She shook her head, a similar look of revulsion on her face.
“Wise. Very wise. When I opened the door, I was blasted by a sweet fermenting fruit odor…just awful. And the dust! It covered absolutely everything. Even the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling beams were lined with dust. It was shocking how filthy it all was. And the disarray! Melons and peppers bunched together with no order or reason. I’m telling you, for a greengrocery, it was a depressing place. I can’t imagine what Miss Faffle was thinking. She had to have gone in there, but…” He waved a hand, as if trying to wave away the vision of it all.
“So I found him, of course, in the back, behind the counter sorting through a bin of bananas, with his fuzzy black arms. He was in the midst of battling with a decrepit old woman. You should’ve heard how he grumbled at her, but I didn’t follow their conversation because of what happened next.”
Mrs. Minnock widened her eyes. “Well?”
“Well, the shop was set up like a maze, so I could barely make my way.” He paused and pinched up his frockcoat. “Look! His asparagus painted me with these disgusting green streaks. And this is new! Right there, can you see?”
She pursed her lips. “I can get one of the girls to wash that out for you.”
He waved his hand again. “I wanted to tell you about the disaster.”
“Disaster? Oh, Dr. Whitcraft,” she giggled. “Please, continue, by all means.”
“Well, I walked toward the man, and must have stepped on a clump of wet peelings or something, because my feet just flew out from under me.” He reenacted the motion with a whisk of his feet underneath the swing. “I grabbed at a bin to catch myself and in an instant it was pandemonium.”
Mrs. Minnock let loose a laugh, but the doctor continued unabated.
“Oh, the pears, the pears! They were everywhere—green and yellow, loose and rolling in every direction. And the flies; I can’t leave out that horrific detail! They ascended from God knows where buzzing all around me. I was on my hands and knees, mind you, trying to sort out the madness, grabbing this pear and that, all while that awful man shouted at me to put them back.”
“So I did my best to replace his pears, which was nearly impossible because the vessel they had been in was absolutely inadequate to manage the load—only half of them would have been too much as far as I was concerned, but regardless. That old lady stormed past me swearing oaths, toppling even more fruit on top of the pears. After I replaced the pears, I finally gathered my courage and approached him.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have the chance. I must have stuffed one of the pears in my pocket, and he accused me right then of being a thief. He said, I can see that pear bulging out of your pocket, you simple-minded fop.
Mrs. Minnock’s face grew rigid at that.
“Do you think I’m a fop?” he asked.
“What? No…no,” she answered. “I don’t think I would have chosen that word at all.” She dropped her head low again, hoping to hide her amusement under the shadows of the linden. “So, what did you do?”
“I was completely taken aback, not so much by the fop comment, although that was completely uncalled for. I worried he actually thought I’d tried to steal his pear, so I gave it back to him at once, explained the situation, and advised him not to stack his merchandise so precariously in the future.”
“I’m sure he was very receptive to that.”
“No! He wasn’t. Not in the least. He told me to get out…and I hadn’t even had a chance to mention that his filthy floor nearly cost me my life, but that doesn’t matter, I suppose. So I left, like a coward, without saying the slightest thing to him about the matter at hand.” Dr. Whitcraft’s shoulders dropped as he twisted helplessly on the swing. “What am I going to do about Miss Faffle?”
She sighed. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your Mr. Gamon, the greengrocer. Unfortunately, I’m familiar with him. He is not just a scoundrel, debauching your young lady for the fun of it. He has another endeavor besides his grocery, one that is not quite so genteel.”
Dr. Whitcraft quit swaying and waited for her to speak.
