by Anne Perry
“I am going to Vienna,” she said with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “To live there.”
“Vienna!” Hester repeated the word as if it were close to incomprehensible, and yet it made the most devastating sense. Vienna was the original home of Kristian Beck, before he had left with his wife to come to London. Then he had met Callandra, his wife had been murdered, and grief and shattering revelations had followed. Perhaps as difficult as those of his dead wife’s character had been the discovery of Kristian’s own origins, turning upside down everything he had previously believed. But was Callandra going to Vienna because Kristian had decided to return? What was his part in her decision? Hester was already dry-mouthed with fear that Callandra would be hurt yet again, and she had borne so much already.
But Callandra’s eyes were shining, and it did not seem a wild hope but rather a steady understanding. “Kristian and I are going to be married,” she said softly. Her voice was tender, and absolutely sure. “He has decided that he needs to face the past, look at it honestly and discover the answers, whatever they are.”
She turned from Hester to Monk. “I’m sorry, William. Sharing cases with you gave me interest and purpose during many years when I would have had neither without you. Your friendship has meant even more to me-as much, in its own way, as Hester’s. But Kristian will be my husband.” Her eyes flickered down, and then up again. “I wish to be with him, and if leaving my home and my dearest friends is the price, then I will pay it willingly. I thank you with all my heart for the love you have given me in the past, and for your skill and loyalty in defending Kristian. . and me. I know what we would have suffered without you.”
Hester went forward and put her arms around Callandra, holding her tightly and feeling Callandra’s eager response. “I couldn’t be more delighted for you,” she said honestly. “Go to Vienna, and be happy. And whatever Kristian finds there, help him to remember that he is not responsible for the sins or the ignorance of his fathers. None of us are. We cannot ever undo our own pasts, let alone anyone else’s. But we have the future, and I am so glad yours is with Kristian. That couldn’t be better.” She kissed Callandra on the cheek, hugged her hard for a moment longer, and then stepped back.
Callandra turned to Monk, her face still touched with uncertainty.
He did exactly as Hester had done. “Go and be happy,” he said sincerely. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than both of you. And when you’ve solved the problems of the past, there’ll be other good causes to fight for. If there’s anyone who knows that, I do.”
Callandra sniffed hard, gulped, and gave up the battle. She let the tears flow, standing quite still, her face smiling in spite of them. Then as Monk pulled out a handkerchief, she accepted it and blew her nose.
“Thank you,” she said, handing the handkerchief back to Hester. “I apologize. But I cannot add stealing your clothes to my general desertion. My carriage is waiting. Will you allow me to retreat with what dignity I have left?”
“Of course,” Hester said, her own voice thick with emotion. “Good-byes are ridiculous. One is quite sufficient.”
“I’m most grateful,” Callandra said, her eyes brimming again.
She dug in her reticule and this time quite easily found what she was looking for. She brought out two small packages, handsomely wrapped and tied up in ribbon. She glanced at them, then handed one to Hester and the other to Monk. From the expectancy in her face she was obviously waiting for them to open the gifts now.
Hester started with hers, undoing the ribbon and paper carefully. Inside was a box, and within it the most exquisitely carved cameo, not of the usual head of a woman, but of a man with an elaborate helmet and flowing hair. It was mounted in a rich filigree of both yellow and rose gold.
Hester gasped with delight, then looked up at Callandra and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.
Monk unwrapped his more impatiently, tearing the paper. His was a gold watch, a perfect piece of both art and workmanship. His appreciation was abundantly clear in his face even before he spoke to thank her.
“So you will remember not only me but how much I care for you both,” she said a little huskily. “Now I must go.”
She smiled once more and then swept out of the door as Monk held it open for her. Her skirts were crooked, her jacket not quite matching, and her hat had slipped to one side, but her head was high. She did not look behind her, even once.
Monk closed the door and returned to the fire, the watch still in his hand. Hester was still clasping the cameo. She was thrilled for Callandra. Her friend had loved Kristian profoundly and hopelessly for so long that to have wished her anything but success would be unthinkable. But she was aware, with the cold from the open door still sharp in the air, just how alone it left them. She was not sure what to say. The awareness of the difference it would make, especially now, was like a third presence in the room between them.
“It had to happen,” she said, lifting her gaze slowly to meet his. “We couldn’t have wished it differently. If the position were the other way around, and it were you and I in their place, and they in ours, I should go to Vienna, or anywhere else, if you needed me-or wanted me with you.”
He smiled slowly. “Would you?”
She knew he was joking, fighting the fear so she could not see it. She pretended she had not. “I’d like tea,” she remarked. “Shall I fetch some?”
By ten the following day, when Monk was back at the dockside, Hester was going through the cabinets in the main room at Portpool Lane. There was conspicuously less of almost everything than there had been the day before. No later than tomorrow they would have to buy more disinfectant and at least carbolic, lye, vinegar, and candles. It would be nice to have brandy as well, and fortified wine to add to beef tea. She could list another dozen things it would help to have.
The girl who had come in the day before was still deeply asleep, but her breathing was easier and there was already a little color in her skin. If they could have afforded to feed her for a week or two, she would probably have recovered completely.
