The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  When the others arrived, he was genuinely in shock. He blurted out that Wish had been having financial difficulties, that he'd pawned his ring. It was partly true. There were some financial difficulties. Wish had confided as much to him earlier that morning, but he'd also said they were typical of new businesses and would resolve themselves.

  Freddie knew he should've felt grief, horror, and shock over what he'd done. And he had, at first. But they'd faded, and relief had taken their place. Wish was dead, and without him, without his financial know-how and his connections, India's clinic would die, too. He wasn't fearful about being discovered. No one even suspected he'd had a hand in Wish's death--why would they? The only evidence--Wish's ring--was safely hid-den inside his music box.

  The Red Earl's words echoed inside his mind: rip out thine own heart...

  "I've almost succeeded, old boy," he whispered. "Nearly there."

  "What's that?" the girl said.

  "Nothing," Freddie replied tightly. "Where's that whisky?"

  "Here it is," she said, handing him a glass.

  As she climbed back into bed, Freddie's thoughts returned to Isabelle and India. He could not understand what had happened. Only a fortnight ago India had agreed to resign from Gifford's.

  He'd been positive he'd convinced her to give up practicing. So sure, in fact, that when Bingham said he'd be short again this month on Freddie's allowance, Freddie, in a fit of pique, had told him to stuff his money. He'd told him that he'd soon have twenty thousand a year and the Selwyn Jones townhouse, thanks to Isabelle. And then, only a few days later, he'd gone to visit India and had found a sick child in her bedroom. She wouldn't go into detail about how the girl had gotten there, saying only that a friend had brought her. This same friend, it appeared, had also convinced her not to resign. It was that interfering Ella Moskowitz, damn her. Who else could it be?

  And not only was she back at Gifford's, but she was sounding more zealous than ever about her clinic. She and Ella were talking about taking over the fund-raising themselves. She still wanted to take tea with Princess Beatrice. They'd even found a reliable and discreet supplier of birth con-trol, she'd said. She wouldn't tell him who it was, but he knew, thanks to Gemma. It was Sid Malone. India and Ella were using the goods he'd sup-plied at Varden Street. Very quietly, of course. If Gifford ever found out, there'd be hell to pay.

  Freddie rubbed his temples. He'd been so close--so very close--to getting all that he wanted, but despite his best efforts India still hadn't been brought to heel. Emotion rose in him, a combustible mixture of anger and panic, at the thought of losing her dowry. He couldn't let that happen. He'd be finished if he did. There had to be something he wasn't thinking of, something he wasn't seeing, some way to derail her plans once and for all.

  He thought of the Red Earl again. Richard Lytton would have found a way out of this, he thought. But then again, the Red Earl would never have let things get into so dire a state in the first place. Freddie could picture the cruel face, the mocking eyes, and for an instant he imagined the derision there was aimed at him and him alone. The thought shamed him. And infuriated him.

  "I saw a show the other day, me. A musical revue," Alice suddenly said, interrupting his thoughts.

  He turned to her. "I couldn't possibly care less," he said, handing her his empty glass.

  "I'm sorry. You seem bothered. And me mum always said that talking about your problems helps. She said--"

  "Do me a favor, will you?" Freddie said acidly. "Keep your mouth shut and your legs open."

  Alice swallowed. She opened her wrapper and lay down on the bed. "Don't lie there like a dead fish," he said. "I've one of those in my life al-ready. Make me hard, Alice. Make me forget. For Christ's sake, make me come. Touch me. Touch yourself. Do something."

  Alice spread her legs. Her fingers disappeared inside herself. She gave a moan. A stage moan.

  Freddie looked at himself, soft and limp. "It's not working, Alice. Nothing's happening. What are we going to do about that, eh?"

  "I'm sorry," she said, sitting up. "You won't tell Nora, will you?" She reached for him, tugging at him so hard it hurt.

  "Ow!" he shouted. "You useless bitch!" He slapped her. Hard. He didn't mean to, it was a reflex, but Alice burst into tears. The sound of her sobs didn't soften him, though; they made him angrier. He grabbed her by the neck and shook her. "Stop it!" he ordered. "Stop it right now!"

  She struggled against him. "Please, don't hurt me," she rasped. Her eyes were large and frightened and Freddie finally felt himself stiffen.

  He wanted to hurt someone. Badly. He needed somewhere for the anger to go. He wanted to hurt India. And Isabelle. And Gemma. He wanted to smash Joe Bristow and Sid Malone. But he couldn't. All he had was Alice. So she would have to do.

  A few minutes later, when he had finished, he lay back on the bed, sipping his whisky and smoking. He felt calm, almost peaceful. Alice had gone behind a screen. He heard her washing and sniffling.

  "You done there?" he called. "Get some fresh water, will you? I'd like a wash up myself."

  There was another sniffle. More splashing. "I'm sure you're clean enough by now. How about that water?"

  As he said it, he suddenly wondered if she was clean. He realized, with horror, that he hadn't used a johnny. He always used one with Winnie, but he'd been so distracted this time, he'd forgotten. Christ, what if he'd caught something? He'd never had the clap and he didn't want it now.

