by Forbes, Kit
But for the rest of it, I didn’t suppose it was all that normal.
Father’s white mutton-chop whiskers quivered with suppressed agitation and he flushed to the very top of his bald head. Mother’s mouth had drawn itself into a tight line that accentuated the deep furrows of disapproval between her snapping blue eyes. My sister Phoebe tossed her head in utter disgust, strands of too early gray springing free from the black ribbon tying back her hair. She brushed them away impatiently.
Their reactions goaded me to continue the conversation I’d started. “The point is, Father, that having too many children forces these women into poverty, and poverty forces them onto the streets. We sit here, snug and comfortable, bemoaning the horrid conditions in the East End—blaming it on everything from immigrants to social decay—when the answer is quite simple! And it’s that answer I want. How can these women avoid getting pregnant?”
Father sputtered, spraying red wine over the crisp white tablecloth in front of him.
Mother’s heavy etched water glass dropped to the table with a dull thunk and she sat, transfixed, staring in shock and disbelief as if I’d committed the most unpardonable of sins instead of asking a simple question.
The hiss of the gas lamps and the steady thrum the rain filled the dining room until Phoebe replied with a tone of contempt. “The method, my simple-minded sister, who should be too innocent to even know of such things, is also quite evident,” she said. “One simply…doesn’t. I should suspect even you would understand the mechanism that governs such things.” She paused, toying with a spear of asparagus and fixed me with an accusing look. “Or is it,” she asked coyly, “that you understand it all too well?”
I flared hotly at the innuendo but refused to rise to the bait. Instead, I took my serviette and blotted the spreading wine stain before shooting Phoebe a venomous glance. “Is it such a difficult question?” I persisted. “I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. I’m eighteen, I know how these things work…in theory, of course.”
A flash of lightning glared off the dark-paneled walls and mirrored sideboard followed immediately by a boom of thunder that rattled the windows. Mother jumped, eliciting yet another scowl from Phoebe.
“Oh, do go cower in the cellar if you’re going to do that every time it rains, Mother. You’re putting us all on edge.”
“Phoebe!” Father turned his anger from me to her but kept his voice low and controlled. “I’ll not have you address your mother that way. You know very well the cause of her trauma. I think you might at least show some Christian charity. She merits your admiration and respect, not your condemnation!”
Phoebe glared at Father and jabbed her fork at a piece of pork on her plate. “Well, I apologize, but it agitates me.”
I bit my tongue. It seemed Phoebe was always agitated by something.
Father patted mother’s clammy hand. “Perhaps you should lie down, my dear. I have some laudanum in my bag.”
She shook off his attempt at comfort. “I’m fine.” She darted a gloomy look at Phoebe who, for her part, ignored Mother entirely.
Father resumed his seat as I lifted the edge of the wet Damask cloth, to place the dishes on the bare walnut tabletop.
“Must you do that?” Phoebe asked. “We do have a servant.”
“Yes, we do.” I continued with my task. “But you sent her out in this horrid storm to fetch your precious strawberry tart.” I finished sopping up the spill, balled the soaked cloth and placed it inside the dumbwaiter before resuming my seat,
“I suppose I should have gone?” Phoebe complained. “And where is that silly girl? Surely it doesn’t take this long to go to the shop and back.”
It took all my willpower to hold my tongue when Mother chimed in about the help not having the sense to come in out of the rain. I did not want the conversation to veer in that direction because it would give Phoebe a platform on which to rail about the working classes and about social parasites. And I’d heard that lecture more than enough.
I turned again to Father and chose my words carefully to avoid another eruption, “I know there are ways to help these women…”
The sharp scrape of Phoebe’s knife on the plate blended with Mother’s tsk of disapproval.
Father’s flush deepened. His cheeks blazed in sharp contrast to his white whiskers. “Such matters are not for proper young women to think about, let alone to mention at dinner table. The subject is closed.”
