The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  She weaved through the small market that filled Cuthbert Street on Fridays, pausing to buy an apple from a barrow. As she paid for her purchase, she caught sight of Benjamin David standing in the doorway of his draper’s shop, enjoying the warmth of the late August day. The tailor and his wife had been kind to Eliza, making her welcome when she first arrived. She enjoyed the company of the elderly couple and often dined at their home above the shop. The two exchanged waves before Eliza pressed on. The organ grinder on the other side of the street played a waltz to which everyone seemed to move as they did their best to avoid bumping into one another. Minutes later, Eliza arrived at her own front door. Or rather, the front door of the house belonging to Mrs. Garvey, where she had lodged for nearly three years. The house had once been a sweet shop and sported a deep bow window that protruded into the street. The silhouette of Eliza’s landlady could be clearly made out behind the lace curtain at the window. It was her favorite place to sit and watch the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Very little of note escaped Mrs. Garvey’s avaricious eye.

  Eliza’s hand was on the door handle when she had the strongest sensation that someone was watching her. She stood frozen for an instant, then whirled round. On the other side of the street she glimpsed a dark figure, or maybe even the shadow of that figure, as he slipped into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the bakery. The street was a fast-flowing river of people, and yet she was sure she had seen someone who should not be there. A shudder gripped her body. She pushed open the door and went inside, shutting it with a slam. Mrs. Garvey sprang from her room faster than a bolting hare. She was a statuesque woman who enjoyed dressing her figure to accentuate its curves. Even if she had not been wearing a crinoline, her frame would still have filled the slender hallway.

  ‘You are home early, I see. Are you unwell, Dr. Hawksmith?’ Her concern was not so much for her lodger’s health as for morsels of drama.

  ‘No, not at all. Dr. Gimmel was indisposed. He sent me home.’

  ‘Ah! I always held the good doctor would wear himself to a scrap of meat the way he runs after those patients of his. Such a good man. Please be sure to give him my very best regards for a speedy recovery, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eliza edged past Mrs. Garvey, her senses almost overwhelmed by the smell of violets. Mrs. Garvey made no attempt to step aside. She whipped out her fan and began to work it vigorously beneath her jowls.

  ‘Oh, this heat,’ she moaned. ‘Is it any wonder people fall ill? There is no air, I tell you. It has all been used up. There will be cholera again, mark my words, Dr. Hawksmith. Mark them. I will be proved right.’

  ‘No doubt, Mrs. Garvey, now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to open the clinic.’

  ‘What? Now! In the hours of daylight! No, no, Dr. Hawksmith, I think not. That was not our arrangement. Clinics to be held in the evening, that was agreed. Nothing was said about afternoons.’

  ‘I appreciate it is irregular…’

  ‘Most!’

  ‘… however, it does seem such a provident opportunity. The clinics have been so busy of late.’ She met the older woman’s horrified gaze and tried one of her brightest smiles. ‘Perhaps just this once, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  Mrs. Garvey pulled a face, then sighed deeply, the lace at her bosom fluttering beneath the exhaled breath.

  ‘Very well. On this occasion. But this is not to become a habit. I have my reputation to consider. Ask your ladies to be discreet, if you please.’

  At the rear of the house, there was a small, square room with a modest window giving onto a cobbled yard. A lobby of sorts connected the room to the outside with a sturdy door. It was through this door that Eliza received her patients. Three evenings a week, from eight o’clock onward, she did her best to see, advise, and treat as many women as came. The women presented a variety of ailments, injuries, and complaints as wide-ranging as they themselves were in age, shape, and size. What they had in common, however, was a profession, for these were all prostitutes. When Eliza had first moved to London many long years before, she had been shocked and saddened by the wretched lives led by these women. They were forced to walk the streets selling their bodies and their dignity, risking their safety and their health, at the mercy of every drunk with a few shillings to spend, reviled, excluded, despised by everyone, cared for by none. The injustice of the censure society inflicted on these women moved Eliza to action. She could not change what people thought of those less fortunate than themselves or alter the way people judged others. She could do nothing to temper the disdain or even violence the men who used these prostitutes inflicted upon them or to redress the balance that allowed the men their pleasure without judgment or criticism. What she could do was help to heal these women. She had persuaded Mrs. Garvey, with much badgering and not a little money, that this was a godly and worthy thing to do, that her standing in the community would not suffer as a consequence of the clinic being held on her property. On the contrary, it would be elevated. The women would only ever use the back door, would never call when Eliza herself was not present, and would not present themselves in an intoxicated state. When word had spread that there was a woman doctor prepared to treat unfortunates for whatever donation they could muster, girls as young as twelve and toothless grandmothers made their way to 62 Hebden Lane. Once there had been trouble when an overeager client had tired of waiting outside the high wall of the yard and had barged his way into the house. The girl he sought was furious and set about him with a table lamp, until the other women present hauled the pair from the building and out of earshot of Mrs. Garvey. Even so, Eliza was warned that a second such occurrence would see the clinic closed. Since then, the ladies of the night had themselves policed the area, never allowing their beaux to venture anywhere near the house or their beloved doctor.

