by Anne Perry
Instinctively she liked Kristian Beck. There seemed to be both compassion and imagination in his face. His modesty and dry humor appealed to her and she felt he was greatly skilled at his profession. Sir Herbert Stanhope she liked less, but was obliged to concede he was a brilliant surgeon. He performed operations lesser men might not have dared, and he was not so careful of his reputation as to fear novelty or innovation. She admired him and felt she should have liked him better than she did. She thought she detected in him a dislike of nurses who had been in the Crimea. Perhaps she was reaping a legacy of Prudence Barrymore’s abrasiveness and ambition.
The first death to occur after her arrival was that of a thin little woman, whom she judged to be about fifty and who had a growth in the breast. In spite of all that Sir Herbert could do, she died on the operating table.
It was late in the evening. They had been working all day and they had tried everything they knew to save her. It had all been futile. She had slipped away even as they struggled. Sir Herbert stood with his bloodstained hands in the air. Behind him were the bare walls of the theater, to the left the table with instruments and swabs and bandages, to the right the cylinders of anesthetic gases. A nurse stood by with a mop, brushing the hair out of her eyes with one hand.
There was no one in the gallery, only two students assisting.
Sir Herbert looked up, his face pale, skin drawn tight across his cheekbones.
“She’s gone,” he said flatly. “Poor creature. No strength left.”
“Had she been ill long?” one of the two student doctors asked.
“Long?” Sir Herbert said with an abrupt jerky laugh. “Depends how you think of it. She’s had fourteen children, and God knows how many miscarriages. Her body was exhausted.”
“She must have stopped bearing some time ago,” the younger one said with a squint down at her scrawny body. It was already looking bloodless, as if death had been hours since. “She must be at least fifty.”
“Thirty-seven,” Sir Herbert replied with a rasp to his voice as though he were angry and held this young man to blame, his ignorance causing the situation, not resulting from it.
The young man drew breath as if to speak, then looked more closely at Sir Herbert’s tired face and changed his mind.
“All right, Miss Latterly,” Sir Herbert said to Hester. “Inform the mortuary and have her taken there. I’ll tell the husband.”
Without thinking Hester spoke. “I’ll tell him, if you wish, sir?”
He looked at her more closely, surprise wiping away the weariness for a moment.
“That’s very good of you, but it is my job. I am used to it. God knows how many women I’ve seen die either in childbirth or after bearing one after another until they were exhausted, and prey to the first fever that came along.”
“Why do they do it?” the young doctor asked, his confusion getting the better of his tact. “Surely they can see what it will do to them? Eight or ten children should be enough for anyone.”
“Because they don’t know any differently, of course!” Sir Herbert snapped at him. “Half of them have no idea how conception takes place, or why, let alone how to prevent it.” He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands. “Most women come to marriage without the faintest idea what it will involve, and a good many never learn the connection between conjugal relations and innumerable pregnancies.” He held out the soiled cloth. Hester took it and replaced it with a clean one. “They are taught it is their duty, and the will of God,” he continued. “They believe in a God who has neither mercy nor common sense.” His face was growing darker as he spoke and his narrow eyes were hard with anger.
“Do you tell them?” the young doctor asked.
“Tell them what?” he said between his teeth. “Tell them to deny their husbands one of the few pleasures the poor devils have? And then what? Watch them leave and take someone else?”
“No of course not,” the young man said irritably. “Tell them some way of …” He stopped, realizing the futility of what he said. He was speaking about women of whom the great majority could neither read nor count. The church sanctioned no means of birth control whatever. It was God’s will that all women should bear as many children as nature would permit, and the pain, fear, and loss of life were all part of Eve’s punishment, and should be borne with fortitude, and in silence.
“Don’t stand there, woman!” Sir Herbert said, turning on Hester sharply. “Have the poor creature’s remains taken to the mortuary.”
Two days later, Hester was in Sir Herbert’s office, having brought some papers for him from Mrs. Flaherty.
