"First, you're still recovering, and to make sure you recover fully, it'd be best not to tax you with these unnecessary duties. Becoming well should be your first priority, so you'll be ready for when the opportunity arises to make things right.
"Second, many will likely point out that working as you've been, as if you were a commoner, probably had much to do with your unfortunate illness. Showing contrition by returning to your expected duties as a high born will do much to hush those comments in future.
"Third, while you can speak of the loss of our child, you are not to share the fact you are now barren. While a great disappointment, we can't allow others to know of it. But don't worry, I'll think of something, and everything will once more be as it should be."
He turned towards her as if expecting her to drop to her knees showering him in accolades. When she only sat there and did nothing, a small frown gathered at his brow. "You do understand this is for the best?"
"Yes, Robert." She felt feverish, a storm raging inside her.
She understood it all very well. She understood her husband didn't love her or know her at all. But she would make sure she understood him very well. And then, then they would see.
"I am so very glad to hear it."
* * * *
When one felt nothing, pretending came easy. Having a deep fire inside to keep one on course made it easier still.
Saddled with great amounts of idle time, Elizabeth did as Robert suggested and immersed herself back into society. Though gossip hadn't previously been something she indulged in, she encouraged the best and the worst of her social circle to shower her with all the tidbits they had to give.
She also visited the hospital and Robert's surgery once a week, ignoring the pang of loss at not being able to help, at being denied a purpose instead of whiling the days away in frivolous pursuits. Without the knowledge she'd gained to work there, she would have never known anything was amiss at all and would have piled all the guilt on herself rather than where it truly belonged. The excuses for her presence were simple things: delivery of a book on medicine she thought Robert would find interesting, flowers from their garden she thought would cheer up the waiting room for the surgery, or just wanting to see him to say hello on her way to her next stop for the day.
What she really went there for was to talk to Ada, to ply her with more monetary "charity" so she could find out her husband's routine, or to get new whispers of what he might be doing, or to check on the status of old patients. It surprised her that it was a relief to spend time with the nurse, for with Ada, there was no need of pretense, or holding up the lie that she didn't miss working at all.
Elizabeth did nothing too untoward; nothing to raise suspicion or comment, as she planned to verify matters for herself one way or the other. Because despite everything, she just couldn't bring herself to believe all the rumors about her husband. But she also couldn't stomach not knowing the truth.
So on a bright, sunny morning, she had their coach drop her off at Kew Gardens on the excuse she would be there all day to help with one of the social events of the season. Changing clothes in one of the caretaker sheds proved an adventure, but one she'd practiced for. From the bag Ada had secured there the day before, Elizabeth pulled out the modest nurses' uniform of a simple blue dress, starched white apron, and wide cap. After donning a pair of lensless spectacles and hiding her telltale auburn tresses beneath the cap, she was transformed from Lady Stainton to a middle class worker. Ten minutes later, she hopped on another coach and was on her way.
Since Elizabeth was not acquainted with the London Hospital, Ada had remedied the problem by drawing a detailed map for her. The woman seemed to love the secrecy and the intrigue, as well as the chance to prove herself smarter than her betters. And while at one time Elizabeth might have been offended by this, now she was just grateful she could use it to her advantage.
Robert wouldn't be in to his office at the hospital for at least another hour. So Elizabeth had plenty of time to make her way down the halls. The main area and the West Wing were as lovely and clean as those at Westminster. From Ada's map, she knew the East Wing was reserved for those in less fortunate situations, their halls segregated from more prosperous patients by watchful guards.
As she traversed the hallways, a passing doctor, using the commanding tone so common among medical men, demanded her assistance She deviated from her goal and followed him, hoping to allay suspicion. It proved a fortunate choice, as the doctor headed toward the East Wing of the hospital. The guard opened the door for them without a word and allowed their entry.
Elizabeth wasn't prepared for what she found in the main charity ward. Beds were crammed together with barely enough room to pass between them. What seemed like hundreds of unwashed bodies filled the air with a miasma of sweat, feces, and disease.
Her hand rose to cover her mouth and nose as her heart pounded at her chest. Her spirit moved for the first time in weeks.
The ward was nothing like the well-aired and clean environment she was used to at Westminster. Yes, there was always filth involved in some form or another at a hospital, but this... This was beyond anything she'd ever seen or smelt. And it was more than that. She could physically feel misery and hopelessness hanging in the air. The low moans of those waiting for medical help filled the room like the droning of bees. The condition of those who lived in the growing slums in Whitechapel were more odious than the picture painted by the papers.
But none of it seemed to bother the man she followed, meaning it was so commonplace it no longer had any effect on him. She shuddered at the thought.
The doctor stopped before a bed with threadbare, discolored linens. "Hold her down, if you please."
The rotting scent of gangrene slapped Elizabeth as she moved forward. A small, hollow-cheeked girl lay in the bed, a large, jagged gash on her leg the source of the rot—an infection left on its own for too long. Maggots had been set into the wound to eat the rotted flesh, but from the tendrils of infection spreading like webbing towards her thigh, they'd not been able to do enough. If the leg were not removed soon, the infection itself would kill the child.
