father tonight, and that would be the end of it. Except for his payment. He wanted his own offices more than he wanted anything else, it would give him independence and grant him control over his life. He knew it wouldn’t stop his brother nagging him to get married, but it might just buy him some time, and allow him to make his own decision on the matter. His brother would eventually get his way, it was inevitable, but damned if he wouldn’t do it on his own terms.
Their driver pulled up outside a large, red brick house on Cadogan Square, a recent Italianate style mansion with the quality and scale expected from the wealth of the Carlingford empire. Ravi didn’t bother to assist Dr Carlingford, and stepped out first. His choice had nothing to do with her footman. He’d watched her clamber in and out of the carriage in a determined fashion without her footman’s assistance. Over the course of the day, he had observed, and admired, that same sense of independence that he craved for himself. He waited outside for several moments, but she didn’t arrive. He poked his head back inside to see her dozing on the seat.
‘Excuse me. Dr Carlingford. We have arrived,’ he said.
Her eyes fluttered open and she coughed. She started to stand, but collapsed back onto the seat.
‘Oh!’ she breathed out.
He climbed the two steps back into the hackney and offered his arm for her. She grabbed it, clutching with more strength than he expected, and stood up slowly. She swayed a bit, but found her balance and he assisted her down onto the street. He glanced around for her loyal footman, unable to find him. Where had he gone? Perhaps he had simply assumed she would follow too.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She wobbled on her feet again, and lifted her free hand to her forehead.
‘Here. Lean on me, and we’ll get you inside to rest,’ he said. He walked slowly towards her father’s imposing house. With each step, she leaned heavier on him, as if the effort of moving became harder and harder for her.
‘What did they name the baby?’ he asked. Not because he was interested, but he had to do something to keep her alert.
‘Edward.’
‘A nice, solid choice,’ he said.
She stopped and stared up at him. ‘You approve?’
‘Yes. A name like that will give a child many options.’
‘Unlike a traditional name? I suppose that is true, but it seems a shame,’ she whispered, a rasp-like edge to her voice.
‘They have probably given him a traditional middle name,’ he said. A warmth spread inside him. She cared about his culture, and it called to him on a level that he never experienced outside his immediate family.
‘Is that what you have?’ she asked, then closed her eyes. ‘No, forget I said that. I think I need to lie down.’
He wrapped his arm around her waist, and helped her up the front steps.
The door opened before he could knock, and a butler stood in an understated livery.
‘Welcome, Dr Carlingford. And …’ said the butler.
‘Mr Howick. Where did her footman go?’ he asked tersely.
‘He is just putting away Dr Carlingford’s things.’ The butler’s eyes flicked to Ravi’s arm where he held Dr Carlingford, then he raised his eyebrows in expectation. Ravi opened his mouth to give the butler his opinion on the footman’s inability to do his job and stay close to his charge, but Dr Carlingford spoke first.
‘Junior, Mr Howick is our new lawyer.’ Those eyebrows only went higher on the butler’s forehead, and his eyes glanced at Ravi’s arm again.
‘Dr Carlingford has a fever. She requires her maid,’ said Ravi. His frustrations rang out in his tone. The butler’s nostrils flared, then he swivelled on his heels and marched down the hallway.
‘The first door on the right is fine,’ said Dr Carlingford. She still leaned on him, and the heat of her fever radiated off her. He helped her into the drawing room and led her to a chaise lounge, where she half-collapsed as she sat. The butler arrived again with an entourage of people who fussed over her. Before he could disappear back to his post, Ravi asked the butler to tell the driver to return to the firm. A few minutes later, Mr Carlingford entered the room.
‘What on earth is happening? What is the reason for all this noise?’ he boomed over the crowd of servants who fussed about with blankets, and more bowls of soup than one person could possibly eat, while a footman lit the fire in the grate.
‘Claire is ill,’ said an older servant. Claire. Ravi bit back a smile. The name suited her.
‘But she never gets ill,’ said Mr Carlingford. The echo of her own words made Ravi chuckle under his breath. Her father spoke as if her fever thoroughly disrupted his plans; an inconvenience that was the final irritating piece of a difficult day. ‘Make sure she gets well quickly.’ With his instruction to the servants delivered in loud tones, Mr Carlingford turned to leave the room. He stopped mid-stride and pinned Ravi with his gaze.
‘Mr Howick. Come to my office. Let’s discuss how to proceed.’ Mr Carlingford stuck out his hand, and Ravi stepped forward to shake it. Before they had completed their handshake, the butler burst into the room.
‘Sir, the late paper is here. You will want to read the headline.’ He spread the paper in the air, holding it up with the front page facing Mr Carlingford and Ravi.
RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN. HORRIFIC MURDER IN SPITFIELDS
8 September 1888. Late edition.
‘Thank you, Clemton. Claire cannot be allowed to visit her charity clinic in that part of town until this vile murderer is found,’ said her father.
The butler neatly folded the paper and nodded his agreement.
‘She is rather ill. I don’t imagine she will be able to do much for the next few days,’ said Ravi. Her father glared at him with a grim smile u
nder his bushy moustache.
‘You don’t know my daughter very well, do you?’ he said.
‘Correct. I only met her today,’ said Ravi, politely stating the obvious.
‘We must take this opportunity and get her out of town.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She is ill. We can get her out of London while she can’t argue, and that will keep her safe from the clutches of this Ripper character,’ said Mr Carlingford. Ravi blinked. He didn’t think that Dr Carlingford—Claire—would agree to this scheme. Was her father advocating a kidnapping? ‘If only I had purchased a country estate, as Mrs Carlingford keeps demanding,’ continued Mr Carlingford.
An idea burst forward at the mention of a country estate. One that would make removing Claire from London more palatable, as well as make him closer to Carlingford Enterprises, and hopefully embed the lucrative empire as a future client. He swallowed down the trace of nausea as he contemplated putting his idealism aside for his own gain. What would it make him if he relocated her against her will? He cleared his throat. At least, she would be safe.
‘My brother has an extensive country estate in Lincolnshire. I can escort Dr Carlingford on the train, with the appropriate staff to care for her, and she could stay there while she convalesces,’ he said.
‘And your brother is?’
‘Lord Dalhinge,’ said Ravi, and he couldn’t help glance at Claire as he spoke of his connection to the peerage. He wanted to know if she would be impressed, or perhaps she’d be annoyed that he’d kept it to himself when they’d met. He doubted the information would go any distance to overcoming any annoyance she would feel when she recovered and discovered her, ahh, relocation. He resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck as his hair rose at the consequences of his own schemes. Of course, she was all but unconscious, so the glance was in aid of nothing, and he missed her father’s immediate reaction to his connections. Her father stood still with one lethal eyebrow raised, an echo of his daughter’s likely response.
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Carlingford in a bland tone that let none of his thoughts slip out. ‘I will also send her brother, Wilberforce, with her. Clemton, get this organised as soon as possible.’
‘Do you have some paper? I must send a few notes,’ said Ravi. His brother would want some notice if he was to have his house invaded by strangers, so a telegraph would be in order. Now that he was embedded in this problem, he should take the brave step and formally resign from his job at Woodleyville and Partners. Or perhaps he should wait until he had Claire’s verbal agreement written into a contract.
‘Clemton can organise telegraphs if you require,’ said Mr Carlingford.
‘Thank you. And then perhaps we can retire to your office to discuss my terms,’ he said with as much confidence as he could summon in the circumstances. Apparently, Dr Carlingford was correct. He was just a glorified fortune hunter.
Chapter 5
‘Where am I?’ Claire’s throat felt stuffed with razor blades and dust, and her question rasped out. She coughed hard, her ribs aching with the effort.
‘Hush now, Miss. You are safe here. Just rest.’ Claire didn’t have much other option. Her entire body ached, and she couldn’t summon the energy to lift her head. She closed her eyes, and had no clue how much time passed until she opened them again. The room around her was completely unfamiliar. The walls were panelled to the ceiling in a light wood, and two high-backed chairs covered in striped pink and white fabric sat next to a grand fireplace. Above her, the bed had a lofty canopy, also covered in that same fabric. The spacious room had a round writing desk with a tall vase of hothouse flowers, and on the far wall a pair of large windows let a thin streak of light between yet more of that awful fabric. Where was she? And how long had she been here? If she wasn’t so exhausted, she’d leap out of bed and demand answers. From someone. Anyone. A cold shiver racked her body again, and she hunkered down under the blankets.
‘Claire.’ She opened one eye to see her brother, Wil, sitting beside her bed. He’d pulled one of those deplorably coloured chairs over, and he leaned forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m so sorry about the colour scheme. I told Mr Howick you would hate it, but I was overruled by others in the house. Apparently, it’s a sign of respect to be granted this bedroom. It was decorated decades ago for one of those royal visits that never occurred. God, does every country house owned by the peerage have a room dedicated to such a travesty?’ he said. She grinned, her dry lips stretching as her brother’s words ran on. ‘Are you improving, my dear? You’ve given us all a scare.’
‘How long?’ she managed to croak out without a cough.
