Bow Belles

by Bow Belles (retail) (epub)

  He was at the end of the room when a ragged, emaciated creature called out to him. Without pausing for a second, Eric Brooks went to the aid of the distressed man, nodding curtly at the Mission’s patron as she passed by, her arms filled with clean cotton sheets.

  ‘How is she?’ Prunella had approached unnoticed at the bedside taking Robert by surprise. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of ether that hung heavily in the air, she was about to say more. Then her step faltered, an involuntary gasp of horror escaping her lips at the sight of the ugly black stitches that seemed to cover the entirety of the woman’s face before weaving a jagged path down her white body. Mercifully for Prunella, the intricate surgery to repair the ravages of the brutal rape were hidden from view.

  ‘Good God! Oh, Robert, I didn’t realise… I just didn’t realise. Oh, the poor woman… The poor, poor woman!’ Then she did something she had never in her life done in public; she cried, cried openly and unashamedly for the wretched, pitiful woman who had been brought into her care.

  ‘There now, Prue. I know it looks dreadful, but…’ But what? he asked himself. As Eric had said, good as his surgical skills were, the woman would still be scarred; just how badly wouldn’t be evident for some months. Again the silent doubt came to mind: if she survives. Taking the laundry from Prunella, he helped to change the blood-soaked sheets and covered up the naked form before saying, ‘Prue, I need to ask a favour. Would it be possible for you to keep her here for a few days? I’ll stay tonight, in case she comes round, and I’ll find someone to sit with her during the day until she can be moved.’

  Wiping her eyes, Prunella sniffed, feeling slightly embarrassed at her loss of composure. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert! Of course I’ll do everything I can to help, and there’s no need for you to find someone to sit with her. I’ll arrange for Mrs Adams to come in. I know she’s getting on in years, but she’s still a good nurse, and I often call her in to help when the need arises.’

  Robert gave a brief nod of assent. He knew Maude Adams well. The woman in the bed would be in safe hands in the elderly nurse’s care.

  ‘When shall I inform the police? They’ll have to be brought into this. The man, or men, responsible must be caught without delay.’

  At the mention of the police, Robert shook his head firmly. ‘No, Prue, no police, at least not yet. What would be the point? She’s not likely to be able to tell them anything, and even if she does come round, the last thing she’ll want is to face a barrage of questioning. Besides, we both know the chances of catching whoever did this are negligible, unless of course the person was known to her. If that proves to be the case, then there’ll be plenty of time to bring him, or them, to book later.’

  An affectionate smile quivered at the corners of Prunella’s lips. Young or old, rich or poor, Robert treated all of his patients with respect. And, when the need arose, with fierce protectiveness.

  It was the early hours of the morning before the woman stirred, her slight movement jerking Robert from an uneasy sleep. ‘There, there, it’s all right, my dear. You’re safe now. You’re safe.’ When he held her limp wrist, he noted the still thready pulse and feared the worst. Pushing a few strands of hair from her damp forehead, he whispered urgently, ‘Can you hear me? Can you hear what I’m saying? If so, could you move your head, or hand; anything to indicate you can hear me?’

  When no response came, he shook his head in disappointment. He was expecting too much; he always expected too much. He wasn’t God, he couldn’t be expected to perform miracles; so why did he always strive to do so? The best thing he could do now would be to get some sleep. He had done his best, the woman now lay in the hands of a much higher power than his. Just as he was about to extinguish the gas-lamp he noted something on the woman’s face. Bending nearer, he gently touched her heavily stitched cheek, smiling in a new burst of hope at the unmistakable tears that were seeping from beneath the closed, battered eyes. A great surge of excitement swept through him, banishing all thoughts of sleep.

  ‘Rest now, my dear. You’re perfectly safe. I give you my word, no one’s going to hurt you again. I promise.’ When her weak, trembling hand sought his, he grasped it firmly. He was still holding it when Prunella arrived the following morning.