  How would he explain that to India?

  He swore. Thinking about rubber johnnies reminded him of his money troubles again. He got his from Payne's, a chemists, and they wanted him to settle his account, too. Their boy had actually been round to his flat the other day asking for payment. He didn't have it. He was short. Again. He'd have to find another source.

  Who else has rubber johnnies? he wondered, and then he laughed aloud as he remembered India did. I'll ask her, he thought, chuckling. And then he stopped chuckling and sat straight up in bed. He'd had an idea. A bril-liant, flawless, foolproof idea.

  "Alice!" he shouted.

  There was no reply, then a small, broken, "What?"

  "Stop blubbing, will you, and come here. I've a job for you. A good one. I'll pay you five quid and you can keep your knickers on."

  Chapter 38

  "Where are they?"

  India, surprised by the angry voice, looked up from her casebook.

  Dr. Gifford was standing in the doorway to the Varden Street examination room.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?" she said.

  "The contraceptives. I know they're here. Where have you hidden them?"

  India's heart lurched. How on earth had he found out? She had sworn every patient who'd asked for devices to secrecy.

  "I was visited in my Harley Street office this morning by a Mrs. Eliza-beth Little. She is the mother of Alice Little, one of your patients. Mrs. Lit-tle was furious. She informed me that her daughter came to you here requesting a contraceptive device and that you supplied it. Is this true, Dr. Jones?"

  India remembered Alice Little. She'd said that she was married, that she had three children and couldn't afford anymore.

  "It is, sir," she said. She did not like Dr. Gifford, but she had never lied to him and would not start now. "If you'll allow me to explain..."

  "There is nothing to explain. Miss Little is nineteen years old, unmarried, and mentally unsound. Her mother says she is promiscuous. A nymphoma-niac, Dr. Jones. And you have encouraged her in her illness. I will ask you once more, where are they?"

  "Alice Little has had children, Dr. Gifford. I performed an exam."

  "You may clear out your desk. I will not be requiring your services any longer."

  India felt as if she'd been slapped. She was being dismissed. She would have no job, no income. For a few seconds she couldn't speak. "But Dr. Gifford, why?" she said, finally finding her voice.

  "You know perfectly well why. You know that I do not sanction the use of contraceptives. Sex
ual congress is solely for the creation of children. That is God's plan."

  "Then why do so many of those children die? Is that part of God's plan?" she said. The words were out of her, sudden and sharp, before she could stop them. That was happening more frequently now, since her break-down, but their vehemence still startled her. It startled Dr. Gifford, too.

  "They die because of the slovenliness, drunkenness, and idleness of their parents," he retorted.

  India laughed. Two months ago she might have said the same thing. before Whitechapel. Before Miss Milo and tiny Harry Coburn. Before Sid.

  "Dr. Gifford, have you ever seen a mother of six try to raise her children in two small rooms?" she asked, rising from her chair. "How is she to keep them clean with no money to buy coal to heat water? How is she to feed them on a pound a week?"

  "Do not change the subject. The use of contraceptives is immoral. It's unconscionable to dispense these devices to any woman, never mind to one who is unmarried and unstable."

  India came around the desk. "What is unconscionable, sir, is your refusal to acknowledge the suffering caused to women by constant child-bearing and to their children by chronic poverty."

  "That will be all, Dr. Jones. You will be hearing from the authorities at the British Medical Association. I intend to have your license revoked. Leave my premises immediately."

  "You ...you wouldn't do that. You can't!" India whispered, stunned.

  "What's going on here? What's happened? Dr. Gifford? Dr. Jones?"

  It was Ella, wide-eyed. She was standing in the doorway clutching a pile of folders. India knew what they were--the records of recently deceased patients. Once a month Ella brought them to her or to Dr. Gifford to review and sign before packing them off to storage.

  India couldn't reply to Ella and Gifford didn't deign to.

  "I should never have hired you, Dr. Jones," he said acidly. "Your judgment is deplorable. I did so only because your dean begged me to."

  Anger surged inside India--anger at the injustice of his remarks, at his archaic morality, at his careless treatment of his patients--and again the words came tumbling out of her before she could bite them back. "You did it only because you could pay me less than my male colleagues and work me harder," India said. "We're seeing four times as many patients here now as when I started. They come because of me. Not you... me."

  Ella's jaw dropped.

  Gifford shook his head in disgust. "This is what comes of allowing women to study medicine. This insolence..."

  India's anger at Gifford exploded into rage. "And this"--she said, striding over to Ella--"this is what comes of allowing men to practice it."

  She snatched a folder from the top of the pile and opened it.

  "James, Suzannah. Thirty-one years of age," she read, her voice shaking with anger. "Five children. Tears suffered at her last delivery--performed by you, with forceps--resulting fistula rendered her incontinent and incapable of intercourse. Abandoned by her husband, committed suicide.

