"Cadavers," he said. "Indy told me about them. The best go to Guy's and Bart's. The women's school gets all the ripe ones."
Maud paled. She pressed a jeweled hand to her chest. "Dead people?" she whispered. "You're joking, Freddie, surely. Say you are."
"I'm not this time. I'm being most grave. I swear it."
"Good God. I feel quite ill. I'll be outside."
Maud left and India turned to her fianc�"Most grave?" she said. "Must we always become twelve years old again when we're all together?"
"Yes, we must," Freddie said. He gave her a golden smile and India thought then, as she had a million times before, that he was the most glori-ously handsome man she had ever seen.
"You are awful, Freddie," she said. "Truly."
"I am. I admit it. But it was the only way I could get five minutes alone with you," he said, squeezing her hand. "Now get your things, old stick. We're off to the Coburg."
"Wish said. But really, Freddie, you mustn't."
"I want to. It's not every day of the week one becomes a doctor, you know."
"This is so lovely. So unexpected. I thought you'd be at C-B's all weekend."
C-B was short for Henry Campbell-Bannerman, leader of the Opposition. There was talk that Lord Salisbury, Britain's prime minister and head of the incumbent Conservative Party, would call a general election in the autumn. Campbell-Bannerman had called his shadow cabinet together to prepare the Liberal Party's platform. A handful of prominent backbenchers, including Freddie, had also been summoned.
"The old boy canceled," Freddie said. "Felt a bit punky."
"When did you find out?"
"Two days ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?" India asked, hurt. She'd been so disappointed when he'd said he couldn't be here today.
"I was going to, darling," Freddie said contritely. "And perhaps I should have. But as soon as I knew I was off the hook, I decided to surprise you with a party. Now stop looking daggers at me, will you, and get your things."
India felt ashamed. How could she have scolded him? He was always so thoughtful. She led the way out of the auditorium down a narrow hallway to a lecture theater where she and her fellow graduates had stowed their belongings. It was quiet in the room when she and Freddie entered it, qui-eter than she'd ever heard it. Freddie sat down in one of the wooden seats and busied himself with a bottle of champagne he'd swiped from the drinks table. India looked around--not for her things, but at the room it-self. She looked at the raked benches and the dissection table, at the book-cases crammed with heavy texts, at Ponsonby the skeleton dangling from his stand--and realized that it was the last time she would do so. The sad-ness she'd felt earlier overwhelmed her again. She walked over to Ponsonby and took his lifeless hands in hers.
"I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I'll never sit here again," she said.
"Hmm?" Freddie was frowning at the cork.
"This place... this school... all the years I spent here... it's all behind me now..."
Her voice trailed off as images came back to her. Bright fragments of time. She saw herself and Harriet Hatcher in anatomy lab bent over a cadaver. They were peeling back the derma, naming and drawing muscles and bones as fast as they could, trying to stay ahead of the rot. Trying not to vomit. Sketch and retch, they'd called it. Professor Fenwick had been there, calling them ham-fisted bumblers one minute, bringing them bicarb and a bucket the next.
He'd been there again, materializing out of thin air like a guardian angel, when a group of drunken first years from Guy's had surrounded herself and Harriet outside the school's entrance. The men had exposed them-selves, demanding to have their members examined.
"Unfortunately, gentlemen, my students cannot comply with your request," he'd said, "as they are not permitted to take their microscopes out of the building."
And Dr. Garrett Anderson, the dean. She was a legend, the first woman in England to earn a medical degree and one of the school's founders. Brisk, brilliant, stronger than Sheffield steel, she had been a constant inspiration to India, a living, breathing rebuttal to those who said women were too weak and too stupid to be doctors.
"This foil is a bugger," Freddie muttered, fiddling with the champagne bottle. "Ah! There we are."
She looked at him, wanting so much to tell him what this place meant to her, wanting him to understand. "Freddie... ," she began. "Never mind the champagne...."
It was too late. He aimed the bottle at Ponsonby and popped the cork. It glanced off the skeleton's head.
"Poor Ponsonby," India said. "You've hurt his feelings."
"Stuff Ponsonby. He's dead. He has no feelings. Come and have a drink." Freddie patted the chair next to him. When India was seated, he handed her a glass. "To Dr. India Selwyn Jones," he said. "The cleverest lit-tle brick in London. I'm so proud of you, darling." He clinked her glass, then emptied his. "Here," he added, handing her a small leather box.
"What is it?"
"Open it and see."
India eased the lid up, then gasped at what was inside--a beautifully worked gold pocket watch with diamond markers. Freddie took it out and turned it over. Think of me was engraved on the back.
India shook her head. "Freddie, it's so beautiful. I don't even know what to say."
"Say you'll marry me."
She smiled at him. "I've already said that."
"Then do it. Marry me tomorrow."
"But I start with Dr. Gifford next week."
"Bugger Dr. Gifford!"
"Freddie! Shh!"
"Run away with me. Tonight." He leaned toward her and nuzzled her neck.
