at night.
“Do you usually perform surgeries this late?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
Before Simon spoke, I caught the brief glance he cast Dr. Bartlett. “Only some surgeries.”
I left shortly thereafter with Simon, in his carriage.
During the ride home, I noticed that although Simon had been up all night, he seemed wide awake, completely alert. I could barely keep my head up. I watched him through drowsy eyelids, his pale face angelic in the dark carriage.
“How is Jupe?” Simon asked, amused.
I felt myself blush deeply. “Better. He’s walking about the house like a little wretched mummy.”
“Has Lady Westfield forgiven you?”
“Mostly. Although I am banned from playing archery for my whole life.”
At some point along the way, the jolting of the carriage put me to sleep. “You are home, Abbie,” I heard him say quietly. I had not even noticed when the carriage stopped in front of Grandmother’s home.
I quietly opened the front door.
Richard sat on a bench in the entranceway, immediately in front of me.
I could not speak.
“Do you realize what your grandmother would say if she knew about this? An hour ago, Jupe opened your door and when Ellen went into your room to retrieve him before he could wake you, she saw that you were gone. Vanished.”
Damn. I must have forgotten to shut my bedroom door completely.
“I lied for you, telling Ellen that I had seen you downstairs drinking a glass of water. She went to bed. But since then, I’ve been sitting here debating whether or not to call Scotland Yard. I know that you can usually take care of yourself, and I had a feeling that your absence had something to do with your work. But Abbie, you typically have more sense than leaving the house like this at night! Why did you leave?” His eyes blazed in an unusual display of emotion. “Am I correct? Does this have something to do with your work at the hospital?”
“Yes.” I could not lie to Richard. “I must work some nights now.”
Richard tilted his chin a bit. Exasperated.
“It won’t be all the time, just sometimes,” I said quickly.
Richard remained silent for a few moments.
I thought some truth and humor might lighten the moment. “Richard, I’m rather fierce. Did I ever tell you about my knife-throwing days in Dublin?”
His forehead tensed momentarily as he considered a negotiation to present to me. “Whatever your hours might be at the hospital, I do require that you tell your grandmother about this. As soon as possible.” He stood to leave. “At breakfast, in fact.”
“I will.”
Richard looked at the grandfather clock in the entranceway. “You had better go to bed. You only have two hours before Ellen wakes you.”
Before leaving, he turned around. “Knife-throwing?”
“Yes. I was a bit of a local champion.”
Richard smiled, scratched his chin, and left.
“Nights too !”
Grandmother’s voice might have broken glass.
“Just some nights. And I’ll come and go with Simon in the St. Johns’ carriage. He lives near us. He said it would be no inconvenience to escort me when I leave.”
“I suppose I am simply going to have to be all right with you running back and forth from the East End! Day or night.”
She began slicing at her egg ferociously. I felt confident that Grandmother would let me work, although she would rage on for a good while.
I heard Dr. Bartlett’s carriage approaching.
“I should have known that this would happen!” Grandmother was saying. “I am only trying to protect you.” She slammed her cup of tea down on the table. “Not that I have any say in the matter.”
As I left, Richard stood in the hallway facing me, his back against the wall. He looked highly amused. I smiled at him and glanced back toward the dining room, where Grandmother rattled the marmalade jar in her fury.
That morning at the hospital, I assisted in the curtained delivery area with Dr. Bartlett. During a particularly stressful delivery, he helped Simon perform a caesarian. The woman lived through this one, but Dr. Bartlett asked me to bring some dried ginger root from the pharmacy to ward off infection—a very real threat.
I had not familiarized myself enough with the pharmacy contents, particularly the herbal medicines and their Latin labels, and as I scanned the shelves for the bottle of ginger, I knocked a bottle of ammonia onto the floor.
I cursed.
As the strong smell of the solution permeated the pharmacy, making my eyes water, I ran back through the laboratory toward the small utility room. Hoping that it contained not only a sink, but also a mop and bucket, I swung open the door.
I gasped, and my blood ran cold.
The room did in fact contain a large, tublike sink, a broom, a bucket, and a mop. But it was the wall that caught my eye. It had a single decoration—a small, dingy painting. It looked old, the canvas buckled a bit against the rotting wood frame.
The painting featured a silver chalice with a single Latin phrase engraved across the side: A Posse Ad Esse.
I felt my world spin a bit; this chalice was identical to the chalice in my visions.
But why? Why would I see it here?
I stayed frozen where I was, processing what was before me, until I heard footsteps, and then William cursing loudly as he discovered the spilled ammonia.
I recovered my senses a bit. Although my throat felt parched, dry from the shock, I had to act normally.
“Guilty,” I said as William stormed into the utility room. His angry expression softened when he saw me. I took this as a good sign.
“I knocked it over as I tried to find the ginger root, and was just in here to get a mop.” Then, nodding my head toward the picture, I asked casually, “What is that?”