Hester had turned away from the cupboard and was going to the drawer of the desk when Bessie came in. She had her sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around her waist. There was an old smear of blood across the center of it.
“We got another of ’em as can ’ardly breathe,” she said wearily, her face puckered in anger because the problem was too big. She had spent as long as she could remember trying to cope with it, and as fast as she cured one, another turned up, if not two. “Why couldn’t the good Lord ’a designed us better?” she added tartly. “Or else done away wi’ winter. ’e can’t ’a not see’d this comin’! It ’appens every year!”
Hester did not bother with an answer, not that she had one anyway. The question was rhetorical. She turned from what she had been going to do and followed Bessie to the entrance room, where a middle-aged woman in brown was sitting hunched up on the old couch, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She breathed slowly and with obvious difficulty. In the candlelight her face was colorless; her fair hair, liberally streaked with gray, was piled on her head like so much old straw.
Hester looked more carefully at her pinched face and saw the whiteness about her lips and around her eyes, and the slight flush in her cheeks. It was probably bronchitis, which could turn to pneumonia. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Molly Struther,” the woman answered without looking up.
“How do you feel, exactly?”
“Tired enough ter die,” the woman replied. “Dunno why I bothered ter come ’ere, ’cept Flo tol’ me ter. Said as yer’d ’elp. Daft, I call it. Wot can yer do? Gonna change the world, are yer?” There was no mockery in her voice; she had not the energy for it.
“Find you a warm, dry bed-undisturbed for the most part-and some food,” Hester replied. “Plenty of hot tea, with maybe a nip of brandy in it, at least until the brandy runs out.”
Molly drew in a deep br
eath of amazement and broke into a fit of coughing until she all but gagged. Hester fetched her some hot water from the kettle, put a spoonful of honey in it, and held it out for her. Molly sipped at it gratefully, but it was several minutes before she tried to speak again.
“Thanks,” she said finally.
Hester helped her to one of the rooms with two beds, while Bessie went off to heat a warming pan. Half an hour later Molly was lying on her back, blankets up to her chin, eyes still wide with surprise and the sheer unfamiliarity of it.
“We gotter get more money!” Bessie said to Hester when they were back in the kitchen. She poked tentatively at the stove, wondering how long it would burn without adding more coke to it. It was a fine balance between using the minimum it would take to keep burning, and so little it actually went out.
“I know,” Hester admitted. “Margaret’s trying, and I’ve got a list of names to go on with, but people are uncomfortable about giving because of the women’s occupation. They feel better about sending their offerings to Africa, or somewhere like that.”
Bessie made a snarl in her throat that was eloquent of contempt. “So they think them Africans is better than we are?” she demanded. “Or they’re colder, or ’ungrier, or sicker mebbe?”
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with that,” Hester replied, warming her hands above the cast-iron surface of the stove.
“O’ course it in’t!” Bessie snapped, filling the kettle up again from the ewer of water in the far corner near the stone sink, and putting it back on the hob. “It’s ter do wi’ conscience, that’s wot it’s ter do wi’! It in’t our fault if Africans starve or die; it’s too far away fer us ter feel bad about it. But if our own is freezin’ an’ starvin’, then that’s summink ter feel bad abaht, aw-right. ’Cos mebbe we should ’a see’d they wasn’t like that in the first place.”
Hester did not answer.
“Or mebbe it’s ’cos they in’t no better than they should be,” Bessie went on, drying her hands on her apron. “They sell theirselves on the street, which is sin, in’t it? An’ we might get our skirts dirty if we ’ave anythin’ ter do wi’ the likes o’ them! Never mind our ’usbands go ter them poor sods fer a bit o’ wotever we don’t wanter do-’cos we got an ’eadache, or it in’t decent, or we don’t want no more kids!” She slammed the grate door shut on the stove. “It in’t nice ter know about things like that, so we pretend as we don’t! So o’ course we don’t want ’em fed or nursed; we’d rather play at it as if they in’t real. Gawd ’elp us, it in’t our daughter, or sister, or even our man!”
“That’s probably more like it,” Hester agreed, hoping the kettle would boil soon. A hot cup of tea would warm her through before she went around collecting the linen to wash, and turned her thoughts to what they could fall back on if Margaret failed. She didn’t want an idle mind, or it would be too quickly filled with thoughts of how Monk was progressing on the docks in the blustering rain, searching for evidence he might not even recognize if it was there in his hands.
“ ’Course it is,” Bessie retorted. “Stick yer ’ead in the coal cellar, an’ then tell the world there in’t nobody there, ’cos you can’t see a bleedin’ thing! Gor, I dunno! Are they stupid, or just frit out o’ their brains?”
Hester did not reply. She was upstairs changing beds, ready to wash the linen, when Bessie came tramping up about two hours later.
“I’m here!” Hester replied, coming to the door.
“Got another sick one, poor cow,” Bessie said cheerfully. “Looks like death on a bad day, she do. Shoot ’er’d be the kindest thing.” She caught a stray length of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Mind, I’ve felt like that at times. It don’t last forever, jus’ seems like it. But she got a feller with ’er wot’s askin’ real nice, all proper dressed an’ all. An’ ’e says ’e’ll pay us wot it costs ter look arter ’er, an’ more besides.” She waited expectedly for Hester’s approval.