There was a knock at the door, and Sir Herbert gave permission for the person to enter. Hester was at the back of the room in a small alcove, and her first thought was that he had forgotten she was still present. Then as the two young women came in, she realized that perhaps he wished her to remain.
The first was approximately thirty, fair-haired, her face very pale, with high cheekbones and curiously narrow and very beautiful hazel eyes. The second was much younger, perhaps no more than eighteen. Although there was a slight resemblance of feature, her coloring was dark, her eyebrows very clearly marked over deep blue eyes, and her hair grew from her brow in a perfect widow’s peak. She also had a beauty spot high on her cheekbone. It was most attractive. However now she looked tired and very pale.
“Good afternoon, Sir Herbert.” The elder spoke with a catch of nervousness in her voice, but with her chin high and her eyes direct.
He rose very slightly from his seat, only a gesture. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Penrose,” she said in answer to the unspoken question. “Julia Penrose. This is my sister, Miss Marianne Gillespie.” She indicated the younger woman a little behind her.
“Miss Gillespie.” Sir Herbert acknowledged her with a nod of his head. “How can I help you, Mrs. Penrose? Or is your sister the patient?”
She looked a little startled, as if she had not expected him to be so perceptive. Neither of them could see Hester in the alcove, motionless, her hand in the air half raised to put a book away, peering through the space where it should have sat on the shelf. The names ran like an electric charge in her mind.
Julia was talking, answering Sir Herbert.
“Yes. Yes, it is my sister who requires your help.”
Sir Herbert looked at Marianne inquiringly, but also with an appraising eye, regarding her color, her build, the anxiety with which she wound her fingers together in front of her, the bright frightened look in her eyes.
“Please sit down, ladies,” he invited, indicating the chairs on the other side of the desk. “I assume you wish to remain during the consultation, Mrs. Penrose?”
Julia lifted her chin a little in anticipation of an attempt to dismiss her. “I do. I can verify everything my sister says.”
Sir Herbert’s eyebrows rose. “Am I likely to doubt her, ma’am?”
Julia bit her lip. “I do not know, but it is an eventuality I wish to guard against. The situation is distressing enough as it is. I refuse to have any more anguish added to it.” She shifted in her seat as if to rearrange her skirts. There was nothing comfortable in her bearing. Then suddenly she plunged on. “My sister is with child….”
Sir Herbert’s face tightened. Apparently he had noted that she had been introduced as an unmarried woman.
“I am sorry,” he said briefly, his disapproval unmistakable.
Marianne flushed hotly and Julia’s eyes glittered with fury.
“She was raped.” She used the word deliberately, with all its violence and crudeness, refusing any euphemism. “She is with child as a result of it.” She stopped, her breath choking in her throat.
“Indeed,” Sir Herbert said with neither skepticism nor pity in his face. He gave no indication whether he believed her or not.
Julia took his lack of horror or sympathy as disbelief.
“If you need proof of it, Sir Herbert,” she said icily, “I shall call upon th
e private inquiry agent who conducted the investigation, and he will confirm what I say.”
“You did not report the matter to the police?” Again Sir Herbert’s fine pale eyebrows rose. “It is a very serious crime, Mrs. Penrose. One of the most heinous.”
Julia’s face was ashen. “I am aware of that. It is also one in which the victim may be as seriously punished as the offender, both by public opinion and by having to relive the experience for the courts and for the judiciary, to be stared at and speculated over by everyone with the price of a newspaper in his pocket!” She drew in her breath; her hands, in front of her, were shaking. “Would you subject your wife or daughter to such an ordeal, sir? And do not tell me they would not find themselves in such a position. My sister was in her own garden, painting in the summerhouse, quite alone, when she was molested by someone she had every cause to trust.”
“The more so is it a crime, my dear lady,” Sir Herbert replied gravely. “To abuse trust is more despicable than simply to enact a violence upon a stranger.”
