The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I cannot bear to hold it a moment longer.’ So saying, she forced herself to walk on with no small effort. One foot in front of the other, she made herself continue her journey to the edge of the park. She could not shake off the sensation she had experienced the night before that there was someone watching the entrance to her clinic, someone standing in the shadows. Had that person followed Martha? Eliza found herself at the front door of the Astredges’ house. She took a moment to compose herself and retrain her thoughts. It was Abigail who mattered at this moment. There was nothing anyone could do for poor Martha now. She must turn her mind to the needs of her new patient.

  Number 4 York Terrace was a handsome Georgian house of white stucco with high windows, a portico supported by slender pillars, a raised ground floor, and broad steps leading up to the royal blue front door. Eliza tugged at the bellpull and heard footsteps inside. The door was opened by a smartly turned out butler, whose head was as hairless and shiny as the marble floor of the entrance hall. On seeing her card, he confirmed she was expected and asked her to follow him to the morning room. As they crossed the elegant space, Eliza thought how grand the house was for two people, with its sweeping staircase, central atrium, marble columns, and stately busts peering out from behind gargantuan ferns rooted in huge brass urns. The butler opened a door off the hall and announced her as she stepped past him. Abigail got to her feet at once and came toward Eliza.

  ‘Please.’ Eliza held out a hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself to rise on my account, Miss Astredge.’

  ‘Now I insist you call me Abigail,’ said the young woman, ‘and why would I not greet you properly, when it is so good of you to undertake the tedious task of visiting me every day?’

  ‘Firstly,’ said Eliza, allowing herself to be led over to the seat at the open window, ‘because you are my patient, and as such I am far more concerned with your rest and recovery than with etiquette. Secondly, please do rid yourself of the notion that it is in any way a task for me to come here. I often make house calls for patients from my own clinic, and none offer quite such lovely surroundings.’ As she spoke, she looked about the most charming morning room she had ever set foot in. The formality of the entrance hall had given way here to upholstery of fresh stripes against cheerful paisley wallpaper. There was an abundance of greenery; asparagus ferns with feathery fronds brightening every corner, bolder aspidistras on either side of the fireplace. There were two comfortable sofas, an elegant chaise longue, a deep window seat with sumptuous cushions and numerous small tables bearing pretty pieces of china or silver. There was a deftly embroidered firescreen and delicately etched glass shades over the gaslights. In the far corner was an escritoire with crisp notepaper and a silver inkwell, next to which sat a highly decorated paper knife. Every item had been chosen for its prettiness or charm, and the effect was delightful. This was a woman’s room. ‘What is more,’ Eliza went on, ‘I welcome the chance to be released from the confines of the Fitzroy for a short time.’

  ‘Oh?’ Abigail sat down and patted the cushion beside her, smiling as Eliza sat stiffly next to her. ‘Is it not a happy place to work?’

  ‘Ordinarily it is.’ Eliza hesitated, untying the ribbon of her bonnet. ‘Let us just say Dr. Gimmel is under certain … pressures at present that put a strain on him and are matters of concern to us all. Also, we have a visitor to the hospital. An observer.’ She stopped, wondering what it was that made her chatter on so to someone she hardly knew and who was a patient to boot.

  ‘And?’ Abigail quizzed her. ‘Don’t stop there, I beg you. I have a nose for a story; my brother says it. I can sniff one out like a bloodhound. There is more to this than you are prepared to tell me on your first visit. No matter, I shall winkle it out of you, Dr. Hawksmith. You will see, I am an incorrigible gossip. Now, shall we have tea?’

  Eliza at last began to relax. The news of Martha’s death was starting to recede a little in her mind in Abigail’s presence. She slipped her shawl from her shoulders and nodded.

  ‘Tea would be very welcome,’ she said, ‘and, please, call me Eliza.’

  ‘Is that your first instruction for me, Doctor?’ Abigail’s wan face was warmed by her grin.

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘Then I must obey’—she laughed—‘and after tea, you can inflict Dr. Gimmel’s horrible medication upon me as much as you please. I aim to be the least troublesome patient you have ever encountered. Though I may feel that a short game of cribbage might help my constitution. Don’t you think it might?’

  The afternoon passed quickly for Eliza. She was enjoying Abigail’s easy company so much it would have been easy to forget the seriousness of the young woman’s condition. Eliza examined her thoroughly, made notes regarding her symptoms, and adjusted her diet and medication accordingly. She reflected on the cruel nature of diseases of the liver. The patient gave the outward appearance of frailty and pallor and had little energy but otherwise appeared well. In truth, she was fading away. Dying, in fact. Unless something could be done to arrest the deterioration of her vital organ, she would not live through the summer. Eliza understood Dr. Gimmel’s plan to try to treat the condition without risky surgery. To attempt to remove a tumor or indeed part of the liver itself would be highly dangerous, particularly with Abigail so weak. Their best chance of success was to first increase her vigor and health in general and try to arrest the advancement of the disease with medication. Even so, Eliza could not help wondering if Dr. Gimmel’s reluctance to operate was in part due to the fact that he would not be able to carry out the surgery himself. Was there anyone else at the Fiztroy sufficiently skilled and experienced to do the procedure? Eliza had never even observed surgery on the liver. The memory of the renal patient dying while her hands were still inside his body haunted her. How would she feel if Abigail were to die because of her inexperience?