‘Over a week,’ he said. Her eyes flew open. ‘Yes. I know. I scarcely believe it myself. But you’ve never done things by halves, dear sister, so naturally when you get sick, it becomes a life and death situation that goes on forever.’ She chuckled, which brought on another bout of coughing. He picked up a bottle of cough syrup and offered her a dropper of it. She tasted the bitter droplet, then clamped her lips shut to refuse any more.
‘You’ve been having five drops at least six times a day this week. It’s the latest syrup from Baltimore. You must need more,’ he said. She shook her head violently and stared at her brother. No wonder she’d slept through a whole week. It was fortunate that she hadn’t stopped breathing altogether.
‘Come on. It says on the bottle that you can have up to thirty drops,’ he said. She read the bottle’s ingredients list, “alcohol (less than 1%), cannabis indica, chloroform, morphia, sulph, all skilfully combined with a number of other ingredients.” She’d hate to think what they were. No wonder she’d had wild dreams, swimming in a transparent pond while naked men swam beside her, feeding her morsels of food from a full dinner set that floated before them. One of the men looked uncannily like Mr Howick with his long limbs, broad shoulders, sleek brown skin, and dark hair in all the right places. She liked men, enjoyed the way their bodies moved and the strength they had, and she understood more than enough about their bodies, thanks to her training at the university hospital. She had no need to touch or explore, preferring to admire them from a distance for her own preservation. As much as she might want to be bold and physical, she knew that she would be the one hurt, that she would suffer the consequences of pregnancy or disease, while they danced away free from responsibility. The world was unbalanced, and she had to keep herself apart if she wanted to change that balance.
‘Only if you want me to die,’ she replied, her voice still rusty. The bitter taste of chloroform stuck to her tongue, and she tried to swallow it away. ‘Honey?’ she asked.
‘I’ll get someone to bring some.’ Wil stood up and crossed over to the bell-pull. He returned and sat with one leg crossed over the other, somehow both relaxed and elegant in that bright pink chair. ‘I can tell what you are thinking. Which royal had such awful taste that they wanted a pink and white striped bedroom? And it’s a hideous dirty shade of pink. Putrid Puce! Although I must say, I don’t mind the idea of strong colours against the light wood panels. And at least they aren’t mahogany. Imagine how depressingly dark this room would be with dark wood panelled to ceiling height.’ Claire closed her eyes and let Wil ramble on about the décor. His voice faded away as the medicine did its trick and she slid back to sleep.
The next time Claire woke it was dark. Someone had left a plate with a spoon of honey on a small table beside her bed. She reached out for it and placed it in her mouth. The sticky sweetness caused her dry mouth to flood with moisture. Just what she needed. She left it on her tongue, slowly dissolving, until only the spoon remained. The honey slipped down her sore throat, soothing the raw feeling. Her breath—finally—came easier, and she drew in a deep one through her nostrils. The smell of old sweat surrounded her, and she gagged back a wave of nausea. The first thing she would request in the morning would be clean sheets and fresh clothes. Her fever must have broken while she slept, and the resultant sweat had infiltrated the sheets
making them reek. She slipped the spoon from her mouth, placing it back on the table. The small effort proved hard, making her pant while every hard-fought breath sent a fresh wave of that gagging smell around her. She rolled to the other side of the bed, searching for a section of the bed that wasn’t too bad. With her head almost on the far edge of the bed, she was far enough from the smell, so she closed her eyes and let her body drift back to sleep.
A shuffle of feet on the rug, and the crackle of the fire woke her. She rolled onto her back and watched the maid poke the fire back to life in the hearth. She licked her lips.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The maid spun around. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you.’
‘It’s fine. I wonder if I could trouble you for clean sheets, and a fresh nightgown,’ said Claire. Her voice still rasped, but not as bad as before, and she didn’t feel like coughing. A wave of relief spread over her body. She was getting well again.
‘Absolutely, Miss.’ The maid hung up the fire tools, and put the hearth protector back to prevent any hot sparks escaping. Claire laid her head back on the pillow as the maid raced off to fulfil her request. She still had no clues about her location—a maid who does her job quickly and efficiently could be at any one of the thousands of country estates scattered through England. She blew out an exasperated breath, and wondered where Wil was. In bed, of course. She rolled her eyes. It was still only early, and her brother didn’t rise before mid-morning for anyone. Maybe she was still in London, but why wasn’t she at her father’s house? A blurry memory of travelling with Mr Howick sidled into the edge of her thoughts, but she couldn’t grasp the picture properly. What did Mr Howick have to do with it? Gosh, how many days ago was that? When Wil had said a week, did he mean a working week, or the full seven days? So many questions romped around. Where was that maid?