  * * *

  He woke with a start, wondering in those first few moments of wakefulness where he was, then reality set in. His breathing erratic, he lay still, his mind taking over where the dream had left off.

  Anne had been at the Mission for six days before he had decided it was safe enough to move her. But instead of admitting her to the hospital, as Prunella had expected, he had taken her to his clinic in Harley Street, installing her in his own private suite. It was there, some weeks later that Dr Mueller, the German rhinoplastic surgeon, had restored her broken nose to its original state, watched by a fascinated Robert who had never seen this kind of operation performed before. Which was hardly surprising. Although broken noses were a common occurrence in the East End, the victims of such injuries weren’t in a position to pay for such expensive, complicated surgery, and even if the service had been offered free, it was hardly likely the recipients would have taken advantage of the offer. Surgery of any kind was both distrusted and feared by the ordinary working man and woman, who would rather suffer agonising pain than submit themselves to the surgeon’s knife.

  A week later, Robert had brought Anne to his home to be met by an extremely indignant Mrs Palmer, who clearly thought her master had taken leave of his senses – as did most of his friends and colleagues. Even he didn’t understand why he had taken such an unprecedented step, or why he felt obliged to look after the woman until she was fully recovered.

  Eric Brookes had come to take out the stitches, tactfully refraining from airing his private opinion of his friend’s unusual behaviour. Although the unsightly stitches had been removed, Robert had experienced much disappointment at the livid, angry welts marring the woman’s white skin. His evident dismay hadn’t gone unnoticed by his friend, and Robert had found himself on the receiving end of a lengthy lecture on expecting too much from the defensive surgeon who imagined his work was being called into question. He had told the suitably chastised Robert the scars would gradually fade with time, but never completely, adding somewhat huffily that he wasn’t a miracle-worker. And the scars did fade, though not to the degree that Robert had hoped for.

  During her recuperation, the woman had hardly spoken a word except when absolutely necessary, accepting all the painful procedures with the dumb tolerance of an animal who has entrusted itself to its master’s care. The longest sentence she had managed was to ask for the mirror in her bedroom to be removed. This Robert had done with great relief.

  The second time she had managed to talk was to ask her name, and this request had thrown Robert into a quandary. He had assumed she knew who she was, but was simply reluctant to talk about herself, or how she came by her injuries. Patiently and with great compassion he had explained the circumstances that had brought her to the Mission and his own involvement in the matter, hoping the information might jar her memory. But she had looked at him blankly with no sign of emotion. Thinking quickly, he had thought up the name Anne Jones, thinking it innocuous enough to serve until she remembered her true identity. When, some months later, she still showed no signs of regaining her memory, he had asked for the assistance of Dr Phillips, a renowned psychiatrist, and was disturbed to find himself pleased at the great man’s failure to release Anne from her amnesiac state.

  Despite Prunella’s conviction regarding Anne, Robert had clung to the belief that she was indeed a prostitute who had wandered on to a new patch, and into the arms of a maniac. But in time, as she slowly began to talk for longer periods and became confident enough to move freely around the house and garden, her modulated voice and gentle bearing soon weakened his previous theory, which only served to heighten the mystery of her identity.

  Realising he was getting too emotionally involved, he had dispatched the young boy Tom
my to the police station with a letter describing the woman and the brutal attack that had led to her being in his care. But the young urchin, known to the local police as a prolific pickpocket, and afraid he would be recognised and locked up, had promptly thrown the letter into the gutter. For weeks Robert had waited for a visit from the constabulary and, when they didn’t come, had confronted the boy, who had shamefacedly admitted his guilt.

  Knowing it would be wiser if he went himself, Robert had gone to the Whitechapel police and filled in a form detailing Anne’s description and the exact date she had been found, which he gave to a young constable, explaining the reason for his delay in contacting them. Satisfied he had done all he could, Robert had returned to the hospital, unaware that the constable, at the end of his fourth twelve-hour shift after only two weeks into his new profession, and knowing he would have to stay on to write up the report, had followed Tommy’s example and thrown the form into the bin. He justified his action by telling himself it was only another prostitute that had picked on the wrong man. It happened every day, so it wasn’t exactly the crime of the century.