“Mr. Gamon is under the employ of one of my, oh, how would you say it? Competitors, I suppose, although I don’t like to be associated with her. Frances Harridan. I doubt if you are familiar with her.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“I didn’t think so. She has an entirely different philosophy about her business practices than I do…preferring quantity over quality. She employs a revolving collection of girls, and to meet the demand for new faces, she has several strategies. There are the innocent girls from the country who arrive in London without knowing a soul. They are penniless, you know. She befriends them, invites them to stay with her. Before they know it, they’re in her debt because she charges exorbitant fees for every last little thing, even making them rent their clothes from her. Soon they discover that the only way to pay her back is by seeing gentleman callers.”
“She also employs men like Mr. Gamon, who get a bounty for every unfortunate girl they deliver up. Apparently, he set his sights on Miss Faffle, knowing that if he took her maidenhood she would be thrown out of her house, which, of course, she has been. Then, she would most likely lose her position with you. When that happened, she would become desperate enough to be employed by that loathsome woman. This can be an ugly business.”
“That man, that terrible man,” he breathed. “You’re telling me he was planning to do that to her the entire time?”
“Yes, I’m afraid. Terrible business, that. You going there on her behalf was not only futile, but perhaps even dangerous.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Well, I certainly can’t dismiss her now that I know that,” he whispered, almost to himself.
She smiled at him, although he didn’t notice. She stood up, walked to the swing and knelt, placing a hand on his knee.
“Your girls?”
“Their clothes are their own and they can come and go as they like. I never understood the advantage of having unhappy, desperate souls in one’s employ. Everyone here stays because they want to. Unless, of course, some man decides to sweep one of them off of her feet and take her away. It’s been known to happen.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Look! That would be the guest bedroom. We’d have a guest bedroom, can you imagine? My darling friends could come and stay when you’re at the hospital overnight. Oh, look at that window…” Miss Reave darted across the room. “What a marvelous view of the street. And look!” She grabbed the blue-patterned curtain and wrapped it around herself like an Indian sari. “Isn’t this the most sumptuous fabric? Do you think these come with the house?” She didn’t wait for an answer but tossed the curtain to the side and dashed to the mantel. She ran her fingers over its elaborately carved wood and sighed.
Dr. Whitcraft strolled across the empty room to the window to have a look for himself. It offered a perfect view of Mrs. Anile, who stood on the pavement cross-examining a costermonger, pointing at the man with a bunch of carrots.
“I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure this townhouse is very expensive. And it’s rather large for the two of us, don’t you think?” He turned around.
She had dropped her arms to her sides, and bit her bottom lip. She looked around the room. “Yes, yes…I suppose it is large. Certainly more so than that ridiculous flat you are living in now.” She crossed the room and picked up the curtain again, kneading it through her fingers. Her pout had melted into a look of reflection.
“But, William...” She dropped the curtain and sidled toward him. “We’ll need all this space, someday.” She tilted her chin low, stifling a grin. “It won’t always be just the two of us, you know.” She picked up his hand and flattened it against her sternum. Like a paintbrush, she glided it over her chest and down to her middle. He
r eyes were sparkling as she pressed his hand into her belly. He could feel the smooth lines of her corset underneath her dress.
His lips parted to speak, but could only draw in a short breath.
“And this house is so close to Papa,” she whispered, holding his hand in place.
Dr. Whitcraft was spellbound. He slid his hand down and around, and clutched her by the hip, pulling her close. He breathed on her neck and she giggled. He giggled back, and kissed under her chin, planning to make his way to her lips, but paused.
Over her shoulder, he saw that Mrs. Anile had entered the hallway. He pulled away at once, startled, conjuring excuses for his lapse, but they were unnecessary. Mrs. Anile had not noticed the embrace—her eye had the view of the opposite room.
Miss Reave retreated as Mrs. Anile walked past. The matron dug in her bag and produced a remarkably long carrot. She yanked it from her mouth with a loud snap, and crunched while considering the hardwood.
“What do you think, Mrs. Anile?” he said, breathing again.
She nodded half-heartedly, and walked toward the stairs.
