Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  What courage it must have taken her to decide on such a course. She had been a pampered lady from the womb. Everything had been handed to her, and yet, she had left everything she had known to become a woman who was ostracized by her peers and her friends, a woman who’d had to learn to live by her wits and the very small monthly sum the courts demanded her husband pay her, as well as the small inheritance left to her by her father.

  Divorce was still a stigma. Jane wondered how Lady Blackwood had endured it, being a social pariah all those years ago.

  The carriage rounded the corner, and Jane glanced out through the warped glass to the sidewalk where women and children were setting up carts of fruits and vegetables. A fishwife, busy tossing the early-morning catch onto the table, shooed away a stalking cat, which curled its body around her gown’s tattered hem.

  The black soot and the acrid scent of coal permeated the air, mixing with the heavy veil of fog that had rolled in from the Thames. This was the East End, and the place where Jane had been raised.

  Every morning on her way home from the hospital, she watched the activity, the hollow faces, the worn expressions of the women. And every time, she thanked God that Lady Blackwood had found her that one night and taken her in from the pouring rain. Jane shuddered to think about what her life would have been like had she not been found and whisked away from this place. Would she have survived long enough on her own to have a similar hollow, empty expression on her face as the women before her had?

  Her life had been drastically altered that night. She had been given shelter and food. A bed, free of bugs, and a blanket that could not be seen through. Lady Blackwood had tutored her, teaching her to read and write, to sew and do needlepoint. She had taught her how to conduct herself in society, but most important, she had showed her what it was to live by your convictions.

  Years ago, Lady Blackwood had taken an illegitimate, homeless waif without a future, and given her a life. Jane knew she could never repay such a debt.

  She had been, and still was, beholden to Lady Blackwood for the life she’d been given. Lady Blackwood was a most excellent employer, providing Jane with food, clothes and lodgings, as well as permission to work as a nurse. She had two afternoons off per week, to do whatever it was she wished. She had a mother of sorts in Lady B., and no amount of money could ever replace that.

  She was content with her life. Happy, she thought. Yet now, after leaving work, a little kernel of discontent began to gnaw at her. She could not stop thinking of her patient—Matthew—and what he had done to her, what he had made her feel.

  During the years spent with Lady Blackwood, Jane thought she had learned all she needed to know about being an independent, free-thinking woman. Tonight, she had discovered that she had never learned how to indulge her female needs. She’d had needs before, and she was not ashamed to admit that she had eased them with self-discovery and her own touch. But nothing compared to that heated searing deep within her as Matthew’s skin connected with hers.

  The rumble of the carriage ceased, and the conveyance swayed to the left, then halted, abruptly bringing Jane’s thoughts to the present. She should have been tired after being awake all night, but she felt an odd hum in her body, as if the stale, coal-sooted air had given her a second wind. Not even the thick fog that still rolled throughout the city was enough to make her eyelids droop.

  “’Ere ye are, miss. Home at last.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she took George’s hand and alighted from the carriage. Although her feet and back ached like the devil, Jane felt a buoyant energy coalesce within her. She wondered if it had to do with the thought of returning to the hospital and her patient that night.

  Through the thickening drizzle, she saw the warm glow of the oil lamp that sat on the rosewood table before the bow window of the small town house. The soft, lumpy outline of Mrs. Carling could be seen lighting the other gas lamp that rested on the hearth. The house was awake, and that would mean that a pile of warm scones and butter, and a pot of hot tea would be awaiting her.

  Picking up the hem of her gown, Jane ran up the steps that lead to the home she shared with Lady Blackwood and let herself inside. The scent of cinnamon and sultana raisins greeted her, and she closed her eyes inhaling the aroma as her stomach protested loudly.

  “C’mon in, gel,” Lady Blackwood announced from the breakfast room. “I can hear your insides rumbling from here.”

  Tossing her cloak and bonnet onto the hall chair, Jane swept into the breakfast room and took the chair opposite Lady Blackwood, who was dressed in her morning gown and cap.

