Suddenly, Ella knew exactly what to do. "Well, I'm off. Must get back," she said, picking up her carpetbag. "Ta-ra!"
"Miss Moskowitz?" Freddie said smoothly. "Could you possibly do Dr. Jones an enormous favor?"
"Of course. Anything at all."
"Would you please tell Dr. Gifford that she won't be resuming her duties? She'll submit a formal letter in a day or two. When she has a bit of strength back."
"I'll give him the message," she said.
Anyone who knew Ella would have known it was not in her nature to give up so easily. Luckily, Freddie and Maud didn't know her or they would have seen in her too bright smile, in her purposeful expression and hasty departure, that she hadn't given up at all. Like a good general, she'd only conceded a hopeless battle. A war was being waged for India's soul, and she was about to send for reinforcements.
Chapter 36
"How long has she been this way?" Sid asked.
"A week now," Ella said.
"You should have come to me sooner."
"Chance would be a fine thing, wouldn't it? I couldn't bloody find you! Ever try to get information out of Frankie Betts? Desi Shaw? It's like trying to pry open a clamshell with a feather."
"She won't get out of bed?"
"No. Barely eats, either. She's had some kind of breakdown. Over the mother and baby she lost. At least that's what I think happened, but maybe there's more to it."
Sid ignored her probing look. "Did you give Gifford Lytton's message?"
"Forgot. Sorry, luv."
Sid smiled. "That's my girl."
A volley of coughing stopped his smile. He turned to the little girl sit-ting next to him. She was about eight years old. Her cough was loud and harsh, and once it started, she could not breathe. It took several seconds, which felt to Sid like hours, until she caught her breath again.
"Not much farther, luv," he said. She nodded listlessly, too sick to care how far it was.
When the carriage stopped, Sid got out, handed Ella down, and then her basket. Then he lifted the little girl out. She leaned her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Together he and Ella made their way up the steps to India's flat.
Ella knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. Nothing.
"I told you. She won't even come to the door now. The only one who goes in and out is Lytton. And her sister. They have keys."
Sid handed the girl to Ella. He knew she could carry the weight, for the girl was frighteningly light. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hairpin and a dentist's pick.
"I'm not seeing this," Ella said.
"Good."
Within seconds he had the door open. He carried the large basket of food they'd brought inside. There was brisket in it. Barley soup. Fresh bread. Half a dozen side dishes. He'd cleaned out the Moskowitzes' caf�/p>
Ella carried the girl inside and put her down on India's settee. She rewrapped her blanket to make sure she was warm.
"Freddie," a weak voice called from the bedroom. "Is that you?"
"No, luv. It's me, Ella."
"Ella? Who let you in?"
"The...uh...landlady did. I'm not here to stay ...I...um... just brought your things from ...um...Dr. Gifford's."
Sid rolled his eyes. "Criminal mastermind, you," he said quietly.
"Thank you, Ella. Put them anywhere. You can let yourself out?" India asked.
"Oh, aye," Ella shouted. "Will you be all right?" she whispered to Sid.
He nodded and bade her goodbye. Then he took a deep breath and walked into India's bedroom. She was in her bed, her back toward him. Evening light from the single window washed over her. She did not turn at the sound of his steps.
"What is it, Ella?"
"I'm not Ella."
India gasped, then sat up. "What are you doing here?"
"Jesus Christ," Sid said softly, shocked by the sight of her face. He sat down on her bed.
"Sid, I must ask that you leave," she protested, gathering the bedclothes around her.
"Be quiet." He leaned forward and gently felt the bone beneath her right eye. "You're lucky he didn't smash the socket." He parted the collar of her nightgown and inspected the bruises on her neck. "Actually, you're lucky you aren't dead."
"It's nothing, really," she said bitterly. "He came out the loser, believe you me. I killed his wife and child."
Her collarbones were sharp beneath her skin. She had lost a good deal of weight. Sid was no doctor, but he knew why. It was a condition he was all too familiar with. She was being eaten alive by guilt. He released the fabric of her gown and she quickly buttoned her collar.
"Why are you here?"
"I have a little girl with me," he said. "She's in the other room. She's very ill. I know her mother. She can't afford a doctor."
"Maybe she can't, but you can. There are doctors in East London. You didn't have to bring the child all the way to Bloomsbury."
"I wanted someone good."
"I'm sorry, I'm not practicing any more. I can't help you."
"It's not me who's asking for help. It's the little one in the next room."
"Didn't you hear me?" she snapped. "I said I've stopped practicing. I've left Gifford's. I'm finished."
Sid stood and in one swift motion ripped the bedclothes off her. "Get up out of there. Right now."
India refused; she scrabbled for the sheets. Sid took hold of her arms and lifted her out of bed.
"What are you doing?" she screeched. "Stop it!"
He marched her into her sitting room. The child sat motionless on the settee. Her face was white. Her breathing was labored. Her eyes sought India's, pleading.