He turned to the window again, trying his best to hide from the both of them that negotiations were already underway for him to buy it. It was so expensive, much more than he ever dreamed of spending, but the house was perfect in every way. He just had to work out a payment schedule with his creditors and come up with the substantial down payment. And he wanted it to be a surprise, a perfect wedding present for his lovely new bride.
He turned back to Miss Reave, and attempted a skeptical tone. “We’ll have to see. Perhaps I’ll look into it.”
“Oh you will? Oh how wonderful! Let’s go upstairs and see the bedroom.”
He watched her go, dashing up the stairs like an excited schoolgirl. He followed, but stopped to run his hand along the mantel. He took a deep breath as he surveyed the empty room. It was rather an ideal place to begin their life together, wasn’t it?
****
After leaving the house, they’d lingered over a late dinner, and then wandered about trying to locate Mrs. Anile. Miss Reave finally spied her inside an ill-lit ale-house, playing cards with two farriers and a cobbler. On the way to collect her, Dr. Whitcraft remembered that he needed to make a quick stop at his office, which was only around the corner.
“I won’t be a minute,” he assured Miss Reave. He unlocked his front door and stepped into the abandoned reception area.
“If we leave her there any longer, she is going to be positively flushed.”
“I know, I know, but your father will never forgive me if I don’t return his treatise. I promised to have it back yesterday, and I simply can’t make the man—” He stopped speaking when he noticed a line of light glowing from underneath the examining room door. His eyes widened, and he signaled for Miss Reave to be silent and take notice. She did at once, and hastened to his side.
“Is it a burglar? Are you being burgled?” she whispered in his ear.
“Probably some miscreant looking for laudanum or morphine. Happens all the time in London,” he whispered back.
His heart beat faster as he crept toward the door, but thought better of it and stopped. Maybe he should arm himself before daring to intercede with these types. He glanced around the office, at a loss. The only possibility appeared to be the empty hat stand, but it looked rather large and unwieldy. Still, it offered the best promise to intimidate even the most loathsome and drug-addled criminal.
He adjusted his glasses and awkwardly picked it up, shocked by the difficulty of managing such a heavy object. Now that he had it within his hands, he was quick to realize his mistake. It was a terrible weapon, but because his bride-to-be looked on with much interest, he had no choice but to commit to his selection.
“Stand back, Miss Reave,” he grunted, struggling under its unbelievable weight and tendency to topple. “Uh, could you…get, get the door for me…I’ll strike him down with this…but you need to get the door.” He staggered; trying to keep his feet set properly to act as counterbalances. Good Lord what type of wood was this, he wondered.
Miss Reave did as she was told and tiptoed to the door. She reached for its knob, but the door swung open wide, revealing a petrified Miss Faffle in her nightclothes.
Miss Faffle screamed.
Miss Reave screamed.
Dr. Whitcraft gasped and the hat stand toppled backwards, flipping over his shoulder and cartwheeling across Miss Faffle’s empty desk. It came to rest protruding out of several splintered wooden floorboards in the corner.
Everyone froze, blinking and gauging the situation, before bedlam returned and everyone began shouting at once.
“William! What is this woman doing here?”
“Miss Faffle, Good Lord, you nearly scared us to death.”
“Oh doctor, I’m so sorry!”
“I thought you were going to dismiss her!”
“What on earth are you doing here, Miss Faffle?”
“You’re going to dismiss me?”
“William, this won’t do, not in a proper doctor’s office.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go!” Miss Faffle screamed before throwing herself to the floor and clinging to Dr. Whitcraft’s trouser legs.
“All right, all right…just a moment, both of you women!” He spread his hands open. “Miss Reave, please.” Noting the outrage on his fiancée’s face, he softened his voice. “Why don’t you go into my office, or better yet, go up to my room, there. I’ll meet you upstairs. Let us have a moment, if you would be so kind.”
Miss Reave frowned at the pitiful Miss Faffle, a puddle of flowing nightclothes and tears, and gave an exasperated sigh before disappearing through the office door.