  What had started out as a genuine act of compassion had slowly developed into admiration and respect for the strength the woman had shown during her long, painful ordeal. And from those mixed feelings had come affection and finally love. Yet had his actions been purely altruistic? Robert pondered silently. It was true he had always used his medical knowledge and skills to help all in need of them, but had there been an ulterior motive for going to the extremes he had with Anne? Deeply disturbed, he raised himself on the feather pillows, not liking this new train of thought.

  The London Hospital had a long tradition of research and medical advancement, which was why he had chosen to serve there. He had always been fascinated with medical science, experiencing a deep thrill each time a breakthrough occurred. He was one of many doctors and scientists who firmly believed that there was a cure for all ailments: it was simply a matter of time before the discoveries became known. This was one of the reasons why he worked so tirelessly to save those whom many doctors would have dismissed as hopeless cases. Had that been why he had put so much effort, time and money into Anne’s recovery? Had he subconsciously seen her as a challenge, thinking to take an impossible case and turn it into a triumph for modern medicine?

  His forehead creased into deep furrows of concentration as he cast his mind back fourteen years to the day he had first set eyes on Joseph Merrick, cruelly dubbed ‘The Elephant Man’. The consulting surgeon at that time, Frederick Treaves, had rescued the pitifully deformed man from a life of exploitation in a freak show and, ignoring criticism, had won the fight to offer Merrick the protection of the hospital until his death in 1890. Robert had sought out Treaves, asking if he could see the man all London was talking about. And even though he had mentally prepared himself, the full horror of the poor creature’s horrific disfigurements had momentarily stunned him. Treaves had done his best for Merrick but, in the end, the most he could offer was safety and comparative comfort during the unfortunate man’s last years. Robert had never forgotten Joseph Merrick, or his own feeling of inadequacy in the face of such severe abnormalities.

  Had he looked on Anne that night as a way to redeem himself for failing to help ease Merrick’s suffering? Unable to stand any more self-criticism, he rose tiredly, his tortured mind refusing to give him any peace. The day she had come to tell him she was ready to leave had been the turning-point in Robert’s life. He had planned to give her some money, wish her well and get her out of his life. Instead, he had found himself asking her to stay, and when she had accepted he had known that somewhere along the long, rough journey he had fallen in love. There had been many times when he’d had to fight down the impulse to declare his true feelings. There was no knowing what might emerge if she ever recovered her memory.

  Always cautious, Robert had held his tongue, and now he had his reward. At last he knew who she was and where she belonged, and it wasn’t with him; it could never be with him. Staring at his haggard face in the bathroom mirror, he smiled bitterly. It made no difference now what his motives had been, but if he had been less than honest with himself, fate was now paying him back in kind.

  When he could put the moment off no longer, he braced himself for what was to come, and as he slowly walked down the stairs he knew that, without Anne, no amount of work would ever fill the void she would leave behind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Robert came into the drawing-room, his face drawn, his gentle eyes filled with misery, she knew. Knew instantly that her life here was over, and with the knowledge came a wave of nausea and fear. Her hands trembling, she laid aside her needlework and waited for the words that would blast her world apart and catapult her into an unknown one filled with strangers; strangers who had perhaps once been the very centre of her life, but who would now appear alien to her.

  The apprehension in the face that, although scarred, was still beautiful to his eyes, caused Robert to waver. He didn’t know how to start, didn’t know where to begin his painful task. All the carefully rehearsed words hovered on is reluctant tongue, but no sound came. For a heart-stopping moment they gazed at each other, each knowing that their life together was over.