Hester felt a stab of pity for the woman, but she could not help the flood of relief that washed over her that someone was here this minute with money, not the promise but the actuality. “Good!” she said enthusiastically. “Let’s go and see him. Whoever he is, he’s come to the right place!” And she followed on Bessie’s heels as they went downstairs and back to the front room.
The man was standing looking towards them. He was a good height, not unusually broad, but strong and supple. His light brown hair was thick with a slight wave to it, but cut shorter than most, and sprung up from his brow. His skin was weather-burned, his eyes blue and narrowed as if against light that was harsh.
“Mrs. Monk?” He stepped forward. “My name is Clement Louvain. I’ve heard that you do a great work here for women of the streets taken ill. Am I told rightly?”
Louvain! She was uncertain whether to show that she knew his name or not. “You are told rightly,” she replied, intensely curious to know why he was there with a woman who was obviously extremely ill. Even at the slightest glance that Hester had been able to afford her, she looked fearful. She was all but fainting where she sat on the couch, and she had not even raised her head to look at either Hester or Bessie. “We help all those we can, particularly if they have not the money to pay a doctor,” she told Louvain.
“Money is not the problem,” he countered. “I shall be happy to pay whatever charges you consider reasonable, as I told your woman. Plus a contribution so you can care for others. I imagine such a thing would be welcome? Folks can be hard to persuade when they can excuse themselves by a nice moral judgment.” There was a bitter humor in his eyes, and he appeared to know that Hester understood his meaning precisely. He was speaking to her as an equal, at least on the subject of irony.
“It would be welcome,” she agreed, warming to the intelligence in him, and the dry wit. “Without money we can help no one.”
He nodded. “What would be fair?”
She thought rapidly. She must not pitch it too high or he would be angry and refuse to pay, but she wanted as much as possible-at least sufficient to look after the woman well, feed her, give her clean linen, sit up with her if necessary, and give her such medicines as would ease her distress. “Two shillings a day,” she replied.
He seemed pleased. “Good. I will give you fourteen shillings and come back again in a week, although I imagine it will be unnecessary. She has family who will come for her before then. It is simply a matter of caring for her in the meantime. And I shall donate five pounds to your charity, so you can care for others as well.”
It was an enormous sum. Suspicions flickered in her mind as to why he would give so much, and who the woman really was. But the money would keep them open for another week at least, and she could not afford to refuse it. After that surely Margaret would have succeeded in persuading at least one benefactor from Callandra’s list who would give something.
“Thank you,” she accepted. Equivocation or a refusal for the sake of courtesy would be absurd. “What can you tell me about her, so that we can do the best for her we are able?”
“Her name is Ruth Clark,” he replied. “She is. . was. . the mistress of a colleague of mine. She has become ill, and he is no longer interested in her.” His voice carried emotion, but no anger that she could see. There was an intense pity in him, just for a moment; then he realized she was watching him, and he controlled it until it was hardly discernible. He was not a man who wished to have any softness seen in him, even here.
“He put her out,” he added. “I have sent letters to her family, but it may be a few days before anyone can send for her. They live in the north. And at present she is too ill to travel.”
Hester looked at the woman again. Her face was flushed deep red, and she seemed to be so consumed by her suffering that she was almost oblivious of her surroundings.
“Can you tell me any history of her illness?” Hester asked quietly. Even though she thought the woman was not listening to her, she still disliked speaking of someone as if they were not present
. “Anything you can tell me may help.”
“I don’t know when it began,” he replied. “Or if it was slow or sudden. She seems to be feverish, barely able to stand, and since last night when I took her from his keeping, she has had no desire to eat.”
“Is she sick, vomiting?” she asked.
He looked at her quite steadily. “No. It seems to be a matter of fever and dizziness, and difficulty in breathing. I daresay it is pneumonia, or something of the sort.” He hesitated. “I don’t wish her in a hospital with their rigid moral rules. They would despise her for her circumstances, and rob her of any privacy.”
Hester understood. She had worked in hospital wards and knew the pages of directions, the things patients must do, and could not do without removal of privileges, freedoms. Many of them were to do with morality, in someone’s strict opinion.
“We’ll do everything for her that we can,” she promised. “Rest and warmth, and as many hot drinks as we can persuade her to take, will help. But if it is pneumonia, it will have to run its course, until the fever breaks. No one can tell whether that will be for good or ill, but we will do all that can be done. And I can promise you that at least she will be eased in her distress.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and with a suddenly intense feeling, “You are a good woman.” He put his hand into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of money. He placed five gold sovereigns on the back of the couch, and then counted out four half crowns and four separate shillings. “Our agreement,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Monk. Good day to you.”
“Good day, Mr. Louvain,” she replied, but already her attention was on the sick woman. She picked up the money and put it in the pocket of her dress, then rearranged her apron over it. “Bessie, you’d best help me get Miss Clark along to a room and into bed. The poor soul looks fit to pass out.”