"I can't, you silly man. You know I can't. I've work to do. Important work. You know how hard I fought for that job. And then there's the clinic...."
Freddie raised his face to hers. His beautiful amber eyes had darkened. "I can't wait forever, India. I won't. We've been engaged for two bloody years."
"Freddie, please... don't spoil the day."
"Is that what I'm doing? Spoiling the day?" he asked, visibly hurt. "Is my telling you that I want you for my wife such a dreadful thing to hear?"
"Of course not, it's just that..."
"Your studies have come first for a long time, but you're finished now and a man can only be so patient." He put his glass down. There was a serious-ness to him now. "It's just that we could do so much good together. You've always said that you want to make a difference--how can you do that working for Gifford? Or in some ill-funded clinic? Do something bigger, India. Something huge and important. Work with me on health reform. Counsel me. Advise me. And together we'll make that difference. A real difference. Not just for Whitechapel or London, but for England." He took her hands in his and continued talking, giving her no opening to reply. Or to object. "You're a remarkable woman and I need you. At my side." He pulled her close and kissed her. "And in my bed," he whispered.
India closed her eyes and tried to like it. She always tried to like it. He was so good and so kind and he loved her. He was everything any woman could want, and so she tried to warm to his kisses, but his lips were so hard and insistent. He knocked her spectacles askew with his fumblings and when he slid his hand from her waist to her breast, she broke away.
"We ought to go," she said. "The others will be wondering what's become of us."
"Don't be cold to me. I want you so."
"Freddie, darling, this is hardly the place."
"I want us to set a date, India. I want us to be man and wife."
"We will be. Soon. I promise," she said, adjusting her glasses.
"All right, then. Coming?"
"I've got to find my things," she said. "You go. I'll only be a minute."
He told her to hurry, then went to join the others. India watched him go. He's right, of course, she thought.
It had been two years since he'd gotten down on bended knee at Long-marsh and proposed to her. She would have to decide on a wedding date soon, and she knew what would happen when she did--they'd be requir
ed to attend an endless round of dinners and parties and to listen to incessant chatter about dresses, rings, and trousseau. And he would press her again to give up her hopes of a clinic and work with him on health reform. It was a noble cause, she knew it was, but healing was her calling, not committee work, and she could no more give it up than she could give up breathing.
India frowned, upset at herself. Freddie was so good to her and she was being unkind to him; she knew she was. She should have decided on a date by now. It should have been so easy for her to simply pick a day. Some lovely summer Saturday.
Should have been. Would have been.
If only she loved him.
She sat for a bit longer, simply staring at the empty doorway, then shrugged out of her robe. The others were waiting; she mustn't keep them any longer. She folded the robe and placed it on the chair beside her, then ran her hands over her hair. It was a disaster. Her blond curls, brushed into a neat twist only a few hours ago, were already corkscrewing loose. Try as she might, she could never keep them under control. She started to smooth them, then stopped. Her fingers found the jeweled comb she al-ways wore and pulled it free. She turned it over in her palm. It was a Tiffany dragonfly, one of a pair, and worth a small fortune. Worked in plat-inum and embellished with dozens of flawless gems, it was completely at odds with her plain, sober clothing: the gray skirt and waistcoat, the crisp white blouse.
She had taken the comb the day she'd left Blackwood--the day she'd turned her back on her home, her parents, and their godforsaken money.
"If you leave, India, I shall cut you off," her mother had said, her beautiful face white with anger.
"I don't want your money," India had said. "I don't want anything from you."
There were three swirling initials engraved on the underside of the comb. She traced them with her finger--I S J, not hers, but her mother's-- Isabelle Selwyn Jones, Countess of Burnleigh. India knew that if it were not for this comb she would not be here today. If her mother hadn't left it in her carriage. If Hugh hadn't picked it up. If, if, if.
She closed her hand around it, pressing the teeth into her palm, trying to stop herself from remembering. Don't, she told herself, don't think about him. Don't remember him. Don't feel him. Don't feel anything. But she did. Because Hugh had made her feel. More than anyone in her en-tire life.
She could see him again in her mind's eye, only this time he wasn't laughing. He was running through the trees with his sister Bea in his arms. Bea's face was white. Her skirts were crimson with blood. He'd bundled her into the trap and crooned to her all the way to Cardiff. Never stopping, not once. Never even faltering. She could still hear his beautiful voice, soft and low, Paid ag ofni, dim ond deilen, Gura, gura ar y ddor; Paid ag ofni, ton fach unig, Sua, sua ar lan y mor. She'd known enough Welsh to know what he was singing. Fret you not, 'tis but an oak leaf, Beating, beating at the door. Fret you not, a lonely wavelet's, Murmuring, murmuring on the shore. "Suo Gan," a lullaby.
India looked at the comb still, but didn't see it. She saw only Hugh, his face riven with grief as the police came to take him away.