  Robert recalled the psychiatrist’s words about the memory’s function being made up from processes of association, such as familiar smells, sights and sounds, any of which could trigger it. He wetted his lips nervously, intending to lead up to his news as gently as possible, but still he couldn’t get the words past the tightness of his throat. What made him say what he did next, he never knew, but through his parched lips came the name ‘Florrie!’

  That one word acted like a bullet to her brain, blasting to smithereens the dark curtain behind which lay her true self, and the people she had been forced to leave behind. Robert ran forward as the colour seeped from her face, her green eyes widening in terror and bewilderment before she slid from the chair into a dead faint.

  Cursing himself for his stupidity, he dropped to his knees beside Florrie, for once in his life unsure what to do next. Reaching over her he rang a hand-bell for help.

  Almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for such a summons, Mrs Palmer bustled in, her jaw dropping at the sight of her mistress lying so still on the floor. ‘Oh, sir, what’s happened?’ Then, in an accusing tone she added. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘Never mind all the questions, Nellie! Just help me to lift her on to the settee.’

  The use of her first name brought home to Nellie just how bad the situation was. The master never called her that unless he was either in a buoyant mood or found himself in need of a friend. Looking at the two of them, she would say he was in dire need of the latter. Without further ado she helped to move Florrie on to the blue velvet settee, then without prompting, she hurried to the cabinet and poured out two large brandies.

  ‘Here, sir! Try and get some of this down her, and you’d best have one yourself by the look of you.’

  Robert took the goblet, downing the brandy in one gulp, then stood looking helplessly down at the unconscious woman. Realising that her master was in no fit state to deal with the situation, Nellie immediately took charge. Discarding the mantle of servant, she pushed the bemused doctor to one side and knelt beside the settee. Lifting Florrie’s fair head, she gently slapped her pale cheeks, then tried to pass some of the brandy into her closed mouth, tutting in dismay as her lips remained tightly shut.

  ‘Maybe we should leave her to come round in her own time, sir?’ she ventured to the silent man. When no answer was forthcoming, she chewed on her bottom lip before daring to ask, ‘What made her faint, sir? Is it something to do with what’s been worrying you lately?’

  Shaking himself from his reverie, Robert stared at the plump, homely woman who at times had seemed like a mother to him. Turning away, he said gruffly, ‘I’ve found Anne’s family, but unfortunately I didn’t handle the situation very well, as you can see,’ he ended on a m
irthless laugh. Holding out his empty glass, he waited until it had been refilled before he revealed his discovery to his housekeeper. ‘So there you have the whole story, Nellie, and, that being the case, I doubt if your mistress will be residing with us for much longer.’ Seeing the look of distress on her face, he shook his head sadly. ‘I know, Nellie, I know. I shall miss her, too, but as I’ve explained, she has a family who have long since given her up for dead. Lord knows how they will react when they find out she’s still alive!’

  ‘It’s going to be a big shock for them, sir.’ Nellie rubbed her hands in agitation. ‘And what about the mistress. Does she remember them?’

  ‘That’s a very good question, but judging by her reaction when I called her by her real name, I should think she does. I should have gone about telling her in a more gentle manner, instead of which I blundered in blindly and without thinking. Oh, hell, Nellie, what a mess! What a God-awful mess!’

  Behind them, Florrie lay motionless listening to their conversation, yet unable to make a sound. She couldn’t even open her eyes, it seemed too great an effort. Does she remember? Nellie had asked, and the answer was yes. She remembered. She remembered only too well! Behind the darkness of her closed lids she saw her past life come alive. Images that had long been present in her subconscious brain had been released by that one word from Robert. ‘Florrie’ he had said, and that one word had unlocked the door that had kept her apart from her family for so long. But no more. What was it that doctor had said? Something about the mind throwing up a barrier when memories were too painful to bear. A safety-valve, he had called it, but she herself had had a lot to do with helping the brain in its work to protect itself. She could hear Robert and Nellie talking in hushed tones, and knew she should really make an effort to open her eyes and speak to them. But she needed time, time to get her jumbled thoughts in order, time to adjust to the memories.