Julia was white. Standing in the alcove, Hester was afraid she was going to faint. She moved to intervene, to offer a glass of water, or even some physical support, and suddenly Sir Herbert glanced at her and motioned her to remain where she was.
“I am aware of the enormity of it, Sir Herbert,” she said so quietly that he leaned forward, screwing up his eyes, in his concentration. “It is my husband who committed the offense. You must surely appreciate why I do not wish to bring the police into the matter. And my sister is sensible of my feelings, for which I am profoundly grateful. She is also aware that it would do no good. He would naturally deny it. But even if it could be proved, which it cannot, we are both dependent upon him. We should all be ruined, to no purpose.”
“You have my sympathies, ma’am,” he said with more gentleness. “It is a truly tragic situation. But I fail to see how I can be of any assistance to you. To be with child is not an illness. Your regular physician will give you all the aid that you require, and a midwife will attend you during your confinement.”
Marianne spoke for the first time, her voice low and clear. “I do not wish to bear the child, Sir Herbert. It is conceived as a result of an event which I shall spend the rest of my life trying to forget. And its birth would ruin us all.”
“I well understand your situation, Miss Gillespie.” He sat back in his chair, looking at her gravely. “But I am afraid that it is not a matter in which you have a choice. Once a child is conceived, there is no other course except to await its birth.” The ghost of a smile touched his neat mouth. “I sympathize with you profoundly, but all I can suggest is that you counsel with your parson and gain what comfort you may from him.”
Marianne blinked, her face painfully hot, her eyes downcast.
“Of course there is an alternative,” Julia said hastily. “There is abortion.”
“My dear lady, your sister appears to be a healthy young woman. There is no question of her life being in jeopardy, and indeed no reason to suppose she will not deliver a fine child in due course.” He folded his fine sensitive hands. “I could not possibly perform an abortion. It would be a criminal act, as perhaps you are not aware?”
“The rape was a criminal act!” Julia protested desperately, leaning far forward, her hands, white-knuckled, on the edge of his desk.
“You have already explained very clearly why you have brought no charge regarding that,” Sir Herbert said patiently. “But it has no bearing upon my situation with regard to performing an abortion.” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but it is not something I can do. You are asking me to commit a crime. I can recommend an excellent and discreet physician, and will be happy to do so. He is in Bath, so you may stay away from London and your acquaintances for the next few months. He will also find a place for the child, should you wish to have it adopted, which no doubt you will. Unless …?” He turned to Julia. “Could you make room for it in your family, Mrs. Penrose? Or would the cause of its conception be a permanent distress to you?”
Julia swallowed hard and opened her mouth, but before she could reply, Marianne cut across her.
“I do not wish to bear the child,” she said, her voice rising sharply in something like panic. “I don’t care how discreet the physician is, or how easily he could place it afterwards. Can’t you understand? The whole event was a nightmare! I want to forget it, not live with it as a constant reminder every day!”
“I wish I could offer you a way of escape,” Sir Herbert said again, his expression pained. “But I cannot. How long ago did this happen?”
“Three weeks and five days,” Marianne answered immediately.
“Three weeks?” Sir Herbert said incredulously, his eyebrows high. “But my dear girl, you cannot possibly know that you are with child! There will be no quickening for another three or four months at the very earliest. I should go home and cease to worry.”
“I am with child!” Marianne said with hard, very suppressed fury. “The midwife said so, and she is never wrong. She can tell merely by looking at a woman’s face, without any of the other signs.” Her own expression set in anger and pain, and she stared at him defiantly.
He sighed. “Possibly. But it does not alter the case. The law is very plain. There used to be a distinction between aborting a fetus before it had quickened and after, but that has now been done away with. It is all the same.” He sounded weary, as if he had said all this before. “And of course it used to be a hanging offense. Now it is merely a matter of ruin and imprisonment. But whatever the punishment, Miss Gillespie, it is a crime I am not prepared to commit, however tragic the circumstances. I am truly sorry.”