"You're thinking of him, aren't you?" said a voice from the doorway now, startling her. She turned. It was Maud. "Poor Indy," she said. "Couldn't save Hugh. So you've decided to save the world instead. Poor world. It doesn't know what it has coming."
India didn't answer. She wished that for once Maud could talk about sad things without mocking them.
"I've been sent back into this charnel house to fetch you, so stop holding seances and get your things," Maud continued. "I can't control the pack any longer. Wish is trying to talk the poor dean into investing in some mad land scheme. Freddie's arguing with a creaky old Tory...and, oh, India ...have you been blubbing?"
"Of course not."
"Your nose is all red. And look at your hair. It's an absolute tangle. Give me that comb." Maud raked her fingers through India's blond mane, twisted it, and secured it. Then she stepped back to assess her work. "Very nice," she said.
India smiled and tried to accept the gesture gracefully. It was the sort of thing that passed for love between them.
Maud's eyes traveled over India's clothing; she frowned. "Is that what you're wearing to the Coburg?"
India smoothed her skirt. "What's wrong with it?"
"I thought you might have brought a change of clothes. These are so... dreary. You look like you're going to a funeral."
"You sound exactly like Mother."
"I do not!"
"You do."
As Maud continued to deny any similarities with their mother, India put her jacket on and then her hat. She gathered her black robe and her doctor's bag, then followed her sister up the steps. When she reached the door-way, she turned around for one last look at her classroom, at the books and charts and specimens, at Ponsonby, and then she whispered a soft goodbye. Her eyes were clear now, her expression calm. She'd boxed the pain away. She was herself again. Cool and unflappable. Brisk and sensible. Feelings firmly in check.
"Keep them that way, Jones," Ponsonby seemed to whisper. "Never forget: Feelings cloud judgment."
And so much more, old chap, India thought, and so much more.
Chapter 2
Joseph Bristow bounded up the steps to 94 Grosvenor Square, his towering Mayfair mansion. His train had arrived at King's Cross early. It was Sunday, and only one o'clock. Cook would have just sent up dinner. He hoped it was a leg of lamb or a roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. He'd been in Brighton for a week scouting a site for a new Montague's shop. He missed his home. And home cooking. Most of all, he missed his fam-ily. He couldn't wait to see Fiona and their little daughter, Katie. He raised his hand to ring the doorbell, but before he could, the door was opened for him.
"Welcome home, sir. May I take your things?" It was Foster, the butler.
"Hello, Mr. Foster. How are you?"
"Very well, sir. Thank you for inquiring."
Joe was about to ask Foster where Fiona was when two fox terriers flashed by. "Since when do we have dogs?" he asked.
"They are recent acquisitions, sir. They were abandoned in the park. Mrs. Bristow found them and took them in."
"Why am I not surprised?" Joe said, shaking his head. "Do they have names?"
"Lipton and Twining," Foster replied. "Mrs. Bristow says they are like her competition. Always yapping at her heels."
Joe laughed. He watched the dogs as they circled the foyer, yipping and tussling. One broke away, trotted to an umbrella stand, and was about to lift his leg on it until a swift kick from Foster persuaded him otherwise. The second dog leaped into a large potted fern and began to dig furiously.
"If you'll pardon me, sir..."
As Foster advanced on the animal, two blond children came charging into the entry, brandishing walking sticks like spears. They were Susie and Robbie, his sister Ellen's children. They were dragging a small silk rug behind them. Its ends had been knotted to form a pouch. Sitting in it was a pretty blue-eyed toddler--his daughter, Katie. She was nibbling a biscuit. He knelt down and kissed her.
"Hello, my lovelies," he said to the children. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Kidnapping Katie for ransom," Robbie answered. "We're Kikuyu. Katie's not. She's Masai. Those are tribes. From Africa. I read about them in Boy's Own."
"Did you now?"
A loud whoop was heard from the drawing room.
"A war party! Head for the Ngong Hills!" Robbie shouted.
Katie waved bye-bye as she was skidded off to the dining room. Two more children--twins belonging to Joe's brother, Jimmy--came todding after them. Jimmy's wife, Meg, was hot on their trail, scolding all the way. She blew her brother-in-law a kiss as she ran by.
Joe shook his head. A quiet afternoon? A peaceful meal? In this house? What had he been thinking? "I wonder what it's like at me neighbors' homes," he said aloud. "I wonder if it's half the madhouse it is here."
"At the Granville Barkers'? The Walsinghams'?" Foster said, reappeari
ng with one of the terriers tucked under his arm. "I shouldn't think so, sir."
"Where's me missus, Mr. Foster?"
"In the garden, sir. Hosting a party."
"A party?"
"A fund-raising luncheon for the Toynbee Mission Girls' Vocational School."
"She didn't tell me we were having a party today."
"Mrs. Bristow didn't know herself until three days ago. The Reverend and Mrs. Barnett approached her. It seems a portion of the school's roof fell in. Water damage, I believe."
"Another hard-luck story."
"Those do seem to be her specialty."
Winter Rose, The Page 3