  Her employer was a large woman, with kind, sparkling eyes and a heart the size of her body. Her hair, once a dark walnut and given to curl, was gray and thinning.

  When was it, Jane wondered, that Lady B. had grown so old and frail? How had she missed it?

  “Well, tell me all about it. What mischief did you get up to last night?”

  Jane felt her face flush as the image of Matthew’s naked chest flared to life. “The usuals—consumptives, carousers and a few inebriates.”

  Lady B. arched her brows, even as her intelligent gaze strayed and lingered over Jane’s glowing cheeks. “I do not like you working there, Jane. It’s a dangerous part of the city.”

  Which made Jane ask herself what Matthew, with his obvious aristocratic blood, had been doing in the East End last night.

  “How was your night?” Jane asked as she reached for a scone. “It was damp last night.”

  “That tonic young Inglebright sent over works like a charm. I slept like a babe.”

  “Lovely. He said it would. Dr. Inglebright is most knowledgeable.”

  Lady Blackwood’s shrewd gaze traveled over her. “My dear, has the young doctor claimed your heart?”

  Jane chuckled and smeared a large pat of butter over the steaming scone. “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you stay there, Jane? If not to see Inglebright every night?”

  “Because I must.”

  “I am truly grateful to you for all you have done. Old Dr. Inglebright is well satisfied with our account and agrees that the debt is settled. There is no need to keep on at the hospital.”

  Jane took a sip of tea then a bite of her scone, fortifying herself for the argument to come. It always arrived every morning.

  “Jane, that part of the city is just not safe—at any part of the day, let alone the dregs of night.”

  “Have you no other concerns than my safety?”

  “I do not like to see you working so hard, Jane. I know I haven’t much, but I do have some put aside to pension you and the others off when I depart this earth.”

  The scone turned to ash in Jane’s mouth. She did not want to think of living in a world without Lady Blackwood. “You know I do not—”

  “Yes, I know.” Lady B. sighed. “You do not wish to take from me, but, Jane, it is my fondest wish to see you settled. And see you settled I will.”

  “I like working. It gives me purpose. An identity.”

  Jane shrank away from the blue gaze that bored into her. “You do not need to exhaust yourself to be of notice.”

  But what of purpose? Jane wondered.

  “There are times when I wonder if I haven’t instilled too much independence in you, Jane. It can be a burden to only rely on oneself.”

  “I am grateful for everything you’ve given me. Independence is a gift, my lady.”

  “Sometimes it can be a curse,” she replied, staring at her with eyes, that despite their rheuminess, showed deep understanding. “And it can be lonely, too.”

  “Nonsense,” Jane scoffed while brushing off a few crumbs from her fingers. “A lady’s independence is invaluable.”

  Lady B. pursed her lips, but said nothing. “Very well. You have won this morning, Jane, but we will have this conversation tomorrow morning, and the morning after, and the one after that until I have prevailed upon you to quit that place. Now, then, on to other business. I have had a lett
er from my niece,” she said, reaching for a folded missive that was placed near her left hand. “She fares well, but her sister, Ann, has taken ill. Measles, I’m afraid.”

  An image of the breathtaking Ann flared to life in her mind. She would no doubt still break men’s hearts despite the red dots that marred her usually flawless skin.

  “Anais has written, wondering if there is anything they might give her for relief of the pain. Naturally, she is hesitant to use laudanum.”

  Jane could well understand the reason for that. Anais’s fiancé was recovering from an opium addiction. Anais would naturally fear the worst. “I do have some holistic recipes she might try, herbs and powders. I’ll write to her this afternoon when I wake up.”

  Lady Blackwood’s expression darkened. “You work yourself to the bone, Jane, I can’t bear to see it.”

  Jane patted her employer’s wrinkled hand. “I like my job, both jobs,” she clarified. “And I’m not working myself to death.”