  Eliza jammed open the window before propping wide the door and unbolting the little yard gate. She hung upon it a small wooden sign bearing her name, then returned inside. She had, at her own expense, furnished the room with a desk and chair, both of which Mrs. Garvey had insisted on inspecting for fear of worm or rot before letting them cross the threshold. There was also a narrow bed behind a makeshift screen, where she could examine her patients. A stout cupboard with a padlock contained bandages, dressings, and Eliza’s own remedies and ointments, as well as such conventional medicines she could afford to buy from the apothecary at the hospital.

  Despite the unusual hour, it was not many minutes before a young woman entered the clinic. Eliza recognized her at once and bade her sit down.

  ‘How are you today, Lily?’ she asked, taking her hand, both to comfort the girl and to tactfully check her pulse. As Eliza had anticipated, it was racing.

  Lily gratefully sat on the hard chair, tugging her shawl about her even though the room was uncomfortably warm.

  ‘I don’t know, Doctor, I really don’t. One minute I’s feeling quite well, chipper even, then the next I’m tireder than a staggering mule. Can’t ’ardly put one sorry foot in front of the other.’

  ‘Have you been taking the medication I gave you last time?’

  ‘Course, yeah, look.’ She pulled an empty bottle from the drawstring bag at her waist. ‘See? Not a drop left. And I’ve been using that cream an’ all. Don’t make much difference though.’

  Eliza gently turned the girl’s head to one side and examined her neck.

  ‘The sores look better.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, they’re better. Don’t give me no more pep, though, do it? How am I supposed to make a living if I can’t ’ardly get off me bed, eh?’ The girl ceased talking and let herself slump farther down in the chair.

  Eliza took note of how much thinner Lily was than the last time she had seen her. It was true the progression of the sores and the disfiguring corruption of the skin had been checked, but now the girl seemed to have lost all strength. Eliza smiled at her and patted her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll give you something.’ She went to the
cupboard and took a large key from her pocket. She undid the padlock, swung open the door, and stared at the rows of jars in front of her. She knew in truth there was little she could do for Lily. She was all too familiar with the relentless advance of syphilis and painfully aware of how limited her ability to treat it was. All she could do was alleviate the symptoms. It was clear to her that Lily had entered the depressive stage of the disease. The pattern was not rigid, but it rarely varied greatly. It was only because the girl had so far escaped the most obvious ravages that often affected the face that she was able to continue working. Eliza had instructed her about the contagious element of the disease and that she must guard against spreading it among her clients and therefore ultimately her friends too. But she knew the girl had no other way of supporting herself. The gloomy prospect of delirium, madness, and a painful death lay ahead. When the time came, Eliza would do her best to find the wretched creature a bed in one of the more tolerable sanatoriums. She handed Lily two bottles.

  ‘This is more of what you had before,’ she told her, ‘and this is a draft to help your strength. Take it with care, Lily. Too much will have the opposite effect.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor. You’re a good soul.’

  It was at moments like these, when faced with such pitiful suffering, that Eliza was tempted to use the stronger elements of her craft. She knew it was not beyond her capabilities as a witch to prevent the inexorable march of the disease. She could not completely cure the girl, but she could rid her of the curse of the illness and spare her a miserable and short future. But long ago Eliza had made a promise to herself. A promise that she felt sure was the only thing that kept her beyond Gideon’s reach, for to connect with that power would inevitably connect her to him. A promise that meant she could endure the lonely life she had inherited. She would not use the dark arts. Ever. She would use only her own talents as a healer and the skills and remedies her mother had taught her. Nothing more. Not even now. Not even for poor Lily.

  Brisk footsteps in the lobby told of the arrival of another patient. A lithe figure, brightly dressed, her hat at a cheeky angle, a smile lighting up her features, strode into the little room.

  ‘I was told there was a doctor here would see me without getting paid. That right, is it?’ she asked.

  Eliza was about to answer when she was silenced by an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Fear swamped her, so that for a moment she could not speak. There was something about the girl who stood before her, some connection with terrible violence. An image flashed through Eliza’s mind of the same girl lying covered in freshly spilled blood, her body grotesquely mutilated. Eviscerated. She closed her eyes and shook the horrific vision away. Collecting herself, she went to her desk for her ledger.

  ‘You were informed correctly,’ she said, picking up a pen. ‘I will see you just as soon as I have finished with Lily. Will you give me your name?’

  ‘Mary,’ the girl replied. ‘My name is Mary Jane Kelly.’

