Gresseti paused, seemingly about to say something more, then changed his mind and went after the doctor.
Eliza found she had been holding her breath in his presence. She shook her head. What was it about the man that unsettled her so? Was it merely his unfamiliar manner? A thought occurred to her. She opened the door and leaned through.
‘Mr. Thomas, has Signor Gresseti signed our register at any time during his visit here?’ she asked.
‘Why yes, Dr. Hawksmith, I believe he did so on his first morning with us.’ Mr. Thomas licked a finger and leafed through the pages of the register on his desk. ‘Yes, thought so. Here we are.’ He turned the book around and pointed to Gresseti’s name written with an elegant flourish.
‘Let me have this a moment, would you?’ Eliza took the book back into the other room before Mr. Thomas could ask why she wanted it. She shut the door and sat down behind Dr. Gimmel’s desk. After a moment’s hesitation, and quelling her uneasiness about what she was about to do, Eliza began to search through the drawers. Minutes later she held in her hand the letter of introduction from the Milan Institute. It was written as if by Professor Salvatores and signed by him, but the writing matched that on the register exactly. The letter must have been written by Gresseti himself. His credentials were fake. Eliza was sure of it. Of course, there was a small chance that the professor had asked Gresseti to pen the letter to save himself the trouble, but then surely he would have had his clerk do it. Eliza leaned back in the wide leather chair. She had always harbored suspicions about Gresseti but had quelled them, reasoning his references were impeccable and she had nothing to fear beyond his rudeness. Now, however, things were different. If his letter of introduction was bogus, then they knew nothing about him at all. Who would bother to forge a letter to gain access to the hospital? A rival surgeon? Someone sent to check up on Dr. Gimmel’s capabilities? As Eliza’s mind teemed with possibilities, she spotted a cane in the umbrella stand. Gresseti’s black, silver-topped cane. The sound she had heard in the alley behind her clinic came back to her. The sound made by someone hiding in the shadows. The sound that had spooked her on the night of Martha’s murder. Eliza hurried over to the cane and picked it up. It was heavier than she had expected, the wood warm beneath her fingers, the silver top cool. She shook it gently and heard a faint rattle, a minute vibration in her hand. It was hollow. There was definitely something inside. It must, therefore, have a removable lid. She was on the point of lifting it when the door was flung open and Gresseti strode in. When he saw the cane in her hand, he stopped and frowned. He quickly rearranged his features and smiled politely, his eyes remaining unmoved by the gesture.
‘Ah, Dr. Hawksmith, I returned for my cane, and here you have already found it. You see how forgetful a man can be when he does not have a wife to train him?’ He reached out and gently took the cane from Eliza. ‘Thank you so much. Until later…’ He touched his hat and was gone.
Eliza stood where she was for some time, her heart thumping loudly.
That night Eliza worked late at the hospital. There were only so many hours in the day, and her increasingly lengthy visits to Abigail were causing paperwork to mount on her desk and patients to have passed from her care to that of other doctors. By the time she stepped off the omnibus and made her way down Whitechapel High Street, the day was old and a choking fog had descended. The gas lamps on the broader streets gave at least small pools of light, but the back alleys and side streets were thick with gray air and gathering darkness. Because of the lateness of the hour, the usual muddle of people had dwindled. The weather kept all indoors who did not need to be outside.
Eliza pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and quickened her step. Droplets of fog gathered and fell from the brim of her bonnet. As she hurried down Marchmont Street, she became aware of footsteps behind her quickening to match her own. She turned the corner around the draper’s shop, closed and shuttered, its friendly proprietor having called an end to the day’s business hours before. As she turned, she glanced backward and was convinced she saw a figure moving swiftly, close to the wall, his step purposeful. Eliza licked foggy moisture from her lips into her dry mouth. It took all her will to resist the urge to run. She searched for signs of other people, anyone, but the cobbles were deserted. The fog thickened, a bitter concoction of dirty water, dampened smoke, and the sour smells of the street. The distance left to her lodgings was but a few minutes walk, but it was as though the ground stretched away beneath her feet. Her pursuer was closer now. She dared not look back. She hurled herself around a corner and walked straight into the solid chest of a burly drunk.