My frustration boiled up. “The subject cannot be closed.” I moved to the head of the table beside Father. Another crack of thunder rattled the china; Mother flinched and Phoebe uttered a martyr’s sigh. Yet I persisted. I had to. “Surely, Father, you can see this as clearly as I. You know the wretched conditions. You’ve seen the results. If children survive at all, they live in filth because—”
“Because their mothers are whores,” Phoebe spat. “Really, Genie, you have the most disgusting choice in social causes.”
Father said nothing.
“It’s our moral duty, Father. It is—”
Mother interrupted, her fear vanquished momentarily by her vehemence. “You speak of morality? Their kind have no morals! They deserve everything they get!”
I gasped. “Mother!”
“Where is that silly girl with our dessert?” Phoebe interrupted, clearly wishing to change the subject.
The front door banged open and Mother jumped in fright. Our maid burst into the dining room. “Doctor Trambley, sir! There’s a boy lying in the park. I think ‘e’s hurt.”
“Or likely another drunkard wandered from the East End.” Phoebe sniffed. “I do wish the constabulary would keep them where they belong.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon ma’am, but he’s quality folk. I think ‘e mighta been struck by lightning. ‘Is clothes was all smoking.”
Father rose hastily. “This,” he said stiffly, “is our moral duty. I’ll get my bag.”
“I’ll go with you.” I turned back to the maid. “Sarah, fetch Harry from the stables. We may have need of a strong back.”
Father drew himself up to his full height and looked me straight in the eye. “You need not accompany us, Eugenia.”
I stared back at him. I had as much medical training as he’d allowed. I would not back down in this.
“Unless you wear an oilskin,” he conceded. “It’s filthy weather out.”
“Yes, Father.” I suppressed a smile of triumph. “As you wish.”
Phoebe’s cluck of disgust could be heard over the thunder and I didn’t care one whit.
The sky was near black, the pavement slick as we hurried on towards the park. We skirted the lightning-struck tree and approached the fallen man. “Do you think—”
I broke off as the young man on the ground stirred, turning from his side to his back. I ran forward, Father close behind. I knelt, cradled his head in my lap, and held my umbrella over his us both. He was hardly older than I was. “Can you hear me? Can you move? Can you speak?”
“He causes you any trouble,” the nearby constable said, “I’ll be close by. You just give a holler.”
“He is hardly in any condition to cause trouble.” Father’s eyes narrowed. “And if you’re not going to assist us in getting him to my surgery, you can at least let me get about my examination.”
“Agatha?” the young man called. “Where’s Agatha?”
“American,” Father said, ducking beneath the umbrella. He placed his stethoscope to the lad’s chest. “His heartbeat is strong.” He felt the young man’s limbs. “Nothing appears to be broken.” With a handkerchief, he blotted the cut on the lad’s temple. “This isn’t terribly serious. A stitch or two should mend it.”
“Agatha,” the young man called again, this time his voice stronger. He struggled to sit up despite Father’s and my protest. He held the back of his head, winced. “Is Agatha here?”
I looked around but saw no one except Sarah and the hired man in the distanc
e. “Perhaps she went to get help.”
“I thought she did…“He struggled to rise.
“Slowly.” Father cautioned, motioning our groom, Harry to take hold of the other arm as he helped the young man up. “My surgery isn’t far. We need to get you out of this rain.”
***
The young man collapsed on the carpet in the hall as Mother and Phoebe came in from the dining room to gawk.
“He’s wet.”
“He’s drunk.”
“He’s injured,” Father told them.
I took a measure of satisfaction when they averted their gazes.
“Gently,” Father said, helping Harry lift the young man. “We don’t want to cause any more injuries than he may have already sustained.”
I followed as they carried the patient onto the examining table in the surgery. Father started removing the young man’s wet clothing, grimacing when I began to help
“Eugenia—”
“Really, Father, I’ve volunteered in your hospital. I’ve done this before.” I handed the man’s jacket and vest to our maid. “Sarah, see if he has anything identifying him.”