  As she was readying herself to leave, an eerie noise drifted in through the open window.

  ‘Good heavens,’ she said, ‘what is that curious sound?’

  Abigail smiled. ‘I chose this room because it overlooks the park. Beyond those trees are the zoological gardens. What you can hear now is the wolves singing. Isn’t it the most wonderful thing you have ever heard? Listen. How mournful and yet how thrilling.’

  Eliza stepped closer to the window. The wolves raised their voices in a discordant chorus of howling. The noise seemed to fill the room. It was unsettling to be standing in a town house with every comfort and modern convenience, yet to be bathed in the song of wild and dangerous animals. Eliza shivered. At that moment, the door opened and Simon appeared in the doorway. He smiled on seeing Eliza.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘our very own Dr. Hawksmith. How do you find your patient today?’

  Eliza gathered herself and took his hand. ‘I was on the point of leaving,’ she told him, releasing his hand and picking up her bag. ‘Your sister’s condition remains unchanged as yet,’ she added, ‘though I am pleased to see her in good spirits.’

  ‘I’m sure she will do her best to be a model patient. She greatly appreciates your undertaking her care and agreeing to pay house calls. We are both of us indebted to you.’

  Eliza found herself looking at him, holding his searching gaze. His gentle green eyes were still smiling. She became aware of the fact that the wolves had stopped singing, and she felt her unease lift.

  ‘As I have already told Abigail, it is far from a duty for me to come here. Your sister has been a solicitous hostess, despite my best efforts to remind her she is my patient and I should be the one looking after her.’

  Abigail took her brother’s arm and looked up at him with affection.

  ‘I am sorry, my dear brother, but it simply is not possible for me to think of Eliza as my doctor when I know we are going to be true friends, first and foremost.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘You see, Dr. Hawksmith, your very presence may be the best medicine Abigail could wish for. And I confess
to finding my own spirits lifted by your being here. Can I persuade you to dine with us this evening?’

  Eliza felt an unfamiliar quickening of her pulse, a rare flutter of excitement. For an instant, she considered accepting the invitation but shook her head.

  ‘Regrettably I cannot,’ she said. ‘I have my Whitechapel clinic. This is one of our busier evenings.’

  ‘Another time perhaps?’ He cocked his head slightly.

  Eliza smiled.

  ‘Another time,’ she agreed.

  That night Eliza’s sleep was troubled by dreams. She dreamed she was at a fabulous ball wearing a gown of the finest cream silk. All around her, love-struck couples swirled and turned to the urgent tempo of a tarantella. Suddenly a man of proud bearing and noble features took her in his arms and spun her onto the dance floor. They danced and danced and danced, her own feet a blur in silver slippers, the music growing faster and louder. Soon the other dancers had melted into a chaos of whirling colors, and Eliza was overwhelmed with dizziness. Her partner held her tight, pulling her body firmly against his. He pressed his cheek against hers, then leaned forward to nuzzle into her neck. Still they danced. Eliza felt his hot breath on her skin, and then his wet tongue sliding across her throat. She struggled to pull away from him. When she succeeded in gaining a small space between them, the sight which met her eyes drew from her a terrified scream. Her dancing partner still retained his strong, lithe body, but his head had been replaced by that of a wolf. Its foul breath forced its way into Eliza’s nostrils, and bitter saliva drooled from its mouth into her own as she screamed.

  4

  In the weeks that followed Eliza came to enjoy her visits to the Astredge household more and more. In Abigail’s company she felt more relaxed than anywhere else, and she had even admitted to herself that her affection for Simon was deepening. It quickly became obvious to her that he too had a high regard for her. As was her habit, she fought against such a connection, afraid of the heartache it could bring. But, on occasions, there were moments when she allowed her emotions to overwhelm caution. She longed to be loved. To allow herself to love another. Years could pass where she would put such ideas into some locked place in her heart where they would not trouble her. Then someone would step into her life who held the key, and the yearning of years was set free. She wanted to give in to her desire for Simon. A desire she had not felt in such strength since she was a teenager—since Gideon. Now here was a good man, a kind man, well thought of by those who knew him, a loving brother with a gentle heart. A man Eliza could lose herself to in an instant if she allowed herself.

  By the first week in September, Eliza spent more time at number 4 York Terrace than she did at the Fitzroy. She often stayed to dine with Abigail and Simon, no longer the doctor but a dear friend. She was on the point of leaving her office to make her way to the house for just such a visit when shouts from the street caught her ear. She looked from the window and saw a newspaper boy doing brisk trade on the pavement below. He continued to yell out the news as he handed over papers and pocketed coins.

  ‘Latest News! Read it ’ere! The Ripper strikes again. Another woman cut to pieces!’