“That?” William responded, distracted as he filled the bucket with water in the sink. “It’s just an ugly portrait of a communion cup or the Holy Grail or something. It’s always been in here.”
“But the inscription? The Latin words. From possibility … ” My brain fumbled through my poor knowledge of Latin.
“I never noticed the inscription.” He peered at it a little closer. “From possibility to actuality.”
He hauled the bucket out of the sink and I quickly grabbed the mop. It would seem odd if I focused on the old painting too much. But I was certain that it depicted the chalice from my visions.
William finished mopping up the ammonia, and I finally located the bottle of ground ginger root on the second shelf. William stood up awkwardly as I began to leave. His voice came out a bit abruptly. “So, I thought that today might be a great day for you to come to our house and meet Christina.”
I panicked. So far, although I felt attracted to William, he intimidated me, and I had managed to keep him at a safe distance. His famous writer aunt also seemed a bit daunting to me. Meeting Christina Rossetti, being in their home, both excited me and made me anxious. I felt even more flustered as I looked down at the blood, amniotic fluid, iodine stains, and splashed ammonia on my dress and apron.
“I need to change first.”
“Christina will think none the less of you.”
“I do need to tell Grandmother also.”
“Go home, clean up, and inform Lady Westfield that you have dinner plans with the Rossettis. Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll assume that you’re joining us for dinner.”
Grandmother seemed in a good mood when I arrived home—far from the rage she had been in that morning. She looked quite nice in a plum-colored dress with pearl earbobs. I assumed she had spent the day with Lady Violet. She sat at her desk in the parlor humming to herself while she wrote a thank you note. I felt a sense
of relief that she seemed to have lost some of her anger from the morning.
“Hello, Arabella. You are home early today.”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “Grandmother, your dress is lovely.”
She turned around in her chair, staring at me suspiciously, quill pen still in hand.
I took a deep breath. “Would it be all right if I dined this evening with Dr. William Siddal and his aunt?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is he the physician who kept you so late, the evening you became lost on your walk?”
“Yes.”
“And his aunt is going to be there?” The edge in her voice must have made the still-bandaged Jupe nervous. He rolled off her lap and ran stiffly from the room. “Who is she?”
“Christina Rossetti.”
Grandmother’s eyes blazed. I had given her the wrong information.
She stood up. “William Siddal is a relation to the Rossettis?”
I heard a sharp, suppressed laugh from the hallway. Richard! I was glad that the situation amused him.
“Yes. William is Gabriel Rossetti’s adopted son.”
“Not only are you spending days and nights at the East End hospital, but now you are cavorting with the Rossettis. Do you know about their family?”
“I know that Christina Rossetti has been a very dedicated and devout woman to the poor … ”
“They are poets.” She spit the word out as one would say thief or whore. “Arabella, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a classic hedonist, a womanizer, and a drug user. His models—well, he had affairs with all of them. He had countless mistresses.”
She did know about the Rossetti family.
“I like William.”
She paused. Horror crossed her face. With a tremulous hand, she dropped her quill.
I knew that Grandmother was fighting with all of her might not to forbid me from accepting the dinner invitation. As she almost always did, she cast her eyes in the direction of the dining room. She knew I was too much like my mother. Blinking back angry tears, she took a deep breath and struggled against her own will.
There was nothing to say, so I bowed slightly and left.
Twelve
I had never met anyone as socially conscious as Christina Rossetti. An advocate for animal welfare, she never ate meat. She never drank alcohol. And, as William had previously told me, she did allow a limited number of former prostitutes to live in her house, referring to them as her “friends.”
According to William, the seven or eight residents who lived with Christina at any time had to have impeccable recommendations from their physicians and demonstrate much promise in terms of seeking and keeping respectable employment. Christina treated them with dignity, allowing each woman to have her own bedroom, and even encouraging them to attend church with her on Sundays. As long as they worked and refrained from alcohol, Christina housed them until they could afford to rent their own rooms. It was a remarkable system, and beyond various physical ailments, which William attended to, she had never had any severe problems—she had established too excellent a system of mutual respect with her friends.
Furthermore, Christina charitably employed an eighty-year-old former prostitute, Perdita, to work as her maid. On the carriage ride, William told me that the old woman, blind and nearly deaf, was incapable of doing much real work.
Christina herself was pale and fragile in appearance, with beautiful, orblike dark eyes. Though in her fifties, she had the energy of a much younger woman. Furthermore, in spite of her tiny figure and short stature, she carried a giant stewpot to the table with ease, and I could see how she managed, on top of her other responsibilities, to volunteer at New Hospital.
