Renegade

by Amy Carol Reeves

  With her webbed fingers, she retracted her claws and gingerly touched the gill slits on her neck.

  The most predatory part of her was not her claws, feet, or even venomous fangs. It was her eyes. Slitted, coarse, serpentine, they were sharper, more keen, than her human eyes had been. Her transformation could happen at will, of course. But at times, to her despair, it came even when she did not will it, when the anger or bloodlust became too much. And right now, she felt a brewing restlessness. The venom dripped in her mouth as she remembered her last kill, almost two decades before.

  Since then, she had had such an excellent record. Her keeper had been away from her longer than usual that time, too; it had been the point just before she had learned about Caroline Westfield. At that time, his long absence had spurred her restlessness, her jealousy, and she had darted through the waters to work off her hunger.

  It was then that she had found the young man—alive but unconscious, his body looped over a piece of driftwood. She had been proud of herself, suppressing her hunger long enough to save him. It was January, and he would not have lasted long in the frigid waters.

  Taking care to keep his head above the surface, she had taken him to her island. In her human form, she cared for him, removing his wet clothes, preparing a meal for him for when he awoke. She had thought at the time that he would never even have to know who she was. Her keeper was to visit her that night. He could take the young man safely back to the mainland.

  She watched the man as he slept in her bed—he was youthful, not much past boyhood, with dark hair and an olive complexion. The wrecked ship in the distance appeared French; she wondered why he had been traveling in these waters, and she felt curious about him. When he stirred, her heart pounded.

  He grunted, turned. When he had opened his eyes, he struggled to focus. Then, just as he seemed to see her, his confusion appeared to clear. Though she had never seen this strange young man before, he looked at her with a sort of affectionate familiarity. Her feelings warmed.

  He reached out toward her. “Sophie … ”

  He thought she was someone else—his lover, or perhaps his wife; some woman named Sophie. He belonged to someone else. This should not have surprised her. But to hear the endearing, affectionate words, spoken for someone else when she had done so much for him, when she had saved his life …

  It was too much. The transformation had happened almost against her will. His end came quickly. And her too-long fast from human blood had made her gorge on it.

  Her keeper arrived on the island, and he walked in upon her.

  She looked up. Blood on her face. She was caught, the naughty girl in the pantry, one hand in the jar of jam.

  His eyes had glinted in amusement, and he shook his head. She felt infinite relief at the mild reproach.

  “Effie … Effie,” was all that he had said.

  Five

  I did not in fact sleep that night. Instead, I lay in bed so angry, so sad, and thought about my argument with William. I felt physically ill, and even vomited into my washbasin once. I did not understand the anger that spiraled up within me. I had not thought of myself as naïve. Ever. Why had I never suspected the affair? I think I felt more threatened by Jane than I would have any other woman because of his great esteem for her.

  Furthermore, I could not forget about the personalities in the Rossetti’s artistic circle. The family was erratic, libertine. Christina was very religious, but even she had her eccentricities, such as offering housing to women “friends”—typically former prostitutes—who were struggling to make a living at respectable jobs. William had been raised within this circle of writers and painters. The feelings I felt for him I had never felt before, for anyone else; my changing relationship with Roddy had not had any of the intensity marking my feelings for William. I could not imagine, I could not even comprehend, the heartache I would feel if William tired of me, if he fell in love with someone else—the possibility of that pain was too much. I thought fearfully of what might have happened in the laboratory closet if we hadn’t been interrupted by Simon. That had been such poor, poor judgment on my part.

  “Unstable,” “bohemian,” Grandmother had said of his family, so many times.

  In the darkness of my bedroom I rolled over, clutched my pillow tight against my chest.

  What if Grandmother’s words were true? Too much was at stake. Apart from the heartbreak, I needed clarity of mind to begin my application to London Medical School for Women. I could not allow this kind of drama to get in the way of that.

  At some point, in the early hours of the morning, I finally fell asleep, my mind cluttered with all of my fiery, frantic thoughts. I began dreaming almost immediately. I was in Highgate Cemetery—it was early morning. A blanket of wet chill settled around me, and I felt goose bumps rise up on my arms. Morning sun broke through dark rainclouds. I felt briefly disoriented, as ravens screamed from the tops of tombs and a thick fog obliterated some of my vision. The path that I stood upon, the small path winding between tombs, seemed familiar. Déjà vu swept over me, and I wondered if I stood near the Rossetti family plot.

  I heard the tremble of a breath nearby before realizing why this particular place felt familiar. A branch cracked.

  I turned.

  “Mariah!”

  My voice came out broken, stunned. And then I swallowed a scream. Before I could speak again, I saw that my friend’s eyes focused not on me, but behind me.

  At someone else, in the direction from which I had just turned.

  Her mouth twitched up, almost imperceptibly.

  I heard a step in the gravel behind me and then, to my deep horror, a chuckle. I realized I was trapped. A mouse about to be devoured.

  “No! No!” I screamed, sitting up in bed. I saw streaks of morning grayness seeping in from between the drawn drapes. Rain began to thud against the window panes.

