Ellen sighed and put the neatly tied bundle down on the table.
A warm glow spread through her as she remembered Doctor Munroe on the morning Bridget died. Utterly tired though he had been, he had stayed with her, taking the burden of the arrangements from her shoulders. For so long Ellen had been without the strong support of a man beside her, and she had forgotten how wonderful it felt. Even when he had finally taken his leave of her, as the cart bearing Bridget’s coffin left the hospital, she continued to feel the warmth of his affection surrounding her.
Ellen’s eyes rested on the bundle on the table. She should get six shillings for the lot, maybe more. Her thoughts went to the nine pounds three shillings that now sat in the Thrift Bank. She had calculated that she needed at least twelve pounds in total before she could book the passage, but that was before Bridget had died. Now, overnight, Ellen had the money for the fare to New York. But instead of making plans to book passage on the next ship leaving, Ellen found she didn’t want to go to New York or anywhere else on earth if it meant leaving Robert.
She knew it was madness. How could they ever be together? Marriage would be impossible and she had sworn never to be any man’s mistress.
Putting the cup down, Ellen stood up, trimmed the wick of the oil lamp and drew the curtains. It was the first day she had left off her black dress and she had opted to wear her dark green cotton. It was old, but its slim lines suited her. Taking up her brush from the shelf she turned the mirror that had been set against the wall during the past week, and unpinned her hair.
In the soft reflection of the lamp, Ellen looked at herself as she brushed out her long auburn hair. She should go up to bed soon. It would save oil and she had an early start in the morning, but now, with Bridget gone, the bed seemed large and lonely even with Josie beside her.
Ellen picked up a book and, tucking her feet underneath her, snuggled into the chair. She realised she must have dozed off because she was woken by a sharp rap on the front door. Thinking it must be someone who might have just heard about Bridget’s death coming to pay their respects, Ellen got up.
Her heart leapt in her chest as she cautiously opened the door and found Robert Munroe standing there.
He removed his hat and bowed. ‘Good evening, Mrs O’Casey.’ His eyes took in her unbound hair. Ellen looked past him down the street.
‘May I come in, or are you expecting someone?’ he asked. There was a tightness in his voice as he posed the question.
‘I’m sorry, do come in, I’m not expecting anyone. I just thought that you were on your way somewhere and must have a coach waiting.’
‘I’m not on my way anywhere. I have come particularly to see you,’ he replied as he stepped into the parlour.
He put his hat down on the table beside the bundle of clothes and waited.
‘Oh, please sit down,’ she said, indicating the chair on the other side of the range.
‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind.’ he replied, his mouth turning up slightly at one end. ‘But please sit yourself.’
She settled herself into the chair, this time taking up a more formal posture with both feet on the floor and looked up. Robert clasped his hands behind his back.
‘I hear the wake for your mother went well.’
‘Yes, very well,’ she said, smiling at him.
He smiled back. ‘I would have paid my respects, but I didn’t want to intrude on your grief, with all your close friends around. It must be difficult for Josie and she was obviously fond of her grandmother,’ Robert said, his eyes glancing towards the closed stairs to the upper room. ‘Is she here?’
‘She’s upstairs asleep,’ Ellen replied. ‘It’s very good of you to call to give your condolences, Doctor Munroe.’
‘I didn’t come just for that, I have something to tell you.’
Was he leaving? Had he come to say goodbye? Maybe he was going tell her he was getting married... Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Maybe he was here to ask her to put aside her scruples and become his mistress after all? Surely not.
I’ll never be any man’s mistress. How many times had she said that over the past five years? She had meant it, and she still did.
But then she had welcomed his advances at the fair. Whatever had she been thinking of, flirting with him at the fair and then letting him hold her in the corner of the hospital? Did Doctor Munroe think that just because she had lost Bridget’s small income she would alter her resolve on the matter?
Doctor Munroe’s took a step forward and took her hand.
‘Ellen.’ His fingers smoothed over her roughened palms. ‘My dearest Ellen. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met and what I have come to tell you is - I love you.’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers lightly. ‘I love you totally.’
His arm slid around her waist and he drew her to him. The part of her mind that had vowed to be no man’s mistress tried to assert itself, but Robert was here, holding her, telling of his love and nothing, nothing else on earth, mattered.
‘I love you too, Robert,’ she replied softly.
Her hand encircled his neck and he held her tighter. He looked into her upturned face for a moment longer, then did what he had wanted to do since the day of the fair: he kissed her.
‘Ellen, will you—’
Become your mistress?
‘Yes, Robert.’
‘Ellen, will you marry me?’
Yes, Yes.
There was a long pause.
‘No. I can’t.’
Robert felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs, and for a second he thought he had misheard.
He put her at arm’s length. ‘Can’t? You’re a widow, and free to marry anyone you choose. I am not attached. Why can’t you marry me? Is there another man?’ he asked, knowing that she was admired by many who frequented the public houses where she sang. ‘Don’t you love me?’
Pain crossed Ellen’s face and she grabbed hold of his upper arms. ‘Don’t I love you?’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘I love you like no other and will do until I’m lowered into my grave.’