  Eliza closed her eyes, her fingers tightening around the curtain. Another murder. The third, apparently, in the unstoppable killings of the man they had nicknamed Jack the Ripper. Eliza could not face the thought of reading the hideous details, though she knew she would have to. She knew there would be gruesome descriptions of the exact and awful way the poor woman had been slain. She knew also, with a dreadful certainty, that the victim would be another of the girls who visited her clinic. Was it coincidence? Could it be? How long could she go on convincing herself that these poor women were randomly selected, thrown into the murderer’s path by chance, nothing more? How many more would die before she allowed herself to think the unthinkable—that they were all connected to her. That their violent deaths had something, somehow, to do with her.

  That afternoon Abigail felt strong enough for a short walk. It was a sweet autumn day, warm enough for a light shawl, and the two women made their way through the entrance to the park and along the little path that wound its way through the trees to the ornamental ponds.

  ‘Oh, Eliza, how such a gleaming afternoon lifts the spirits. It is so long since I have taken the air; I have spent too many days shut up in the house. Surely exercise can only improve my health. Will you not prescribe a short walk for me every day? Then I should have to take one, come rain or shine.’

  ‘Light exertion is indeed beneficial to the circulation and to a person’s general well-being,’ said Eliza, ‘but those benefits must be weighed against the risk of fatigue. Your strength is needed to combat the disease that has you in its grip, Abigail. To put yourself in a weakened state would be to undermine your body’s ability to win that battle.’

  ‘Oh, pish.’ Abigail linked her arm through Eliza’s. ‘Do not speak to me of disease when the sun is shining and those silly ducks are waddling across the grass, and adorable children are playing among those magnificent trees. I feel my legs could carry me for days without rest. And besides’—she smiled—‘I have my very own doctor at my side. What possible harm could befall me?’

  ‘It is good to see you smiling again.’ Eliza squeezed her friend’s hand. She wanted to enjoy the day, to revel in the peacefulness of the moment, but her mind would not empty itself of thoughts of the murdered women. Terrible thoughts and even more terrible images.

  ‘Oh, do look.’ Abigail pointed across the lawn to a gaggle of children clamoring around a cow. The animal stood half asleep, a white-smocked farmer seated on a three-legged stool beside it. He finished milking and stood up. The children arranged themselves into a disorderly queue, ushered by their nursemaids, nannies, and mothers. The cow chewed quietly while the farmer ladled milk into tin cups.

  ‘Let’s have some.’ Abigail pulled Eliza across the grass. ‘Come. Put your fears of fatigue from your mind. A drink of milk is surely just the restorative your patient requires. Do you not think so?’

  Abigail took a penny from her purse and handed it to the farmer. He filled another cup and handed it to her. Abigail drank deeply, the frothy milk leaving a delicate line of white above her top lip. She beamed and passed the cup to Eliza. ‘It’s delicious. You try,’ she said.

  Eliza put the cup to her mouth and took a sip. Her face contorted and it was all she could do not to start retching. The milk was undrinkably sour, curdled, and ruined.

  ‘Oh, but Abigail. This milk is bad. It has turned sour.’

  ‘What nonsense, Eliza. I have just tasted it.’ Abigail snatched back the mug and sniffed at what remained of the milk. She frowned. Her face darkened for a moment in a way Eliza had not seen before. Suddenly she tipped the liquid onto the grass and returned the cup to the farmer. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ she said. ‘It tasted perfectly fine to me. Come along.’ She took Eliza’s arm once more and marched her away from the cow. ‘Let us take a stroll beside the zoo.’

  Eliza was at a loss to make sense of what had just taken place. She had seen Abigail drink the milk, but she herself could not take down so much as a sip it was so rancid. Why had Abigail not noticed it? And why had she sought to pretend it was good when it wasn’t? It was a small, seemingly insignificant incident but one which bothered Eliza. She found the day had lost its golden glow and was relieved when they completed their circuit of the park and returned to the house.

  Two days later, Eliza entered Dr. Gimmel’s rooms to find Gresseti already there.

  ‘Ah, my dear Eliza.’ Dr. Gimmel sprang to his feet. ‘We were on the point of leaving.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I am taking Signor Gresseti to meet a Sir Edmund Weekes. During his stay here, our visitor has developed an interest in circulatory disorders and there is no finer surgeon in the field than Sir Edmund.’ He took his hat from the stand and gave her a wave as he disappeared through the door.

  ‘We shall return before afternoon surgery, have no
fear,’ he called back to her.

  Gresseti bowed low before replacing his hat and edging past Eliza. She moved aside, not wishing to have the slightest unnecessary contact with the man. Gresseti paused, clearly aware of her reluctance to be near him.

  ‘I see you are still cross with me, Dr. Hawksmith. I fear I am paying for my outspoken nature. Please, I wished no offense. It is merely my manner, which might seem strange to you. I implore you, do not let a poor beginning spoil our working relationship.’

  Eliza feigned brightness. ‘Rest assured, Signor, our working relationship remains unaffected.’

  ‘Gresseti? Come along now, we must not keep Sir Edmund waiting.’ Dr. Gimmel summoned him from Mr. Thomas’s reception room.