  Just a dream. Just a dream.

  But it seemed so much like the visions I had experienced in the autumn—the visions that showed me the murders.

  And Mariah was dead. At peace. In the grave. She could not be walking about Highgate Cemetery in flesh and blood.

  Nonetheless, I got out of bed and, still shaking, splashed water from my washbasin against my face.

  Just a dream.

  Just a dream.

  The previous night had been so awful, so painful for me. I needed to go to work. I needed occupation, to be busy, to start applying to medical school or I would lose my mind. Quickly, I put on my work dress. I shouldn’t let what happened with William cause me such mental anguish. Besides, I wanted to see Simon. I needed to see Simon.

  When I was almost dressed, I heard the rustle of a skirt in the hallway and froze. I did not want to see Grandmother. I felt my cheeks burn, knowing that she had heard part of my argument with William. She would come into my room feeling vindicated.

  Her firm knock sounded at the door before she entered. I took a deep breath and braced myself for her words.

  With her eagle-eye gaze, she surveyed my work dress.

  “Oh … ” She sighed, infinitely disappointed. “You are returning to the hospital, even after last evening?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I stood at my mirror, brushing my hair back to the base of my neck. I tried to secure the hair combs, but my fingers trembled and shook. I felt in very poor control of my emotions.

  Grandmother crossed the room quickly, in only a few strides. Then, taking the hairbrush, she stood behind me, so close that I could smell the scent of her lavender soap. I kept my eyes downward, afraid to meet her gaze. I knew my eyes were red, bloodshot. I felt as if I was on the verge of crying again.

  Gently, firmly, she removed the brush from my hand and took the sloppily arranged combs from my hair. I felt it fall down, loose upon my back. Heavy. Thick. It was my mother’s hair.

  Without a word, Grandmother
placed the combs be-tween her teeth as she brushed and brushed my hair in great strong strokes. She pulled it back, swooping it over my ears and securing it in a neat knot at the nape of my neck. She stuck the combs in hard, her movements efficient. As if she could steady me from my spiraling misery. The combs pressed into my scalp. If an earthquake struck Whitechapel Hospital while I worked, my hair would stay in place.

  I stood facing the mirror, my eyes downward, my back toward her, humiliated, trying to hide my quivering lip.

  “Arabella,” she said, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Do you think I feel any pleasure in being proved correct? Do you think I desired this?”

  I felt my shoulders stiffen. Of course she had desired my separation from William. She stood rigid before me, but her voice was so kind that I half-believed her. At least I believed that she hadn’t wanted me to be hurt.

  “I heard the argument,” she said.

  Fresh tears welled up. My pain felt like an open wound.

  “He’s gone, Grandmother. It won’t work … ” I bit my lip as the tears came out again. Don’t discuss this with her, Abbie, I advised myself. But in that moment I felt so vulnerable.

  Her expression softened a bit. “Arabella, even more than I wanted William Siddal to go away … ”

  I felt a flush of anger come over my face, and she paused before continuing.

  “Even more than that, I wanted you to be happy. You were not happy with the life I would have had for you. I understand that.” She stopped, as if the words she was about to say tasted bad. “So I want you to make your own path.”

  She began to push the loose curls of hair away from my temple. Her expression softened a bit; I knew she was thinking of my mother.

  “Perhaps you should stay away from the hospital for a while now. Or … ” She paused. I knew she did not want to say what she was going to say. Her nose wrinkled the slightest bit. “You might perhaps work at another hospital. That is, if you still plan to go to medical school.”

  In spite of her words, I hardened myself. I was still speaking to Lady Charlotte Westfield.

  “I do still plan to go.” I turned to leave my room. I could only endure so much, and a discussion with Grandmother at this hour in the morning was not what I desired.

  She stood where she was, but she cleared her throat loudly. “Arabella, he will be there. You do not want your heart to be broken twice. You must guard it.”

  I paused in the doorway. She was correct. I knew William would be there. But I couldn’t mope around here in Kensington all day like an invalid. The patients were still at Whitechapel, and William and Simon needed my help now as much as any other time. And I wanted to see Simon. I would need strength to deal with William—I still couldn’t bear what I had learned about him, and I feared, too much, the implications it might have for our future if we remained together.

  I left Grandmother’s house without saying a word.

  Life had to go on. Nonetheless, my heart was broken.

  Six

  Fortunately, the morning was busy, and I did not have to work with William. I knew he was there, for I heard his name shouted a few times, and once, in my peripheral vision, I saw him running across the first floor ward to the delivery area.

  I spent most my time working in the nursery, which was more chaotic than usual. We had no fewer than twenty-five infants, including the triplets who had been born earlier in the week. Although we had no actual emergencies in the nursery, an eye infection had spread among many of the infants. I was also trying to teach one of our newest nurses, a very young and incompetent girl named Emily, how to cut the strips of cloths we would need to wash out the infants’ eyes.