Her house was dark inside, the walls painted in dark greens and browns. In spite of this, the dwelling was by no means inhospitable. Books lined nearly every inch of the walls, even one wall in the dining room. Glancing over the titles, I observed an eclectic and broad range of topics. Devotional and religious books stood beside art books and anthologies of fairy tales and myths. Sketches, charcoal skeletons of more famous paintings, hung upon many of the walls. A polished cross hung on the left wall of the dining room, across from the books. But apart from the cross, Christina maintained a relaxed atmosphere at the table. William’s Great Dane, Hugo, sat at his feet, and Christina’s beloved parrot flew about the room, finally perching on my shoulder as I sat down for dinner.
“Toby likes you,” Christina said as she sat near me.
I didn’t mind the bird much—except for when he beat my face with his feathers.
As the meal progressed, Christina’s hospitality made me feel at home. I found William more at ease around his aunt, less intense than he was at work. Christina was very kind to me, and I could tell that she was quite fond of William. I noticed her peering at me occasionally in a manner that I found a bit unsettling. She asked me several questions about my growing up and I told her a bit about my years in Dublin, sans stories of the knife throwing.
Around seven thirty, Christina began watching the clock. “Some of my friends are supposed to return a little after eight. These recent Whitechapel murders have made me nervous for them.”
“Dr. Bartlett thinks that the murders are over,” I offered, curious about William’s opinion.
“That’s not likely,” William said.
“You think there will be more?” I felt a bit surprised at the tone of William’s voice. He had spoken with certainty.
“I do. These murders are far too planned, too methodical. The murderer is sending a message. He is not finished yet.”
Christina’s eyes seemed liquid as she pondered this for a second. “Please explain, William.”
“I saw the body of the first victim, the Nichols woman, at the mortuary. My reaction was that the murder was not a random violent act against a prostitute. Every injury on her body seemed intentional. With Annie Chapman’s body, even more so. Each cut seemed part of a larger message for London. He is carving out some sort of code. More is to come. Unfortunately.”
“If you are correct, William, I wonder if the ‘message’ might be against Whitechapel Hospital. Don’t forget that both victims were also your patients,” Christina said.
I picked up on a tension in the air, like an electric current.
“He’s goin’ down the row, he is,” Dotty had said.
Christina looked as if she wanted to say something else, but refrained.
“Why might someone want to do that?” I asked.
“The hospital has provoked some criticism from more judgmental Londoners. Dr. Bartlett has been accused of fostering too much compassion for prostitutes and not putting enough emphasis on religious conversion,” William responded.
The atmosphere became a bit sober, and Christina quickly veered the conversation to a lighter subject.
Soon dinner ended and Christina called for Perdita to clear the dishes away. No response came from the old woman’s bedroom quarters, located just beyond the dining room.
“Did you forget, Aunt, that Perdita naps between the hours of nine o’clock in the morning and nine o’clock at night?” William asked. “Unfortunately, straight through two of our meal times.”
“She is old, Will. I’ll do it myself in a few minutes.” Christina stood and exchanged an odd glance with her nephew. “William, why don’t you take Abbie to the parlor? I’ll be there in a minute.”
I glanced at William, but his expression was unreadable.
The parlor was small, cozier than Grandmother’s parlor. A roaring fire in the fireplace drew my eyes to the portrait above it. The portrait depicted a young man, very handsome, with dark curly hair and an intense look on his face. He did not look unlike William.
“Who is he?” I asked, walking toward the fireplace.
Hugo padded into the room and began sniffing me, probably
smelling Jupe’s scent on my skirt. I patted his head; the dog was about the size of a small horse.
“That is Christina’s uncle, my great uncle, John Polidori.”
“John Polidori, the author of The Vampyre, is your relation?” I remembered our conversation about vampire literature. He had said nothing at that time. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Did Christina know him well?”
William just laughed a bit and came to stand beside me at the fireplace. I only vaguely felt the heat of the flames on my skirts.
“He was not only a writer, but a physician. He was actually the poet Lord Byron’s physician for a while in the Alps. And to answer your question, Christina never knew him. Polidori had several spoiled love affairs, an overreliance on laudanum, and loads of gambling debts. He died quite young of an overdose of prussic acid. Whether the overdose was accidental or suicide has always been a family debate.”
William’s expression seemed far away for an instant. Lost in a sea of memory. Then he snapped back to the present and chuckled. “Because everyone in my family seems to be so literary, I’ve always felt a connection with my great uncle, the physician.”
“But he was also a writer. You might write also if you wish.”
“If you are wondering why I haven’t tried my hand at writing or painting, I simply haven’t the skill. But being a physician is a creative act. At least I think so.”
I understood the line of thinking. Perfectly.
“Are you telling Abbie about our sordid family history?” Christina entered the parlor with a tray of steaming cups of tea. As we seated ourselves, she met William’s eyes again.
There was an awkward pause before Christina spoke. “Abbie, William and I not only wanted to visit with you tonight, but we wanted to tell you something. We both wanted to wait until after dinner, so as not to shock you with too much information at once. But the fact is, after your first day at work, when William explained to me that you were Lady Charlotte Westfield’s granddaughter, returned to London, I knew immediately that you were Caroline’s daughter.”
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