The girl offered no resistance when Elizabeth held her down as the doctor pulled a filled syringe from a pocket. After injecting the girl, he raised an arm calling for a couple of orderlies and a stretcher. As they took the girl away to the operating theater, she excused herself before she ended up staying behind or screaming.
Hurrying back towards the main area, she sought out Robert's office. She closed the door and sighed with heartfelt relief, her knees shaking. Robert, her Robert, had tried to keep her from getting exposed to such ugliness and misery. He'd been concerned about her after all.
As her heart slowed, guilt nipped at her regarding her current enterprise. She'd come too far to stop though. The cutting hooks of need—for her to know how things were, one way or another—were mired too deep to be let go. Steeling herself, she stepped over to the coat closet housed behind a wall panel in the room to the left, right where Ada said it would be.
Elizabeth scrunched down behind a couple of heavy coats Robert would not be using until the weather turned colder. In the still air, she caught a hint of his scent. She found it unexpectedly soothing. Like a promise all would somehow be well between them again. She truly hoped it would be so.
* * * *
A hard bump startled her awake. Adrenaline spiked as she remembered where she was and why. The bump came again, this time followed by a muffled moan.
Palms growing damp and her breathing rapid from both fear and anticipation, she shifted in her hideaway and slowly opened the door just a crack to see what was outside.
At first she couldn't make out what she was seeing. Robert was sitting in his chair, leaning back, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open, moaning. He didn't look to be in pain, but she couldn't be sure. That's when she spotted the other person. Tucked into the kneehole of his desk was a woman. Her head was in his lap, a straw hat with faded flo
wers sitting on her dirty curls, which fell over her eyes as she pulled her head back and forth, her open mouth cradled over something large and straight.
Her motion picked up speed and Robert moaned as if in agony, yet his expression said it wasn't that at all. He jammed his hands into the woman's hair, trying to slow her pace, knocking her cheap, flowered hat askew.
"En-enough!" His voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it, his usual iron control apparently broken even as he struggled to reel it in. "The desk. Now!"
He pulled the woman up by the shoulders, yanking her to her feet. She gasped at the abrupt gesture, leaving behind what she'd had in her mouth, but before she could say anything, he'd spun her around and doubled her over the desk, throwing her skirts up to land over her. With a low growl rumbling deep in his throat, he yanked her yellowed knickers down, leaving her buttocks and privates exposed. Then without warning, he rammed the thing the woman had but recently had down her throat inside her from behind.
Elizabeth jerked back into the concealing darkness of the closet as Robert slammed into the woman again and again. The sound of smacking flesh matched the grunting, which grew louder by the moment. The two sounds beat into her until she thought she'd never be able to hear anything else ever again.
Rolling up into a ball in the corner, Elizabeth pressed her hands over her ears and shut her eyes as tight as she could make them. She didn't know the man in that office. She had never loved the thing hungering out there. And it was for that...for that ugliness, that Robert offered these women his brand of "charity." Which knowingly or not, had destroyed everything she'd ever held dear.
* * * *
Time passed and the appalling noises passed with it. Muted voices came and went. Her bladder painfully bleated at her, but she ignored the discomfort as best she could. When the office stayed silent for a time, she risked a look out of the closet, her insides shaking all the while.
It was empty. All trace of what she'd heard or seen was gone, as if she'd imagined it.
She crawled out of the closet, clinging desperately to the thought like a petulant child. She gravitated closer to the desk, to the scene of the ugliness. Despite the blotter, ink wells, and other desk fixtures being in their proper places, there was a hint of odors that were not. She smelled fish, of all things, fish and something salty.
Her stomach roiled as she realized she'd smelled both before, though not together. A soiled handkerchief in the wastebasket seemed to be the source—evidence of the deed, proof of the truth—whether she cared to know of it or not.
Elizabeth clamped her hands over her mouth as her stomach clenched and tried to send back what little she'd had for breakfast. Gagging, she rushed out of the office, not checking to make sure no one was out in the hallway. As quickly as she could, she headed for the water closet she'd passed before reaching Robert's office.
She retched into the toilet, the surging acid burning her throat on the way out. As it splashed onto the water, the acrid odor bounced against her face, but at least it overrode the memory of the smells from the office.
By the time her stomach was done with her, Elizabeth felt terribly woozy and weak. She tried to reach up for the dangling handle to flush her shame away, but her arm was too short and her legs refused to move from where she sat on the tiled floor. Struggling to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose, she set her flushed face on the comparatively cool seat and closed her eyes.
She had no idea how long she sat there, her mind blank, just working to take one breath after another. The silence, the isolation were as calming as they were unexpected. Much to her surprise, no one intruded on her misery. Perhaps what she was going through was a common occurrence here and not worthy of note.
Eventually, Elizabeth rallied enough strength to rise uneasily to her feet. While rinsing her mouth and washing her face, she tried to put herself together, inside and out. She had no idea how long she'd been here. Sooner or later, she'd be missed at home. She had to go.
She looked at herself in the mirror and fixed her cap and hair while ignoring the bloodshot eyes, the pale pallor, the stranger's face staring back at her, and made herself presentable.