  “Well, you shall have a break soon, for you will be accompanying me to Bewdley for my niece’s wedding. And there, I will assure you that I will make every attempt to play match-maker. You mark my words, Jane, I was quite a strategist in my youth.”

  Jane laughed and left the breakfast room, all the while thinking of her patient, and how impossible it would be to be matched with someone like him. Ah, well, she mused as she climbed the stairs to her room, that was what dreams were for.

  The wards were loud that night as Jane entered the hospital. Shouting and the sound of metal hitting the stone floor echoed off the lime-washed walls. A woman’s shrill voice cut through the ringing, followed by the deep rumble of a man’s, full of indignation and anger.

  Pulling her bonnet strings, Jane tugged off her hat and placed it atop the hook in the storage room. Her cloak came next, then she reached for the starched apron. She was tying the strings around her waist when the day nurse came in, her face flushed and her gown and apron soaked through.

  “Maggie, what have you done to yourself?” Jane asked, watching the agitated woman reach for her wrap.

  “I quit,” Maggie snapped. “That devil of a man has been the death of me today.”

  “What man?”

  “His lordship,” she replied, out of breath from her anxiety. “He’s been nothing but a pill today, he has. Always grumbling about somethin’ and fighting me at every turn. Couldn’t do a thing right for him. He’s been asking for you since breakfast, maybe you can set him on the right track.”

  “All right,” Jane murmured. Her body was suddenly filled with little prickles at the thought of seeing him again. He had asked for her. A ridiculous little thrill warmed her blood.

  She had not slept well during the day, her slumber interrupted by the most improper dreams and thoughts. She had told herself on the carriage ride over that she would not seek him out. She would not think of him as a healthy, vibrant man, but as an ill patient. And nurses did not have erotic thoughts about their patients.

  She had succeeded in putting him out of her mind, that was, until Maggie had mentioned him. How little it had taken to flame the flicker of desire she tried so hard to snuff.

  “He’s burning with fever, and he won’t let anyone near him to check beneath the bandages,” Maggie grumbled as she searched through her purse for a crown for the hansom cab. “Dr. Inglebright fears the wound is festering, but his lordship won’t let him get within a hairbreadth of him. He calls for you, Jane, and the doctor awaits you.”

  Jane touched the sleeve of Maggie’s damp gown. “You aren’t serious about quitting, are you, Maggie? It would be such a loss.”

  The woman, who was in her late forties, flushed again, but this time it was not with agitation, but pleasure. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep will change me mind.”

  “And a different patient tomorrow morning?”

  Maggie nodded and squeezed her hand. “Good luck, miss. You’ll be in for a time of it. His lordship is quite the handful, and he’s got a tongue that will slice you to ribbons.”

  Jane had come across many difficult patients in her time at the hospital—she was certain the mysterious lord would not get the better of her.

  Leaving Maggie, she walked down the long corridor that led to Dr. Inglebright’s private room. She heard Richard’s voice through the wood.

  “Damn you, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll get the ether.”

  “Sod off,” came the deep reply. “I’ll break your goddamn hand if you come near me.”

  “May I be of some help?”

  The door swung closed behind her, and the two men froze in place. Richard was looking at her, a pair of scissors in one hand and a roll of fresh bandages in the other. Her patient was lying on the bed, thrashing his limbs as the two night men tried to hold him down. His chin lifted and he quieted. She saw his nostrils flare, as if he was smelling something, and then his head turned in her direction.

  “Jane,” the two men said simultaneously. The sound of the patient’s voice, deep and seductive, made her tremble, and she was grateful for Dr. Inglebright’s stern voice, for it made it easier for her to hide her response to Matthew’s hushed whispering of her name.

  “He burns with fever and rages like a lunatic. I need to check beneath the bandages, but he lashes out.”

  “How long has he had the fever?”

  Jane came closer to the bed and watched as Matthew’s head turned, as if he was following her path. He could not see, yet somehow he knew where to find her.

  “All day, and I’m afraid the wound is full of putrefaction.”