Relief swamped him. She loved him. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Then marry me.’
She shook her head, but stayed in his arms. Robert held her tighter to him and kissed her head. He felt her lean into his body and lay her head between his neck and shoulder. With both hands on his chest she looked up at him.
‘It’s because I love you that I can’t marry you,’ she said, breaking free of his embrace and going to stand a pace or two away from him. He took a step toward her but she matched it, keeping the distance between them.
He stifled his impatience. He didn’t want her over there, facing him; he wanted her here in his arms. He would soon put an end to her reluctance and get her to answer ‘Yes’ to him.
‘What nons—’
‘I can’t marry you,’ she said, interrupting him, ‘because it would ruin you. You’re the senior medical doctor in the hospital. You’re a member of the Royal College of Physicians, are you not?’
‘I am,’ he answered. But—’
‘How do you think they would regard you if you married me?’
He didn’t answer. There would be some scandal no doubt, for a year or two. Not that the Society would be so crass as to say as much.
‘And your family? What would they say if you returned home with an Irish Catholic wife?’
Robert couldn’t even begin to tell Ellen the furore that would cause. To Robert’s father, the Pope was the Antichrist and those who followed him were condemned to everlasting damnation. A Catholic daughter-in-law would probably burst every vein in his head.
‘My father and I long ago agreed to differ over religious matters.’
Ellen gave him a sad look and shook her head.
‘And your mother? What would she say if you told her that your wife and possibly the mother of your children...’
Children!
‘... earned her l
iving by singing in a public house?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ellen,’ Robert said sharply. ‘You are the most respectable woman I know.’
‘I doubt your mother would call me so.’
She was right, but Robert didn’t care.
‘Ellen,’ he stepped towards her, and this time she stayed where she was. ‘My dear Ellen,’ he repeated, a warm smile spreading across his face. ‘What you say may be true. But none of that matters to me. I want you as my wife.’
‘But it matters to me,’ Ellen said. ‘It matters to me very much.’ She placed a hand lightly on his arm. ‘I can’t destroy all you have worked for,’ she said, looking up at him. She ran her hand up Robert’s arm and around his neck. Her expressive green eyes gazed up at him. Automatically his arm encircled her waist tightly. ‘But I will be your wife in all but name,’ she whispered pressing herself closely to him.
He kissed her deeply for a long moment then drew back.
‘Ellen, Ellen,’ he said.
She smiled up at him. ‘Love me, Robert.’
His hand reached up and cupped one of her breasts. Her hand went to his coat buttons, undoing them in an instant. Although her slim hand sliding over the shirt on his back fired him with desire, Robert disentangled himself from her arms.
‘No, Ellen,’ he said ‘I want you for my wife and will settle for nothing less.’
‘Don’t you want to make love to me?’ she said, taking hold of the back of the chair and standing somewhat unsteadily.
‘I want nothing more, but I want to love you as my wife, not as my mistress.’
Ellen gave a half laugh. ‘I am offering to give myself to you and you are saying no?’
Within him, Robert’s baser instincts were arguing furiously with his morals, asking him what difference a piece of paper and a few words would make. What was the harm in it? Physical intimacy would bind Ellen to him and he would be able to persuade her to marry him later. But his morals wouldn’t budge.
‘I am,’ he told her.
She pulled herself up and smoothed her hair back into place. ‘Well, I love you too much to marry you.’
‘And I love you too much to make you my mistress.’
He had to leave because, strong though his resolve was, with Ellen within an arm’s length and willing, Robert wasn’t sure that he could remain firm if he didn’t remove temptation soon. He snatched up his hat and cane and bowed.
Ellen met his gaze levelly. ‘It would seem that there is nothing left for us to say, is there, Doctor Munroe? You don’t love me enough to make love to me.’
‘And you don’t love me enough to marry me,’ he replied in the same controlled manner.
For a timeless moment their eyes locked. Then Robert re-buttoned his jacket.
‘I’ll wish you a good evening, Mrs O’Casey,’ Robert said, spinning on his heels and heading for the door.
Ellen put her hand out to him. ‘Robert,’ she said, in low whisper.
He had to go, because if she had actually touched him again he would have been unable to control himself. He pulled open the front door and, without looking at Ellen again, he left.
Fifteen
The late afternoon summer sun streamed through the dimpled windows of the dispensary catching particles of dust in its beams. Robert looked up from his ledger and watched Thomas, his assistant, put the jars back on the shelves. He could have left an hour ago, but since Ellen had refused his offer of marriage Robert had taken to staying late in his rooms in Chapman Street. He had a reputation for single-minded dedication amongst his fellow doctors, so this extension of his day when the area was in the grip of a cholera epidemic seemed nothing out of the ordinary.
Despite vowing not to seek her out, Robert was drawn like a compass needle to the Angel and Crown each night he knew she was singing there, but seeing her there was bitter-sweet. She would look at him with deep longing in her eyes and he would call himself a fool. Being morally right didn’t help him sleep at night.