“My word!” Father exclaimed.
I turned, my curiosity aroused. The young man was undressed down to very small clothes.
Odd, close-fitting, black small clothes that emphasized his—
Father quickly pulled a sheet over his patient.
“But, Father his garments are soaked through—”
“He will be fine, Eugenia.”
I knew perfectly well when to choose my battles. I stepped back and turned away.
“Miss.” Sarah held out a damp envelope. “I found this.”
I squinted, then wiped the tiny rain droplets from my spectacles. I moved closer to one of the gas wall sconces to make out the faded writing, then carefully removed the damp sheets, reading as much as I could of the unsmudged text. “My word.” I turned to Father. “I believe this is from Inspector Fraser. My Inspector Fraser.”
“Your Inspector Fraser, is it now?” Phoebe asked pointedly, eavesdropping from the hallway. “I suppose it doesn’t matter he’s old and married does it, Genie?” She sniffed. “But then, one is known by the company one keeps. And when one consorts with whores—”
I charged forward and slammed the surgery door in her face. Closing my eyes, I struggled to tamp down my indignation. Once under control I turned to the coachman. “Harry, please go to the police station on Leman Street. Tell them we need Inspector Fraser to come at once I believe this young man be known to him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harry wiped his dripping hair from his face, clearly not relishing a trek to Whitechapel in the storm. “But I think by now ‘e’d be at ‘is supper.”
I looked to the clock on the mantle and then at the still unconscious young man on the examination table. “Let’s wait to see if the rain lets up then,” she said. “But I want you to bring the inspector here tonight.”
Harry nodded. “Yes miss. I’ll just ‘ave a quick bite first then go fetch the Inspector for ya.”
I turned back and stared at the young man on the table. Sarah had said he was “quality” but he wasn’t really, I realized. But not of the working class either, despite his build that hinted at physical labor. The material of his suit was of decent fabric, but not posh. His boots, as well seemed to be a bit above average. His pocket watch appeared to be well used and either he had lost his fob or had never bothered with one.
He was a mystery, I thought as I noted his unfashionably-cut dark hair. Not of the upper class, not lower, and yet not quite fitting in the middle either.
I suppose if I were possessed of Phoebe’s disposition, I might suspect the clothing was stolen. Father would no doubt suggest that it was far more probable that all of these discrepancies could be accounted for by the fact that he was an American. Mother would simply sniff and turn her back since he was obviously not one of her “gallant lads” who’d served in the British Army. Then she would suggest as she often did, that I concentrate on finding a suitable husband.
But I wasn’t like any of them. I was intrigued by the pieces that represented this human puzzle and the pieces simply didn’t fit.
And, I fully intended, when Father wasn’t watching, to try and have a much closer look at the American’s strange, small clothes.
Chapter Three
Genie
“I imagine he’ll be coming around soon,” Father remarked after I’d changed into a dry dress and returned to the surgery. “He called for that woman again. Agatha, I believe.”
I stepped closer to the table, wondering who this Agatha was. His mother most likely. But Inspector Fraser didn’t have a sister named Agatha. My thoughts broke off at the sound of Father’s voice.
“I’m going to pop into my study for a cigar. Have Sarah come sit with the lad.”
My heart raced, but I managed a frown. “I am perfectly capable of remaining here to keep watch over him, Father.”
He appeared ready to protest but simply nodded as he usually did when he knew my mind was set, and exited the surgery, leaving the door open.
After his footsteps died away, I partially closed the door then returned to my place near the examining table. I stared down at the American’s attractive face, but my thoughts kept drifting back to those strange underclothes he’d been wearing.
