The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "I know this book by heart!" India cried, her eyes lighting up. "I particularly support Miss Nightingale's belief that each woman on the lying-in ward should have two thousand three hundred cubic feet of space, plus a window."

  "I lie awake at night dreaming about being matron in a place like she describes--a clean, modern lying-in hospital with brand-new plumbing," Ella said.

  "With good sanitation, proper ventilation, and sterile linen," India added.

  "Wholesome food, fresh milk."

  "A body of health-care visitors. Trained nurses whose job it is to go into the community to check up on mothers and babies after they've been discharged."

  "An entire ward just for women's diseases. And another one for children's."

  "A modern operating theater employing Lister's rules for aseptic environments."

  Ella sat back in her chair. "Crikey, an operating theater. Now, that's ambitious."

  "Maybe it is," India conceded. "Maybe we'd have to wait a bit on that one. It would have to be a small clinic to start, wouldn't it?"

  "Even a small one would cost a pile," Ella said. "Have you got anything?"

  "Yes. I've started a fund."

  Ella arched an eyebrow. "How much have you got?" she said.

  "Fifty pounds in prize money. From my graduation."

  Ella's face fell. "That's all? We couldn't open a fruit stall with that."

  "I'm going to add to it. I'm saving my wages."

  "You haven't earned any yet!"

  "I will. I'm going to do it, Ella. I'm going to make a difference."

  Ella rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything else her mother came bustling over with two plates of fried eggs, hashed potatoes, and stewed apples. She set them down with a bang, took her daughter's face in her hands, and kissed her forehead.

  It was a gesture so full of emotion, one could be forgiven for thinking mother and daughter had been separated for the past ten years. But watching her, India sensed that Mrs. Moskowitz kissed her daughter like this every day. She shyly looked away. She couldn't remember ever being kissed like that by either of her parents, though she did recall being allowed to kiss her mother's cheek when she was tiny--if she promised beforehand not to rumple her gown.

  Mrs. Moskowitz sat down. Ella introduced her to India. She looked at her, then back at Ella, then said, "Why such long faces?"

  Ella told her about their shared dream of a clinic, but that it was only that--a dream.

  Her mother clucked her tongue. "Instead of moping, you must make a start. If only a small one. God helps those--" she said.

  "Oh, Mamaleh!"

  "Who help themselves," she finished, wagging a finger. "And don't Oh Mamaleh me, Ella. You know I'm right. Mr. Moskowitz!" she yelled, waving at her husband. "You're going to the cellar? Bring me up some eggs, please!"

  Her husband, who was embroiled in a conversation at the samovar with a group of men and most definitely not on his way to the cellar, looked up at her and blinked.

  "Three dozen."

  Mr. Moskowitz sighed and got to his feet.

  Mrs. Moskowitz turned and looked behind her. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of two young men seated at another table. "Yanki, Aaron--why are you here?"

  "Do you ask that in the philosophical sense, Mama?"

  "Don't be so fresh, Mr. Yeshiva Student Who Still Needs His Mama to Tie His Shoes. Finish and go or you'll be late. Aaron, come here. When did you last wash? You could grow potatoes in those ears."

  "Mama!"

  "Go and wash!" She turned back to India and Ella. "Small children give you headache; big ones heartache. Do you have any little ones, Dr. Jones?" she asked, eyeing India's left hand.

  "It's India, please. And no, Mrs. Moskowitz, I haven't. I'm not married."

  "Ach, I don't understand girls these days. Tell me, why do you and my daughter do this awful doctoring work instead of marrying? How will either of you ever find a husband? Look at yourselves! Pale, tired, shadows under the eyes. What man would want to wake to such a face? Would a little jewelry, maybe a little scent, go so wrong?" She reached over and pinched India's cheeks to redden them. "Eine shayna maidel," she said, smiling, then frowned again. "But you should do your hair differently."

  "Mama, genug!" Ella said.

  A delivery boy came in. Mrs. Moskowitz sprang up, berated him for taking so long to return, then took her position by the cash register.

  "I'm sorry, India. My mother lives to meddle."

  India laughed. "I think she's lovely. And she's right."

  "About what? Your hair?"

  "That, too. But I meant about making a start. If only a small one."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "We can begin by helping Mrs. Stokes. We'll make some inquiries about obtaining reliable, affordable birth control for her and other women like her. There has to be a chemist, a doctor, an affordable source somewhere. We'll find it and tell her."

  "We'll have to be bloody careful."

  India nodded. Contraceptives were not illegal, and discreet prescriptions were a matter of course for middle- and upper-class women, but many in the public sphere--clergymen, politicians, members of the press--considered them immoral and angrily denounced those who advocated them. She knew that people had been vilified, sent to prison, even had their children taken from them, merely for publishing pamphlets on birth control.

  "We will be careful."

  "All right, then, Dr. Jones," Ella said gamely. "Today, we fix Mrs. Stokes. Tomorrow, we build a shiny, new, fully equipped clinic for the women of Whitechapel."