Julia remained sitting. “We should naturally expect to pay—handsomely.”
A small muscle flickered in Sir Herbert’s cheeks.
“I had not assumed you were asking it as a gift. But the matter of payment is irrelevant. I have tried to explain to you why I cannot do it.” He looked from one to the other of them. “Please believe me, my decision is absolute. I am not unsympathetic, indeed I am not. I grieve for you. But I cannot help.”
Marianne rose to her feet and put her hand on Julia’s shoulder.
“Come. We shall achieve nothing further here. We shall have to seek help elsewhere.” She turned to Sir Herbert. “Thank you for your time. Good day.”
Julia climbed to her feet very slowly, still half lingering, as if there were some hope.
“Elsewhere?” Sir Herbert said with a frown. “I assure you, Miss Gillespie, no reputable surgeon will perform such an operation for you.” He drew in his breath sharply, and suddenly his face took on a curiously pinched look, quite different from the slight complacence before. This had a sharp note of reality. “And I beg you, please do not go to the back-street practitioners,” he urged. “They will assuredly do it for you, and very possibly ruin you for life; at worst bungle it so badly you become infected and either bleed to death or die in agony of septicemia.”
Both women froze, staring at him, eyes wide.
He leaned forward, his hands white-knuckled on the desk.
“Believe me, Miss Gillespie, I am not trying to distress you unnecessarily. I know what I am speaking about. My own daughter was the victim of such a man! She too was molested, as you were. She was only sixteen….” His voice caught for a moment, and he had to force himself to continue. Only his inner anger overcame his grief. “We never found who the man was. She told us nothing about it. She was too frightened, too shocked and ashamed. She went to a private abortionist who was so clumsy he cut her inside. Now she will never bear a child.”
His eyes were narrowed slits in a face almost bloodless. “She will never even be able to have a normal union with a man. She will be single all her life, and in pain—in constant pain. For God’s sake don’t go to a back-street abortionist!” His voice dropped again, curiously husky. “Have your child, Miss Gillespie. Whatever you think now, it is the better part than what you face if you go to someone else for the help
I cannot give you.”
“I …” Marianne gulped. “I wasn’t thinking of anything so—I mean—I hadn’t …”
“We hadn’t thought of going to such a person,” Julia said in a tight brittle voice. “Neither of us would know how to find one, or whom to approach. I had only thought of a reputable surgeon. I—I hadn’t realized it was against the law, not when the woman was a victim—of rape.”
“I am afraid the law makes no distinction. The child’s life is the same.”
“I am not concerned with the child’s life,” Julia said in little more than a whisper. “I am thinking of Marianne.”
“She is a healthy young woman. She will probably be perfectly all right. And in time she will recover from the fear and the grief. There is nothing I can do. I am sorry.”
“So you have said. I apologize for having taken up your time. Good day, Sir Herbert.”
“Good day, Mrs. Penrose—Miss Gillespie.” As soon as they were gone, Sir Herbert closed the door and returned to his desk. He sat motionless for several seconds, then apparently dismissed the matter and reached for a pile of notes.
Hester came out of the alcove, hesitated, then crossed the floor.
Sir Herbert’s head jerked up, his eyes momentarily wide with surprise.
“Oh—Miss Latterly.” Then he recollected himself. “Yes—the body’s away. Thank you. That’s all for the moment. Thank you.”
It was dismissal.
“Yes, Sir Herbert.”
Hester found the encounter deeply distressing. She could not clear it from her mind, and at the first opportunity she recounted the entire interview to Callandra. It was late evening, and they were sitting outside in Callandra’s garden. The scent of roses was heavy in the air and the low sunlight slanting on the poplar leaves was deep golden, almost an apricot shade. There was no motion except the sunset wind in the leaves. The wall muffled the passing of hooves and made inaudible the hiss of carriage wheels.