‘Oi! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?’ His words were slurred.
‘I’m sorry. Please, let me pass.’ Eliza tried to step round the man, but he grabbed hold of her, his grimy hands closing around her arms.
‘Nah, where’s your ’urry, little lady? Seems to me you came running into me arms, so you did.’ He pushed his body against hers and began to march her backward until they reached the opposite wall.
‘Let me go!’ Eliza snatched her arms from him, but he pinned her against the rough stone, his weight easily double her own.
‘Now then, how about a little kiss, eh?’ He lurched toward her face with his own.
Eliza turned her head and screamed, but he was not so easily deterred. She felt a hand forcing its way down inside the front of her dress. She kicked at his shins, but he was so numbed by ale that he barely flinched.
‘Like to play a bit of a rough game, then, do yer? All right, if that’s what you want, you little pinchprick!’ The man wrenched at her clothing, tearing the bodice of her dress and exposing her corset. He plunged his face into her bosom. Eliza opened her mouth to scream again, but at that moment the man was hauled off her with startling speed. Someone possessed of enormous strength had caught him by the scruff and yanked him backward off his feet, throwing him onto the wet cobbles.
‘What the…?’ The man scrambled to get up, stunned by the sudden switch in his position from attacker to attacked.
From the fog, a tall figure in top hat and swirling cape emerged. Gresseti. Eliza tugged her clothes over her exposed breasts. The drunk stood up and launched himself at Gresseti, who sidestepped, causing the thug to fall flailing into the gutter once more.
‘You bastard!’ he shouted as he thrashed about in the debris and filth. ‘I’ll ’ave yer yet! I’ll teach yer to lay ’ands on me!’ He was about to get up for a second time, when in one fluid movement, Gresseti removed the top of his cane and drew out a gleaming sword. He brought its point to rest at the man’s throat. The drunkard froze.
‘I think, Signor,’ said Gresseti slowly, ‘that you would do better to leave this place while you are still able to do so.’
There was a moment of absolute stillness before the man bolted. Gresseti watched him go. Eliza watched Gresseti. After the smallest of pauses, he sheathed his sword and shut the lid. Silently. The silver top of the cane, which formed the hilt of the weapon, was returned to its home with a twist and made no sound whatsoever. Eliza stepped away from the wall. Gresseti turned to smile at her.
‘He has gone. I think he will trouble you no more,’ he said.
‘You … you were following me.’ Eliza failed to keep the tremble out of her voice.
Gresseti gave no reply, merely raising his chin a fraction and narrowing his eyes.
‘You were following me,’ Eliza said again, stronger this time. ‘Why? What do you want?’
Gresseti took a pace toward Eliza. She instinctively took one back but found herself against the wall once more.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice the purr of a tiger, ‘but you must know I find you … fascinating, Dr. Hawksmith. In the short time I have been in your company, I have developed an affection for you that I can no longer hide.’
Eliza took her courage in both hands.
‘Signor’—she spat the word at him—‘be under no illusion. That affection is not retur
ned. Indeed, I have no interest in you other than that required of me in my capacity as Dr. Gimmel’s assistant. Your attentions are unwelcome.’
‘Ah, Bess, once again I have caused offense where none was intended. I implore you…’
‘What?’ Eliza’s voice rose to a shout. ‘What did you call me?’
Gresseti was confused. He shrugged. ‘I believe Bess to be an affectionate form of the name Elizabeth, is it not correct? And that is your full name, I know this. I have seen it written on correspondence in Dr. Gimmel’s office…’
Eliza did not wait to hear more. Pushing past him, she fled into the night, letting the fog swallow her up before Gresseti had the opportunity to utter another word.