  "It's a deal," India said.

  The two women clinked their teacups and tucked into their food. Ella told India to eat every last bite, for she would need it. Dr. Gifford's appointment book was even more crammed today than it was yesterday. Then she reminded her that she was expected to take rounds at the hospital in the evening, too.

  India wondered how she was going to get through the morning, never mind the whole day. She looked at Ella and saw that she was weary, too. They would get through the day together. She smiled, happy in the knowl-edge that she had made a friend.

  Not a difference--not yet--but a friend.

  Chapter 8

  Freddie Lytton turned heads wherever he went. As he loped across Mayfair's stately Berkeley Square in the rain, females from fifteen to fifty stared after him, their eyes drawn by the thick shock of golden hair, the chiseled jaw, the languid amber eyes. Long, lean, and loose-limbed, he epitomized an effortless patrician elegance. And though he affected not to notice, he registered every feminine glance. Glances indicated interest, and interest proved useful. In ballrooms and bedrooms and at the ballot box. Women couldn't vote, thank God; but they often influenced their husbands, who could.

  He dodged a carriage, skirted a pram, then bounded up the steps to number 45, an enormous Adam townhouse. He was greeted by a butler and escorted past opulent rooms containing extraordinary antiques. All of them had come from Lady Isabelle's side, he knew, none from her hus-band's. Lord Burnleigh was a nobody, a Welsh coal baron who just hap-pened to have more money than God. Isabelle was an Audley, and could trace her bloodline back to the de Clares and William the Conqueror.

  Freddie could trace his line back almost as far, which earned him high marks in Isabelle's book. Richard Lytton, the first Earl of Bingham, had been ennobled under Edward I at the end of the thirteenth century. He had conquered Wales for his king, then he'd led his armies north to put down William Wallace, attacking at Falkirk with a staggering brutality. Wallace named him the Red Earl, and said there wasn't enough water in all the oceans of the world to wash the blood off his hands. A portrait of him had hung in the gallery at Longmarsh. Blond, amber-eyed, handsome, the Red Earl looked exactly like Freddie's late father. Exactly like Freddie him-self. The painting hung in Freddie's own flat now. His mother had insisted he take it. She hated the sight of it.

  As he passed Isabelle's dining room, Freddie's eyes swept covetously over a Holbei
n portrait, a Chippendale table, a pair of Tang Dynasty urns. What a magnificent collection, what a stellar house, and what an incalculable boon both would be to a young MP. His own family boasted few such possessions; most had been sold to pay the bills. As for houses, there was a squat brick monster in Carlton Terrace and there was Longmarsh, the family seat, a decrepit estate in the Cotswolds. Both of them belonged to his brother.

  At the thought of Bingham, the benign smile on Freddie's handsome face slipped, and like a base metal showing under thin plating, something darker emerged. He thought, with bitterness, of how tired he was of standing in other men's shadows. By the time he reached Isabelle's drawing room, however, the smile was back in place.

  "The Honorable Sir Frederick Lytton, my lady," the butler announced, ushering him inside.

  "Freddie, my dear."

  His future mother-in-law was sitting by the fireplace, looking formidable in pearls and gray silk faille. The icy color matched her eyes. Other London hostesses had long ago put off formal dresses in the afternoon for more comfortable tea gowns. Not Isabelle. She was born wearing stays, Freddie thought, and would die in them. She sat ramrod straight. Looking at her, he realized that not once in all the years he'd known her had he seen her back touch the upholstery.

  "Isabelle," he said, bending to kiss her hand. He straightened and smiled.

  "What a pleasure it is to see you, Freddie. How gracious you are to take time from your political duties to visit me."

  As if I had a choice, he thought grimly.

  Her summons to tea had arrived in the morning post. Although politely worded, it was a command. He guessed she'd heard that India had graduated and was practicing medicine. And if that letter hadn't made his morning ghastly enough, another had arrived with it--sent by the lovely Gemma Dean, telling him they were finished. She was angry at him for standing her up. He'd planned to spend the weekend with her. He'd even plumped for a present--a watch that he'd ended up giving to India. He'd nearly been out the door and on his way to forty-eight hours of bedded bliss when that idiot of a Wish had appeared, ruining everything. He'd had no choice but to go with him to India's graduation, pretending that's where he'd been headed all along. Gemma's letter had been full of recriminations. She wanted to marry him and was angry that he didn't want to marry her. The very idea. A Lytton marrying a girl from East London. It would be like pairing the Dar-ley Arabian with a carthorse. She'd found someone else, she'd written. Someone who would marry her.

  "How is political life treating you, Freddie? Has Salisbury forgiven you your trespasses?" Isabelle asked.

  She was making small talk. She'd sent for refreshments, and Freddie knew the civil tone would last only as long as it took for the maid to bring them.

  "He speaks to me again," Freddie said. "I suppose that's something."

  "I wouldn't. It was a dreadful thing to do. Downright traitorous."

  "It was a bid for survival, Isabelle. Mine. Yours. The entire ruling class's. I had no choice."