To her horror, she found the sun had already set outside. The lamplighters had lit the street lights for the evening. If it was late enough, she'd not have a prayer of grabbing a coach. Kew Gardens would surely be closed by now, in any case. She wouldn't be able to go back and get her clothes. She'd asked Millie to cover for her, but if Robert had asked to see her... Panic nibbled at her, as she scanned the street hoping for a sign of a cab.
It was then she realized she'd gotten turned around and didn't exit the hospital on the Whitechapel Road side. Instead she'd ended up on Turner Street, one of the back thoroughfares. She'd not be finding a cab here.
Something familiar called for her attention down at the corner to her left. There was a woman there, leaning against the lamppost, flirting with a passerby. She wore a simple straw hat with faded flowers over dirty curls.
A jolt of heat flooded Elizabeth from her toes to her head. Her vision zoomed in on the woman until she saw nothing else. All thoughts of panic or getting home, disintegrated into nothing.
Shameless Cunt! She didn't know where the profane word came from or how she knew it, but it fit perfectly. This...this whore had tempted her husband with her diseased genitals and robbed Elizabeth of her future. She'd completely destroyed Elizabeth's ability of gaining any happiness whatsoever.
The demon spawn made a rude gesture as the man she'd been talking to turned away and moved on. She spit at the street then moved from the light, swaying her hips like a ringing bell.
Her hands curling into claws, Elizabeth found herself following after her.
* * * *
Elizabeth's hands shook as she tried to drink her morning tea in the sunroom. The entire previous evening was a blur. The house had been locked tight, when she'd finally made her way back, which had surprised her. She'd expected all the lights to be on and anxious servants running to and fro. But she'd been fortunate. Millie had done as asked, and Robert had assumed she'd gone to bed by the time he returned home. So a few well thrown pebbles had awakened her maid and gotten her back inside.
Her cup rattled in its saucer as she set both back on the table, the shaking in her hands growing worse.
Elizabeth had seen Robert's inner monster. But she'd also met her own.
"There you are, Lizzie!" Her husband waltzed into the room, a glowing smile on his face.
She avoided eye contact, knowing she had to confess to what she'd done. The rage had given her power, made her unafraid. It had grown and grown as she'd followed the woman. She'd watched her work her wiles down dirty dark byways in the rat warrens of the deeper sections of Whitechapel, giving her body to any man with coin.
"I've had a capital idea! One I think will give us both peace of mind and assure our futures!"
She almost laughed out loud. Assure their futures. Yes, she'd probably already taken care of that. And it had been so horribly easy. Mentioning Robert's name had gotten her close. Gasping and telling the woman it might already be too late and staring just beneath her skirts got her to grab them, giving Elizabeth the needed moment to step forward and place her hands around the poor woman's throat.
"Now, Lizzie, keep an open mind and you'll see how brilliant this is." He paced before her, throwing jubilant and sneaking glances her way. "In order to allay any possible rumors that may crop up in future when our little family does not grow, I'll be arranging for us to get a surrogate! I've already discussed it in detail with our solicitor, and he's drawing up a contract as we speak."
How the dirty woman's eyes had bugged out in surprise as she'd squeezed. How warm her neck had felt as Elizabeth clenched it with all her might and rage. The flurry of horrid words she'd whispered at her victim with such scathing hate. Watching as if from afar as her inner monster destroyed a life, as it cackled as the same spark stolen from her child dampened in the poor soul before
her.
"We will be totally discreet, of course. And once I find the right individual, she'll go with us to the country. Then, once we're sure she's pregnant, the two of you can go to Europe on sabbatical for several months, citing that we want the best possible environment for you, so we don't have a repeat of the first time. Then, after my son or daughter is born, you'll make your triumphant way back to England with our new child."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to confess, to beg for mercy and understanding despite the horror of her deeds, until the meaning of his words finally dawned upon her. Her chest grew tight, fire spreading just beneath her skin. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, centered on the middle of his face. All thought, all feeling, suddenly burned away to nothing. Just like before.
He faced her and smiled, totally oblivious. "We'll then have our son or daughter and no one will have cause to question or doubt our status. Thus our lineage will be assured and no questions on your ability to give me an heir will ever arise." He paused, obviously waiting for her to praise him on his well-thought out and marvelous plan.
Elizabeth shook, leaning forward to hide her face from him. But unlike before, the shaking had nothing to do with fear or regret. Her husband planned to father a child with another woman—low growling noises, flesh pounding against flesh—and expected her to raise the issue as her own. He'd be giving someone else what he gave, but also took, from her? And he expected her to be grateful. To live in the same house as he went about his business, to watch as whatever whore he chose grew with his son or daughter, then to be there when she birthed it and claim it as her own child?
Heat flushed through her in ever increasing waves. She struggled not to move, wanting nothing more than to lunge herself at him, to pluck his eyes out of his head and stomp on them. To grab that self-righteous lie that was his face and disfigure it for all time. To destroy his heinous line and strike it from the world. The need of it scorched her from the inside out.
She would cave into it and scream and scream until she went mad and there was nothing of her left.
Charity and Sacrifice Page 3