Dr. Whitcraft offered his hand to the shattered girl, helping her up and steering her toward a chair. She sniffed between seizing gulps of air. He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, handed it to her, and pulled a chair close, sitting in silence.
After a moment, he spoke. “My dear Miss Faffle, I have no intention of turning you out. I think your mother has acted disgracefully, and I will not do the same.”
She looked up from her handkerchief, shocked. It was as if he had breathed the very hope of life back into her. She jumped from her chair and threw her arms around him, squeezing as hard as she could.
Dr. Whitcraft reached over her shoulders and straightened his glasses, knocked askew by her embrace. After a moment, with the girl showing no signs of releasing him, he patted her awkwardly on the back.
“Uh, so…how long have you been staying—?”
She pulled back and spoke without taking a breath. “My friend couldn’t keep me any longer. It’s been two weeks. I’ve had nowhere else to go. I have a blanket and I keep my nightclothes in the bottom of my desk drawer.”
Dr. Whitcraft shook his head. That rogue, Mr. Gamon. He had never shared with Miss Faffle what he had learned about that scoundrel, knowing that hearing such news would drive the fragile girl to distraction.
“Do you sleep on the table, then?” he asked, trying to picture what exactly had been going on in his examining room while he had been asleep upstairs.
“Oh no, I would never do that. I sleep on the floor, in the corner.”
It all made sense now. For the last two weeks, she’d been turning up before he even made it downstairs.
“Miss Faffle, if you please, if there are any more unfortunate turns in your life, I am begging you to let me know. I simply cannot handle these types of shocks.” He stood up. “As far as I’m concerned, if it does not interfere with this practice, you may stay in the examining room for the foreseeable future…until other arrangements can be made, of course.”
“But Miss Reave…she thinks I should be turned out.”
“This is my practice, Miss Faffle, not hers. Do not trouble yourself with Miss Reave’s opinions.” He walked past the hat stand sticking out of the floor like a javelin. He shook his head at the sight of it, and vowed to see to it in the morning.
&
nbsp; As he crossed his office, he wondered how exactly to explain to the unsympathetic Miss Reave that Miss Faffle was now his unofficial and non-paying tenant. He braced himself as he climbed the stairs.
When he opened his bedroom door, she nearly tackled him on the spot. And she wasn’t red-faced and fuming. She was thrilled.
“You didn’t tell me about this?” She hung on him and waved something in her hand.
“What? What is that?” He pulled it from her fingers and saw that it was the invitation he had received a few days ago to a conference in Paris, one specifically dealing with the mysteries of hysteria. He sighed. He hadn’t planned on telling her about that. Not yet, anyway.
“Paris! We’ll be going to Paris! I can’t wait! It’s such an honor that they asked you to go.”
“Just a moment, just a moment.” He held out his hand to stop her. “It’s not an honor. Dr. Vorago got one too, and for all I know, every physician in London was invited as well.”
“Oh.” She pulled herself away. “Well, still…Paris! I’ve always wanted to—”
“Calm down and sit, if you would.” He steered her to a chair and took a breath. “Now, even though I’d love to go, I just don’t see how I could possibly manage it. The time away from my patients, not to mention the expense. It would be crippling. And if indeed I am considering spending such a staggering sum on that house, well…” He hoped reminding her of the house would quell her disappointment, and gauging by the sparkle in her eyes, he had been correct. “But my darling, if I could go, I dare not bring you along. You know your father would never allow it.”
She stared down at her hands. “What about Mrs. Anile? Or one of my friends, or their mothers could come along to chaperone?”
He sat on the edge his bed. “Even if I could afford to bring a chaperone for you, I still don’t think it would be proper. We need to wait until after we are married for that sort of thing.” He reached over and patted her knee. “I don’t even know if I’m going, so let’s not worry about it just now, all right?”
The Five Step Plan Page 13