  Two years ago, shortly after winning the Tower Hamlets seat, Freddie had stunned the political world by deserting the Conservative Party for the Liberals. Publicly he'd ascribed the move to a desire to see government do more for the poor. In truth, his defection had nothing to do with politics, but everything to do with a cause--his own. A shrewd political animal, Freddie had scented the wind and determined which way advantage lay. The Liberals would soon lead England--and he would lead them.

  "I fail to see how turning your back on your own party, on the prime minister himself, insures one's survival, my dear."

  "Salisbury won't be prime minister for much longer. He's been at the helm since 'eighty-five. Nearly sixteen years. The Liberals challenged him repeatedly during that time, and twice they won."

  Isabelle waved her hand dismissively. "They barely managed to hold the premiership when they had it. A year here, two there."

  "Yes, in 'eighty-six and 'ninety-two, but Salisbury was stronger then. The old boy's tiring. He's a creature from another age. He was ready to step down a year ago and would have, were it not for the Boer War. As soon as we have a victory, he'll go."

  "And his nephew will take his place. Another Tory, Freddie."

  "Arthur Balfour won't last long. The writing's on the wall. The Tories are finished. Times are changing. The country is changing. New voices are making themselves heard. Radicals, socialists, suffragists..."

  "Dreadful people, all of them. I wish they would just go away."

  "I quite agree, but they won't. And no matter what they call themselves, they all want the same thing--a new order. The Tories are not listening; the Liberals are. They understand that it's time for the ruling class to share some small bit of power."

  "And you believe that's right, Freddie?" Isabelle asked waspishly. "You believe that the man who delivers my milk and the man who sweeps my chimneys--men who can barely speak proper English, never mind read it or write it--should rule England? These men rather than men who have been born into great political families, who have been educated and groomed for a life in government? Are you going to tell me that is right?"

  "I'm afraid it has nothing to do with what is wrong or right, and everything to do with what is necessary," Freddie said. "Look at what's happening on the Continent--the strikes and marches. The anarchists with their bombs and assassinations. They wish to abolish property. To destroy the social order. That cannot happen here. We must prevent it. We must give the workers crumbs, and quickly, before they rise up and take the entire cake."

  Isabelle turned her gaze to the window. She was visibly distressed. "The white lilac needs pruning," she said at length. "It's grown far too shaggy."

  Discussion over, Freddie thought. Isabelle was typical of her generation. What they didn't see--or didn't wish to see--didn't exist. Ireland's agitation for Home Rule, the war in South Africa, restive trade unions--to Freddie these troubles were all ominously related, all signs of a gathering storm that might well shake the foundations of Empire. To Isabelle, they were mere nuisances to be solved either by the colonial service or the local constabulary.

  While she talked on about her gardens, a clap of thunder sounded. Freddie glanced at the window. Rain pattered against the mullioned panes. Summer clouds were passing over. For a moment he saw another window, heard another voice. He was a child again, in his grandmother's bedroom at Longmarsh. She was winding her music box. It was Chopin. The "Raindrop Prelude." She was playing it to drown out the sound of his father, drunk again, and raging. Bing and Daphne were lying on her bed, crying. His mother was sitting on the window seat. Her arm was broken.

  Bing had left his bicycle on the lawn again. Their father had found it there, wet from rain. He'd come after Bing, a brass poker in his hand, intending to beat him with it for being careless. Their mother had gotten between them, so he'd gone for her instead.

  He stopped when she was insensible, then staggered off to his study to find more drink. Freddie's grandmother had come in from the garden just then. She rushed the family to her bedroom and locked the door behind them.

  "You must act, Caroline," she'd said, wiping the blood from his mother's face. "You must leave him. Now. He could have killed you."

  "I've tried. You know I have. He threatens to divorce me. He says the courts will give him the children and I shall never see them again. Who will protect them if I leave?"

  His grandmother had walked to her dressing table to hunt for some salve. On the way her gaze had fallen upon Freddie, who was not crying like his brother and sister, but watching and listening.

  "Lie down, boy," she said. "Go to sleep."

  "What shall we do, Grandmother?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I dearly wish I did. We are two women and three children and quite powerless against him."

  Freddie did not wish to be powerless. Though he was only ten at the time, he told her that he would be powerful. "I promise, Grandmother," he'd solemnly said.

  He had kept that promise. He would always ke
ep that promise.

  "But then again, Freddie," Isabelle said now, calling him back from the past, "what is the point of hiring Gertrude Jekyll to do the herbaceous bor-ders when the house is largely unused?"

  She was still talking about her garden. The maid arrived with a tray of finger sandwiches and cakes, and a pot of tea. Freddie knew another discussion was about to begin--on a topic far less appealing than herbaceous borders. He braced himself for the maid's departure. The drawing-room doors clicked shut. They were alone.

  "It didn't used to be so. This house used to be full of life. There were parties and dinners and dances. We spent the entire London season here. My daughters made their debuts here. Do you remember?"

  "Indeed I do."