He ached to see her, to talk to her, but knew that that if she threw herself into his arms again and begged him to love her, his willpower would evaporate. So, staying at work gave him some respite from the torture of loving Ellen. Work kept his mind occupied, and the long hours were spent in the hope that he would sleep instead of staring at the ceiling with pictures of making love to Ellen dancing in his head.
Thomas started to sing softly as he polished the jars. The contorted reflection of his thin face showed in the bulbous containers. Beside him were a small burner and sealing wax which he used to seal some of the more easily spoilt substances. The smell of hot wax drifted across the room from time to time as the stoppers received their overnight seals. Robert turned back to the letter in his hand. Thomas stopped polishing and came back to Robert’s desk, taking a pile of papers to store away.
‘Leave the letter on the top, Weaver, I have yet to answer it,’ Robert said.
Thomas tapped the papers into a neat bundle and walked over to the drawers where they were stored. ‘I saw your letter in The Times supporting the call to improve living conditions for the poor, sir. Have you considered standing for parliament? Lord Ashley is set to—’
An ear-splitting crash cut him off and, as Robert, turned towards the window, an oil lamp burst though the glass, shattering the panes.
As they watched, the lamp sailed in an arc across the dispensary and landed with an explosion of flames on the slate floor. Oil slithered across the floor and tendrils of flames leapt towards the storage cabinet, shelves, bookcase and the long curtains, igniting everything as they progressed. As Robert sprang to his feet another missile was propelled through the broken window and shattered on the stone floor. More lamp-oil gushed forth, sending up a wall of flame and setting the wallpaper and prints around the room ablaze. He shielded his eyes against the scorching heat and gathered the papers on his desk into one pile.
Arson! Strangely he wasn’t surprised. It was clear that he had upset those who didn’t want their sordid activities looked into too closely. In short, Danny Donovan. Because although someone else had no doubt lobbed the lamp through the window, it was Danny’s hand which had instigated the attack. Robert blinked hard to moisten his eyes.
Thomas was stamping frantically on the flames nearest to the shelf of storage jars. Robert went to join him. If the spirits and alcohol contained in the jars were overheated or touched by flame they would explode like gunpowder.
Through a heat haze Robert saw passers-by attempting to organise help. He tried to shout to them, but a wall of flame fuelled by the papers and notes on the low bookcase blocked him in. The chintz curtains were now ablaze and overhead some of the plaster was smouldering.
His records! He had to get his records.
Glowing wisps of wallpaper were falling from the walls like seared cherry blossom. He shielded his face as best he could with his arm and glanced towards his office behind the consulting room.
The whole room was ablaze now and the ceiling was in danger of collapsing. Above him, where the plaster had fallen away, flames were now taking hold of the support beams above.
He waved frantically at Thomas. ‘Get out, man. Now!’
A shrill screech from outside caught Robert’s attention. Peering through the sheet of flame into the street Robert saw onlookers pointing desperately to either side of the dispensary.
The lodging houses! Please God, don’t let the lodging houses go up, he prayed earnestly, thinking of the impoverished families crammed into them.
Thomas started making his way towards the front door. Seeing him stepping carefully through the debris, Robert turned to his office. The doorframe leading to his study was on fire and the wood surround was already charred black. A quick glance at the office ceiling showed smoke coming from the corner joists but it was not glowing like the consulting room. He had to get those papers.
‘You go, Weaver, I’ll get my papers, and then get out of the back door.’
His apprentice raised a h
and in acknowledgement and resumed his path to the door. All around Robert plaster and charred wood were falling from above. Suddenly there was a loud groaning sound and the rain of sparks and ash increased. Then with one almighty roar the whole ceiling crashed to the floor. Thomas howled as the large support beam landed on him pinning him underneath.
‘Thomas!’ Robert called, as he tried to get to where his apprentice lay inert beneath the blazing beam.
The heat on Robert’s face was almost unbearable, and try as he might he could not go forward to help the fallen man. Another beam crashed down, sending sparks upwards in a pretty spray of red and yellow. Thomas was not moving and his eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Anger and sorrow rose in Robert’s chest.
Sickened by the sweet smell of burning flesh, Robert turned back to the office. Quickly scooping up all the leather-bound files with his reports, Robert headed to the back door in the small scullery. The smoke from the room beyond was now filtering into the back room and Robert started to cough. Grabbing the handle he tried to open the door. It would not budge. He tried again with all his might, but still there was no movement. He was trapped. Whoever had thrown that oil lamp through the window wasn’t intent on just frightening him, but on killing him.
Robert pushed the door one last time knowing it was useless even before he jammed his shoulder against it. Unless he got out of this inferno within the next few moments he was a dead man. He looked back into the dispensary’s main room to see that it was now a mass of flames and thick black smoke. The fire was sapping the air and Robert was struggling to breathe.
Quickly scanning the rapidly igniting scullery Robert spied two large buckets of water in the corner by the sluice. Without a second thought he picked up the first and poured it over himself, then repeated the process with the second. Drenched to the skin Robert turned up his collar to protect his ears and neck as much as he could, tucking his head down and shielding his eyes with his arm. He secured the files under his other arm and dashed back into the smoke and heat of the blazing dispensary.
No Cure for Love Page 18