5
The following Thursday evening, Eliza dined with Abigail and Simon. She had noticed a distinct decline in her patient’s strength in the preceding days. After their meal, the three settled in the drawing room by the fire. Eliza made Abigail comfortable on the sofa and she was soon asleep, her breathing shallow. There was something about her when sleeping that made her look so much more unwell than when she was awake and animated. Eliza stroked her hair for a moment. It was clear to her that they could not put off surgery for much longer. She had to remain optimistic, for all their sakes, but in her heart she feared Abigail was not strong enough to survive such a dangerous and grueling operation.
‘Come’—she felt Simon’s hand on her arm—‘sit with me.’ He drew her over to the small sofa on the other side of the fireplace. A vase of peacock feathers stood beside it. Eliza touched the delicate edges, sending a ripple through the iridescent purples and greens.
‘So beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘Some consider them to be unlucky.’
‘We don’t.’
‘We?’
‘That is, my … family.’ She corrected herself, surprised at how close she had come to telling him that most witches had them in their homes.
‘You have spoken very little about them.’ Simon smoothed the fabric of her skirt over her knee as he spoke. Such casual gestures of intimacy between them had become natural whenever they were unobserved.
‘There are none living now,’ she said simply.
‘Like myself, you too are alone in the world.’
‘But you have Abigail.’
He glanced at her, then nodded. Eliza wondered if he had accepted the probability that Abigail was going to die. Did he already consider himself alone? How she longed to hold him and tell him she would always be at his side, that he need not fear loneliness ever again. But she could not. How could she allow him to care for her, knowing as she did that at any time she might have to flee, to run from his life forever without explanation. How could she subject him to that when he had already faced losing everyone he loved?
‘Why so sad?’ Simon asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders and kissing her cheek.
Eliza closed her eyes and savored the delicious moment of closeness. She must stay strong. She must keep her head. Abigail’s recovery depended on it. And so did Simon’s future happiness. And she wanted him to be happy, very much. She mustered a smile.
‘Not sad, just a little weary.’
‘You do too much, my love.’
‘There is much to be done. The clinic is busy, as ever, and Dr. Gimmel has come to rely on me more and more.’
‘He is very lucky to have you. As are we all.’ He took her hand from her lap and pressed it to his lips. Eliza gave a little laugh and stood up suddenly.
‘Mr. Astredge, I believe you are taking advantage of me,’ she teased.
‘Don’t go.’ He sprang from the sofa.
‘Well,’ she said, walking briskly over to the card table, ‘if you promise to behave yourself I will agree to a short game of canasta. It is about time someone taught you how to play properly.’
‘Oh, is it now? We’ll see about that!’ Simon sat at the table and picked up the cards, attempting to shuffle them deftly. He succeeded only in dropping most of them on the floor. Eliza laughed, watching him scrabble about for the cards and his dignity, and thought she had never loved a man more in her life.
In the morning, Eliza arrived late at the hospital. She undid the ribbon of her bonnet as she hurried past Thomas.
‘Good morning, Mr. Thomas. Has Dr. Gimmel arrived yet?’
‘He has, Doctor, about half an hour ago. I was just going to fetch some tea. Shall I bring another cup?’
‘Thank you, tea would be most welcome.’
Mr. Thomas disappeared into the small kitchen behind his office. As he did so, Gresseti stepped into the room from the hallway.
‘Dr. Hawksmith, good morning to you. I am happy to find you looking in such good health after your alarming encounter with the drunkard.’ He showed no signs of awkwardness, though this was the first time they had met since the incident near her lodgings. It was as if he chose only to remember he had been her rescuer, nothing more.
‘I am well, thank you.’ Eliza hesitated. She could not go on any longer without confronting him about the letter of introduction. If there was a simple explanation, she wanted to hear it. She had to know the truth about him. Part of her was terrified at the thought of confronting him. Her tactic in the past, where Gideon was concerned, had always been to vanish the moment she was certain of his identity but before he became aware that she knew. This time, however, the matter was more complicated. She could not leave Abigail, not now. And if she was being honest with herself, she knew she did not want to leave Simon.
‘Signor Gresseti,’ she started, ‘I was wondering, how long have you been connected with the Institute in Milan?’