  2

  It was after ten o’clock when Eliza at last reached the peace of her own room above the clinic. She had taken a light supper at her desk and now wished only to fall into bed. She took off her outer garments and sat a moment in her slip and petticoats at the dressing table by the window. She had never learned to feel comfortable in a corset and considered it one of the worst fashions she had had to endure. In the looking glass, her tired reflection gazed back at her. However satisfying she found it to help those who could not otherwise afford medical care, and however much she enjoyed her work at the Fitzroy, by the end of each day she was invariably weary. It was not simply the long hours that wore her down. It was the lack of companionship in her life. She had long since accepted that she could never have children of her own. She was as certain as she could be that her immortality had rendered her infertile. It had taken many years to fully come to terms with this, but she knew it was in fact a blessing. How could she raise children, only to watch them age and die as she continued her endless journey? No, she had come to see she was never meant to be a mother. Besides, she had her patients to nurture and care for. Many of them were indeed like motherless children, alone and unloved in the world. It was within Eliza’s gift to help them, and she did so willingly. But it was her own family she missed. Even after so many years, the pain of their deaths and the void they left in her life did not lessen. And as for a man to love, someone to hold her close, to make her feel like a living, feeling woman and not some unnatural creature … There had been lovers, of course, but Eliza had quickly learned not to let herself care deeply. How could she ever stay with one man, be his wife, his soulmate? How many years would it be before he realized she could not offer him children and that she was no longer mortal? What then? Would she nurse him through old age and then move on? She had never been faced with such a situation. Gideon had seen to that. Every time Eliza had come close to finding happiness, he had taken it from her. No matter where she went, how many times she changed her appearance and her name, in the end he always found her. It was just a question of time. How could she put someone she loved in the path of such danger, of such evil?

  Eliza unpinned her hair and brushed it rhythmically, remembering how she had done the same for Margaret, whose hair shone like a blackbird’s wing. She climbed into the high narrow bed, casting off the covers since the night was almost as warm and airless as the day had been. She fell into a restless sleep. A sleep troubled not so much by dreams as by memories. So many memories. So many lives she had led. So many corners she had turned, ever hoping to shake off the one who would claim her. The one who would never let her be free. Into her dreams stepped the phantom-like figure she had seen watching her, reminding her she would always see herself as one man’s quarry.

  * * *

  The following day was no fresher than the one before. It was a mercy that no students were present in the operating theater, for the atmosphere was fetid and uncomfortable enough with just the few who stood at the table. A man of good family but poor health lay prone before Dr. Gimmel and Eliza. One of the more experienced students, Roland Pierce, had been selected to attend and stood at the patient’s head ready to administer further chloroform should the need arise. Nurse Morrison stood opposite the doctor. Between them, a broad incision had been made in the patient’s back to provide access to a kidney harboring a particularly large stone. Eliza watched in wonder as the doctor bent low over the patient to navigate the area below the rib cage, gently finding his way to the vital organ.

  ‘Here we have it,’ he said. ‘Aha, yes … in tolerable condition except for the stone. Scalpel, if you please, Nurse Morrison. Thank you. Now, a small amount of cutting is all that is needed … yes … and here … Damnation!’

  Abruptly the doctor stopped cutting. As he straightened up, a fountain of deepest crimson spouted up from the abdominal cavity. In a second, it fanned into a plume, spraying the nurse with glistening arterial blood. Eliza expected the doctor to react, but he stood transfixed. Roland gasped and paled.

  ‘Dr. Gimmel.’ Eliza touched his arm. ‘The renal artery has been severed.’

  ‘What?’ The doctor appeared unable to continue. He dropped his scalpel onto the now slippery floor and clutched at his head, staggering backward.

  ‘My Lord!’ Roland roused himself. ‘Eliza, the patient will bleed to death.’

  Eliza snapped at the nurse. ‘Attend to Dr Gimmel. Roland, more chloroform.’

  ‘More? But this man is surely at the limit.’

  ‘Do as I say!’ Eliza grabbed a small clamp from the tray of instruments and struggled to locate the source of the gushing blood. ‘We must slow his heartbeat, if we can.’ She continued to delve in the cavity, but there was so much blood now, it was near impossible to find what she was looking for. At last she gave a cry. ‘I have it! There, it is secured. Roland, pass me a needle. I must attempt to suture the artery. It is cut but not detached. If I repair the opening, leaving enough room for sufficient bloodflow…’

  ‘Never min
d.’ Roland did not move. ‘It is too late now.’

  Eliza looked up, her own face dripping with the patient’s blood. Roland had a hand to the man’s throat to confirm there was no pulse. He shook his head. Eliza looked down at her hands inside the body of the dead man, hands thick with gore, as if she had been trying to murder rather than save the poor wretch. For a second, she saw again the image of Mary Kelly, the girl from her clinic, equally doused in blood.

  ‘No!’ she cried out.

  Roland stepped to her side.