  "Rosen, Rachael. Twenty-five. Admitted to the lying-in ward of London Hospital July twenty-fourth. Delivered of twin boys same day. Contracted puerperal fever July twenty-sixth. Died three days later. Weinstein, Tovuh. Admitted July nineteenth, died July twenty-seventh. Puerperal fever. Biggs, Amanda. Died August first. Puerperal fever. Three in a week, and all your patients. Tell me, Dr. Gifford, did you wash your hands after Rachael? After Tovuh? And Amanda? Who else did you infect? I guess we'll find that out next week."

  "See here, Dr. Jones..." Gifford spluttered.

  India opened another folder. "Johnson, Elsa. Protracted labor. Ergot administered. Twice. Fetus stillborn. Symptoms consistent with overdose."

  "Dr. Jones--"

  "Randall, Laura. Twenty-two. Delivered of a girl. Incomplete delivery of placenta. Septicemia resulting. Died July sixth. Infant malnourished. Died July fourteenth."

  "Dr. Jones, that is enough!" Gifford roared.

  India stopped reading. She looked him in the eye and said, "Take my license and I promise you that I will do everything I can--everything--to see that you lose yours."

  "Give me those folders."

  "You'll have to knock me down first."

  Ella gasped.

  "You forget that you are very much a junior doctor. The BMA won't listen to you. They'd never revoke my license based on your accusations."

  "Maybe not, but at the very least I'll cost you patients. Here and at Harley Street. Lost patients means lost fees, and that's what really matters to you, isn't it, Dr. Gifford? I'll take these files to the Clarion, The Times, the Gazette. I'll make certain your wealthy patients find out how carelessly you treat their poorer sisters. Worse yet, I'll make them wonder if you wash your hands before you come to see them."

  Gifford blanched. "Get out!" he hissed. "Now!"

  India grabbed her coat from the hook behind the door, picked up her bag, and left--with the files tucked firmly under her arm. As she headed down the staircase she heard Gifford call, "Sister Moskowitz, where are you going?"

  "Out the bloody door!" Ella shouted. "If she goes, I go." She came flying out the front door as India was standing on the pavement, fumbling the files into her bag.

  "Ella, what are you doing?" she asked her.

  "Quitting."

  "You can't!"

  "Too late." She started toward the High Street, pulling India after her. "Come on. This way," she said.

  "Where are we going? To the restaurant?"

  "No. To a pub. It's not soup we need now, it's alcohol." She led India across Varden Street. After five minutes' walk they were at the Blind Beggar.

  "Sit there," Ella told her, pointing to the corner. She went to the bar and India settled herself at a table. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her body had gone cold. She wondered if she was in shock.

  Ella returned and set two pints of porter down on the table.

  "Good God, what have I done?" India said. "I've lost my position. And I've lost you yours. How will we live? Pay our bills? What are we going to do?"

  "We'll just have to find ourselves new positions," Ella said, pulling up a stool.

  India laughed mirthlessly. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure Dr. Gifford will give us glowing references."

  Ella sat down heavily and picked up her drink. "Well, Doctor. I've really got to hand it to you. Blackmail, intimidation, theft--I think you broke more laws in ten minutes than Sid Malone has all year."

  India covered her face with her hands. "You're right. What have I done? Yelling. Threatening. Stealing files. My God, Ella, what have I become?"

  "A human being. At last!" Ella said, laughing. She touched her glass to India's. "Cheers!"

  Chapter 39

  "Well, well, well. If it ain't young Francis Betts."

  Frankie whirled around. It was dark. There was a gas lamp on the street, but it was ten yards away. Usually the Taj's own lamps were lit, but not tonight. Donaldson's men had raided the place yesterday. They'd broken everything they could, arrested Susie and the girls.

  "Who is it?" he growled, squinting into the darkness. "Who's there?"

  Three figures stepped out of the gloom. Big Billy Madden and two of his men--Delroy Lawson and Mickey McGregor.

  "What are you doing, Frankie? You a charlady now?" Del asked, nodding at the mop and bucket he was carrying. The bucket was full of kitchen garbage that had been forgotten and left to rot. Frankie had been taking it to the curb for the nightmen to collect. "Uh, oh. Looks like someone dropped the soap," Mickey said, giggling.

  "Bend over and pick it up, will you, Bettsie?" That was Del again.

  A split second later the bucket went over Del's head, and then Del and the bucket went flying into the Taj's brick wall. Del fell to the ground, trying to claw the bucket off. He quickly pulled it back down, however, when Frankie started to kick it.

  "Still laughing, Ding Dong? Stand up, you cunt. Stand up and laugh some more. Come on!" Frankie shouted.

  "Don't call me Ding Don
g!" Del shouted, his words muffled by the bucket.

  Frankie would have stomped the bucket--and Del's head--to splinters, if Mickey hadn't come up behind him and pulled him off. Frankie strug-gled, but Mickey held him fast, arms pinned behind his back.

  "All right, boys. That's enough," Billy said. "Calm yourself down, Frankie. We meant no harm. If Mickey lets you go, you promise to behave yourself? Have a think before you answer. There's one of you and three of us."