‘Many years. Why do you ask?’
They were interrupted by Dr. Gimmel emerging from his office at speed.
‘Ah, Eliza, you’re here. Thank heavens.’
‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘I have just heard from Simon Astredge. Abigail has collapsed.’
‘What?’
‘She is unconscious, and he is unable to rouse her.’ Dr. Gimmel strode past. ‘We must hurry, Dr. Hawksmith,’ he called to her as he went.
Eliza ran after him. Gresseti would have to wait.
At the house, they found Simon pacing the hall waiting for them.
‘Thank God you’ve come.’ He grabbed Eliza’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs.
‘When did it happen?’ she asked.
‘About an hour ago. Her maid was helping her dress. At first we thought she had fainted, but I cannot wake her. She is in her bed. Come, this way.’
The three hurried up the broad staircase and along the landing. Abigail’s room was at the front of the house overlooking the park. Two full-length windows let in soft morning light. Sunshine fell on the brass bed and rosebud linen. Abigail lay propped against feather pillows, her eyes closed but lids fluttering lightly. Her breath was ragged and irregular. Her color was pale, with a blueness around her mouth. Dr. Gimmel reached the bed first. He lifted an eyelid and examined her pupil. Next, he put his stethoscope over her heart and her lungs. Eliza stood on the other side of the bed. She placed her fingers on the pulse in Abigail’s neck and measured the irregular beats.
‘What is it?’ asked Simon. ‘What has happened? I know she has been tired of late, but this … this is so unexpected. I don’t understand.’
Dr. Gimmel and Eliza exchanged worried glances. Dr. Gimmel straightened up and left Abigail’s side.
‘Your sister’s condition, as you can see, has become more serious. I had hoped that medication might arrest the advancement of the disease, but…’
At that moment Abigail moaned. She stirred, slowly opening her eyes.
‘Eliza? Is that you?’
‘I am here, Abigail. Do not be afraid.’
‘Oh, how do I come to be back in my bed? Dr. Gimmel? I have put everyone to so much trouble.’ She struggled to sit up.
‘Lie still, my dear.’ Dr. Gimmel smiled at her. ‘You must conserve your strength. Bed rest for you. N
ot the slightest exertion, do you hear? Mr. Astredge, I will send a nurse from the Fitzroy. Your sister must not be allowed to get up and must not be overtired by company, is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Dr. Hawksmith will be in attendance, of course. We will increase your medication, but it is rest that is required, first and foremost, at this point.’ He beckoned to Simon and walked with him to the corner of the room. Eliza took Abigail’s hand and squeezed it. Despite their low voices, she could clearly hear the conversation between the two men.
‘What is to be done?’ Simon asked.
The look on his face tore at Eliza’s heart.
Dr. Gimmel put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘I fear we cannot put off surgery much longer,’ he said.
‘But she is so weak.’
‘Indeed, but there remain no further avenues for us to explore. We will let her rest and assess her strength in a day or two. Let us hope this episode will pass so that she might regain sufficient vitality to face the procedure.’
Eliza felt Abigail tighten her hold on her hand.
‘I am dying, am I not, Eliza? Please, tell me the truth.’
Her loose hair flowed out against the pillow like seaweed pulled by a gentle tide. Her skin had an alarming tautness to it, and her eyes appeared to sit deeper in their sockets. Eliza felt rage at the unjust nature of disease. She stood looking down at her dear friend, as helplessly as she had stood next to her brother. And her father. And her sister. How could she do nothing when it lay within her power to save her?
She sat on the edge of the bed and forced herself to speak brightly.
‘Abigail, you are my patient, and I am not about to let you die, do you hear me?’
Abigail smiled. ‘Do you forbid it, Doctor?’
‘I forbid it absolutely.’
‘Then, of course, I must not. To allow oneself to pass away under such diligent care would be the height of bad manners, do you not agree?’
‘I do. Now, you must rest. I will visit the apothecary at the hospital and then return later today. I will send you a nurse.’
The Witch’s Daughter Page 22