  Jane could not smell anything that might lead her to believe the wound was festering, but there was a shadowing of old blood and yellow fluid beneath the layer of binding, which could be pus. The fact he burned with fever was sign enough.

  Richard caught her gaze, his eyes pleading silently for her assistance. His gaze said it all, the patient was an aristocrat, and Richard could ill afford the man’s death on his hands.

  “Will you not let the doctor look?” she asked as she came to stand beside Matthew’s bed.

  “No,” came the hoarse voice, “but I will allow you to look, Jane.”

  Richard arched his brow, staring at her in stunned silence before he handed her the scissors. “I will need to cut off the binding. Be still for a minute,” she said.

  Bending over him, she gently cut the white bandage and slowly began to unwind it. When she got to the back, she cupped his head in her palm and lifted, allowing the wrapping to come free. His mouth was close to her bosom and she felt the incredible heat rising from his body, as well as the dry warmth from his breath as it caressed her décolletage.

  “Jane,” Matthew murmured, and she heard him inhale the scented valley of her breasts. “Help me,” he whispered.

  “I am. I will,” she replied as she lowered his head onto the pillow. Dr. Inglebright was watching her with scrutiny, and her fingers nervously fluttered against the white cloth.

  “There,” she murmured, pulling the long strip of binding away from his eyes. Inglebright stepped closer and reached out to examine Matthew’s head, when his hand shot out and captured Richard’s throat. “I want Jane,” he growled. “Only Jane.”

  “Very well,” Richard gasped as he pried off the fingers that held him. “Jane will look.”

  The hand fell away, and Jane pressed in, allowing her fingertips to gingerly part the clumped strands of hair that covered the cut. Blood had dried to his hair and scalp, making it difficult to visualize the wound. From what she could see, there was naught but redness. When she shook her head, telling the doctor that the fever did not stem from the head wound, he ordered her to peel back the dressing over Matthew’s left eye.

  “I want to remove the bandage over your eye, but I’ll need to wet it to loosen it. Will you let me?”

  He nodded and Jane rinsed the cloth that sat in the basin on the table beside his bed. Carefully, she wet the bandage, saturating it and dissolving the bits of dried blood
that stuck to it. As she pulled, she felt him stiffen, and she whispered soothing, encouraging words to him. He responded to her voice, and settled deep into the bed, allowing her to pull the bandage free and probe his swollen eyelids. Both lids were grossly distended and bruised, and Matthew was unable to open his eyes. Standing back, Jane looked at him, studying the face that was still so beautiful despite the bruising and swelling.

  “His eyes look fine,” Richard grumbled behind her. “I’ve no idea why he has developed the fever.”

  “Perhaps it is the body’s response to all he’s been through.”

  “Maybe,” Richard mumbled. “He’s safe enough from his wounds, but if this fever continues to rage unchecked, it could be disastrous.”

  “I will get the fever down,” she replied.

  “If he allows it.”

  “He will.”

  Richard reached for her hand when she retrieved the cloth from the basin. With a squeeze, he forced her to look up at him. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you alone with him. He’s violent.”

  Jane glanced at Matthew, and something in her seemed to liquefy and soften. “He will not hurt me.”

  Richard stared at her curiously, as if he would see inside her, discovering for himself the tempest of emotion that stormed within her. She was at a loss to explain it, or to understand how it had happened—this connection she sensed she shared with Matthew.

  “I will return, Jane, to check on you.” Richard’s gaze traveled along her body, before it once more rested on her face. “You will have a care, won’t you, Jane? I’d truly hate it were anything to happen to you.”

  “You needn’t worry.”

  “Ah, but I do, Jane. And never more since he has arrived. I will return to make sure you are safe.”

  As Jane watched Richard leave with the two night men in tow, she realized that it was not a statement from Richard, but rather a warning. He was coming back to check on her, to make sure that she was behaving as she should. Were her thoughts so transparent? Could Richard have any idea?