"Tell her," Sid said, pushing India forward. "Tell her that you quit."
"This is blackmail," she hissed.
"Whatever it takes."
"I need my instruments. My bag. I don't have it anymore."
Sid went to the door and picked up the black leather bag Ella had placed on the floor. "I got it back," he said, handing it to her.
"How?"
"Put the word about. Found out Shakes had pawned it."
"Who?"
"The old toe-rag whose gin you were swilling. On a bench outside the underground station. Or so I heard."
India colored. She snatched the bag. "Do you think I might have my wrapper? For decency's sake?" she asked.
Sid went to get her robe, but when he came back into the sitting room she impatiently waved it aside. She'd begun her examination and was barely aware of him. The little girl--Jessie was her name--didn't even react as she took her temperature, her pulse, and then peered into her eyes, nose, and throat. Then, as India was listening to her chest, Jessie began to cough and could not stop. Her face reddened; her eyes grew large with fear as she struggled for air, and then came a harsh, sucking gasp.
"It's whooping cough," India said.
She dug in her bag, pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, and started scribbling. Sid looked at the little girl. The paroxysm of coughing had stopped. The child was slumped over onto the arm of the settee. Her eyes were closed and her skin was slick with sweat. He felt frightened for her. India tore off two sheets from her pad and handed them to him.
"Take these to Dixon's the chemist's on Tottenham Court Road. While he's filling them, walk three or four shops west to Worth's Hardware and buy me four bamboo poles. Each four feet high. Hurry."
Ronnie was waiting outside in the carriage and Sid was able to get what India needed and get back to her flat quickly. When he returned, a tea ket-tle was steaming in the kitchen and India had taken Jessie into her bed-room. She was lying well bundled in India's bed. A small table with a porcelain basin had been positioned at her feet.
"I need you," she said when she saw Sid. He gave her the bottles from Dixon's and she handed him a ball of twine and told him to lash the bam-boo poles to the four sides of the bed. While he was doing so, she gave the child a dose from one of the bottles. It was quinine; Sid had seen the label. As soon as he had the poles s
ecured, she draped two sheets over them to make a tent. Then she poured some oil from the second bottle into a basin. Immediately the room smelled of eucalyptus. She disappeared and returned with the kettle. Ducking into the tent, she poured the steaming wa-ter into the basin, then quickly came back out.
"You all right in there, Jessie?" she said.
"It's awfully foggy, miss," came the weak reply.
India smiled. "It's good for you. Close your eyes and breathe it in."
"I'm afraid. What if it starts me coughing?"
"It's all right to cough, Jessie. It's scary, I know, but it's all right. Try to stay as calm as you can when it's happening."
There was a silence, then a disbelieving "All right, miss."
"You're going to get better. I promise. The medicine and the steam will help you. It may take a day or two, but you'll be well and back home before you know it."
There was no answer.
"Do you believe me, Jessie?"
"Yes, miss." The child's voice was stronger this time, and hopeful.
"Good. Try to rest. I'll be back in shortly to add more hot water. We'll try a bit of hot soup later if you can manage it."
"Thank you, miss."
India waved Sid out of the bedroom. He walked to the sitting room with his hands in his pockets and sat down. India followed and took a seat across from him.
"She'll have to stay here," she said. "She's too delicate to move."
"I'll pay whatever it costs. Buy whatever she needs."
"I'll help her, Sid," India said. "But this doesn't change anything. I'm not going to practice anymore. I can do more good on a parliamentary commit-tee. Working on public health reform."
"Who told you that? Freddie?"
"Nobody told me anything. I arrived at the decision myself."
Sid was silent for a few seconds, then he said, "India, it's not your fault."
She was on her feet immediately, her hands balled into fists. "How the hell would you know that?" she cried angrily. "Are you an expert in obstetrics now, Sid? Read your Simpson and Kelly, have you? Know your Blundell?"
"No," he said, calm and unblinking in the face of her fury, "but I know you."
She stared at him, her face a mixture of anger and anguish, then slumped down into her seat again, her shoulders bent, her hands knotted. "Have you ever seen the light go out of a newborn baby's eyes?" she asked. "All that beauty, that hope...gone..."
Sid leaned forward in his chair and took her hands in his. "It's not your fault."
She made as if to pull away, then instead she gripped his hands. Hard. He was surprised again by the strength in those small hands. A droplet of water fell onto his hands and then another. She looked up at him and he saw that her cheeks were wet. Her gray eyes were large and luminous with tears.
"I'm sorry. I don't ...I don't do this. I don't cry. I don't..." And then she leaned her head against him and wept. He felt her shoulders shudder as a torrent of emotion gripped her, heard the sobs wrench themselves out of her. He said nothing, just held her close, giving her his strength until she found her own again.