  “There,” I said, holding down the cloth as she cut it with a pair of scissors. “But don’t cut the strips too large. We need to use a different one for each infant, to stop the spread of the infection.” I was feeling impatient with Emily, as she had already spilled a large jar of expensive herbs and almost dropped a baby boy as she bathed him.

  I looked up, through the partially ajar nursery door, when I heard William’s name shouted. It was then that I saw him running toward the delivery room.

  “Owwwww!” I screamed, feeling hot searing pain in my palm. I looked down and saw blood running from a puncture wound.

  “Oops,” Emily murmured quietly.

  I should have been kind, told her that we all make mistakes, but my patience had run thin. Grabbing a cloth to cover the wound, I left the nursery, sharply telling Nurse Josephine on my way out not to leave Emily alone with the infants as she was too much of a hazard to them.

  I ascended the stairs to the third floor surgery room where I knew we were well-stocked in bandages. The door was shut but not locked, and when I opened it, I saw one of our patients sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, her back toward me. Simon sat in a chair at her side. He had his long legs crossed in front of him and was writing quickly in a notebook. Laying one finger over his lips, he motioned for me to come in but to remain silent.

  As I walked into the room, still clutching my bleeding hand, I saw that the patient—who looked to be near fifty, with deep paunches under her eyes and graying black hair—sat staring at a long crack in the wall. She seemed altogether engulfed in a trance. I watched, fascinated, for a few seconds, almost forgetting my pain, until Simon’s voice broke through the silence.

  “We are finished now, Miss Jordan.”

  The glazed look in her eyes left quickly, and she just seemed a bit dazed. A nurse from the hallway came in to lead the woman out, and Simon finished writing something in his notebook.

  He stood, collecting his notes, and glanced down at my hand. “It appears as if you have a problem, Abbie.”

  I had nearly forgotten about the wound.

  “What was happening?” I asked, more interested in what I had just seen.

  But Simon had already crossed the room and taken the wrapped cloth off of my hand to examine the wound.

  “Scissors?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. The bleeding had mostly stopped.

  “Nurse Emily?”

  I smiled a bit. “Who else? I’m just happy there’s someone here clumsier than myself. I can clean and bandage this … ”

  But Simon had already opened a cabinet and taken out a jar of carbolic acid and some cloth bandages. He took my hand in his and began cleaning the wound carefully. His long pale fingers felt cool and soothing, diminishing the stinging of the area as he cleaned it.

  “You asked about what I was just doing,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Hypnotherapy, Abbie.” He wrapped and bandaged my palm tightly in what seemed like a single movement, and then threw away the cut pieces of cloth and the bloodied rag.

  “Hypnotism?” I remembered the books I had found in his office. I knew only a little about hypnotism, but it seemed like such an odd practice.

  Simon must have seen the perplexed look on my face. “It’s actually an extraordinary scientific process that utilizes parts of the brain otherwise dormant while suppressing most other parts of the nervous system. Two years ago, I learned about its use in medical therapy, and then a few weeks ago, I attended a lecture on the matter in Oxford. I am trying … ” He smiled a bit. “Well, experimenting with using the treatment on some of our most persistent alcoholics and nymphomaniacs.”

  “And does it work?” I asked, my interest piqued.

  He shrugged. “I am only just beginning the treatments with two patients. This is a learning process for me too.”

  My hand was bandaged, and all the materials had been put away. Simon towered tall above me, considering me with his cool gaze. I wondered if he knew about what had happened between William and me.

  There was a long silence between us.

  “Abbie, do you need a cup of tea?”

  As I drank tea with S
imon in his office, I thought again how much I appreciated his steadiness, his calmness. There was something so reliable about him. Although a physician with a medical degree from Oxford, he had recently completed his seminary degree as well. I felt a pang of jealousy and envy—degrees were so easy for men to attain. Whenever we discussed my medical studies, I knew that my options were more limited.

  “So, I suppose Oxford is not a possibility for medical school?” I asked wryly, although I already knew the answer.

  Simon set down his teacup and drummed his long, graceful fingers. He took a deep breath. “As of now. But London Medical School for Women is quite excellent. I have met Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, a physician and a founder of the institution. She is a good person and an extraordinary physician.”

  I had heard of her. Dr. Anderson was a powerful force in the medical world—she had broken down so many barriers. She had even created a hospital for impoverished women, called the New Hospital for Women, which was very similar to Whitechapel Hospital. And yet I could not study medicine at Oxford itself. The institution still refused to grant women degrees.

  I swallowed hard. The hot tea burned the back of my throat, but I said nothing.

  “There are women finding ways to make the system work to their advantage,” Simon said quietly.

  “I know.” Oddly, I felt agitated. Simon could be so caring, but elusive. I wondered how he felt about me now … a few months ago, I had refused his marriage proposal. My conflicted thoughts rose within me and, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Where is William?”

  I regretted the question the moment it came out of my mouth.

  Simon peered at me for a full three seconds, his ice-blue eyes unreadable. I wondered, in voyeuristic guilt, if he still loved me. Once again, I wondered if he knew of my falling out with William. I felt certain he did. Simon had uncanny discernment. And William was terrible at controlling his emotions.