Father had allowed me only limited training as a nurse and, despite Phoebe’s insinuations, I had only the vaguest idea of the male part of the “mechanisms” that governed conception. Even though this man wasn’t mature and by no means brawny, there had been a noticeable bulge in his small clothes. I lifted the sheet to look more closely. My cheeks grew hot as monstrous images of what might be causing that bulge ran through my mind, images fueled mostly by the lewd comments of the West End women. I rather suspected they were not seeing the matter scientifically but, at the moment, neither was I. The women went on about men who got hard as bricks and those than couldn’t. This one didn’t seem brick hard, but he didn’t seem to be “soft” in that way either. Would one tiny touch really be so horrid?
I dropped the sheet as if it were on fire. How could I even dare think of such a thing? Wait. There’d been something else. A scar, low on his abdomen off to the right side. It mightn’t have been a scar, though. There was a chance it was a tattoo of some sort. If it was it might lead to his identity. And that would be important if Inspector Fraser proved not to know him. I took a deep breath and plucked up the edge of the sheet again. After all, it was my duty to look.
***
Mark
The sense of smell returned first.
Medicinal. No.
Flowery. Sort of.
I felt something hard beneath me. Hard but covered in leather or vinyl.
A sofa? Maybe a table.
Doctor’s table.
The sheet covering me moved, startling me. I opened my eyes a little. Everything was a blur, but I made out a shape, a female shape. The small round glasses were vaguely familiar. Her fingers were lightly tracing the scar from that time I missed the stair Ollie and broke my skateboard deck, damn near impaling myself on the splintered board.
“Agatha?”
“Eugenia!” a man’s voice called sharply.
The girl coming into focus gasped. Her fingertips jerked away from my side.
So the girl was definitely not seventy-year-old Aunt Agatha. She was probably a nurse or med student, maybe?
“I think he’s waking, Father.” She stepped aside.
I tried to sit.
“Go slowly, young fellow,” the approaching man said as I managed to push up on one elbow.
My vision blurred again and I let doctor help me sit up all the way. “Where am I?”
“In my surgery. I’m Dr. Cornelius Trambley.” He glanced over his shoulder when another man entered the room. “Inspector.”
Inspector?
I moved my head to look at the
man in the doorway. Shit. He was a cop. He had that look just like my dad. There’d been a cop in park when the storm hit. I sort of remembered knocking someone down though it wasn’t on purpose.
I was in for it now. I needed to get out of here. Fast. I tried to pull the sheet away. Strangely both men stepped closer to the table, blocking me.
The doctor addressed the nurse.
“Eugenia, you may go.”
“But, Father—”
“Go, Eugenia.”
She slammed the door shut when she left and I wished I could just evaporate away.
“Look,” I addressed the cop, “I’m sorry about the park. It was an accident. Your guy tried to help me up, but I couldn’t stand. When I fell I guess I pulled him down with me and he thought I was being an ass…My memory was fuzzy and I wasn’t even sure what had happened after that.”
The inspector’s eyebrows inched up like he was about to call bullshit and haul my sorry butt to jail, but the doctor muttered a few words to him, which seemed to smooth things over.
The doctor handed me a glass. “Some brandy will help steady you,” he said. “Drink it down, take a few deep breaths. Then try to focus on the last thing you remember.”
“Brandy? You’re sure?” I asked. I’d been hot to tackle champagne at the party, but brandy? I’d never tasted the stuff. But hey, there was a first time for everything. If I could get a buzz on to kill this headache before Agatha showed up so much the better. I knocked the drink back and it burned all the way into my stomach. I wasn’t sure if I liked brandy. But it did work amazingly fast. And yet something seemed wrong with this picture.
“Okay,” I said once the burning in my throat faded. “My head doesn’t hurt quite so bad.”
“Do you know your name?” the inspector asked, reminding me even more of my dad when he was on duty. Mom called it his “cop mode” attitude.
“Stewart. Mark Stewart.” I wiped my face with my hands, not much into being on the receiving end of an interrogation when I had no idea what I might be accused of—especially since I didn’t remember what had happened after Agatha went off. I made a grab for the ultimate kid-in-an-uncomfortable-situation Trusted Tactic #1: Change the subject. “What happened to my clothes?”