"It hurts. Oh God, how it hurts," she said, lifting her head. "Elizabeth Adams and Emma Milo and Alison Coburn and her baby ...I'm sorry. For all of them. I'm so sorry."
"Then don't give up. For their sake, India, don't give up. If you do, you leave those women to the Dr. Giffords of the world."
"But I'm no good."
"You are good. You're just not perfect, that's all. You want to be. Perfect and right. But you're not. No one is. Except me."
India gave a weak laugh. Sid smiled.
"Ella brought food," Sid said. "Would you like some? You're very thin."
"No. Later, perhaps. Not now."
"A cup of tea? I could make you one."
"No."
"Your wrapper? You must be cold."
"Sid?"
"Aye?"
"Can I have this? Just this?" she asked, squeezing his hands.
He nodded wordlessly. And squeezed back.
Chapter 37
Freddie lifted his whisky glass to his lips and drained it. He waited for the alcohol to make him feel warm and relaxed, pleased with himself and the
world, but it did nothing. He put the glass down, then looked at the girl's head between his legs, bobbing up and down. His fingers twined themselves in her hair, pulling her closer.
"Harder," he said.
The girl--she was no more than seventeen--gagged. Her small hand knotted itself in the bedsheets. Freddie leaned back, trying to give himself over to her tongue, her lips, but it was no good. He picked up his whisky glass and took another slug. He heard the hecklers at the speech he'd given in Stepney yesterday. Heard the harsh questions fired at him by reporters.
"Harder, I said. Didn't you hear me?" He tightened his fingers in her hair. The girl whimpered.
He barely heard her. Instead, he heard Isabelle thundering at him. He'd been summoned to Berkeley Square again. Just that morning.
"You said she'd given up her position, Freddie. You told me she'd resigned. But I saw Maud yesterday and she told me that India had been beaten by some drunken lunatic. My daughter--your flanc�-beaten! Maud told me she's back at Dr. Gifford's surgery and forging ahead with plans to open a clinic for paupers. This is absolutely intolerable!"
"Isabelle, please," he'd said, trying to soothe her. "It's only a temporary situation."
"I see I've made a terrible mistake. I see that my confidence has been entirely misplaced."
"That's not fair. And it's not true. India was going to resign, but--"
"I'm not interested in excuses. Either get the job done now or I will approach someone else. I hear young Winston Churchill's quite ambitious. And quite poor thanks to his spendthrift mother. Ambition and poverty are powerful motivators, but I don't have to tell you that, do I, Freddie? I won-der what Winston would say to a Mayfair townhouse and twenty thousand a year?"
He'd left Berkeley Square in a towering rage and had gone straight to the Reform Club to cool off with a drink or two. But there he'd been taken aside by the manager and informed that if his bill was not settled by the end of the month, his membership would be terminated. He owed them nearly three hundred pounds. He'd called the man a few choice names then headed to a Cleveland Street brothel, run by a discreet woman named Nora. He'd gone there a few times before when Gemma was unavailable. He went a lot more often now. He'd thought to spend the afternoon with Winnie, his favorite, but she wasn't available. So he'd chosen a new girl-- Alice--hoping that with her help he could shut out his failing campaign,
Isabelle, India ...and Wish. Most of all Wish.
But it wasn't working.
"For God's sake, get off," he said now, pushing her away. "Where in blazes is Winnie?"
"Off to the country. It's her holidays," Alice said. "Would you... would you like some more to drink?" she asked timidly, gathering a silk kimono about her.
Freddie nodded. She hurried to a table in the corner of the room where glasses and bottles stood. She was anxious, upset. He couldn't have cared less. What were a whore's feelings to him now? What was anything, or any-one, to him now? He had killed his best friend. A man he'd grown up with. One he had loved like a brother.
His heart, the tiny piece that was left of it, clenched in pain.
There had been others, of course. He'd killed his father, but he had not grieved long over it, for there had been no other way. If he hadn't, the man might have killed Daphne. And there was Hugh Mullins. That wasn't his fault. Not really. He hadn't meant for Hugh to die. He never thought he would. He'd only wanted him to go to prison for a bit, long enough for India to forget about him.
Now there was Wish, and there was no rationalizing his death. He'd done it out of anger and purely for advantage--his own. Wish had made him furious with his meddling. He'd listened to him talk about raising money for India's clinic, and he'd listened to him encourage her to post-pone their wedding date yet again. And then he couldn't
listen anymore. He'd challenged Wish to a race, simply to break up his and India's conver-sation. But once they were in the woods, Wish spotted the fox. He got his pistol out to shoot the animal, then found he couldn't and asked Freddie to do it. And Freddie, seeing his chance, just as he had with Hugh, took the gun and shot him instead. He'd watched Wish's head explode in a shower of blood, watched him fall out of his saddle to the ground. And then, weeping real tears, he'd leaped down, pulled the ring off Wish's twitching hand, and curled his fingers around the pistol.
Winter Rose, The Page 40
