by Forbes, Kit
“Wait up,” I called as she walked away from the counter.
***
Genie
I turned, watching the way he moved, his body reminiscent of a powerful beast stalking its prey. Despite the warmth of the shop, a small shiver ran down my spine as he approached. Inhaling a slow, calming breath, I took a step away from the traffic flow entering and exiting the shop and waited for the question I hoped was coming.
Mark stopped and shifted uneasily as if this was the most difficult thing he’d had to do in ages. “I’d appreciate it, that is if you don’t mind, if maybe you could, um, show me how again?”
“Beg pardon?” My heart thudded in my chest, all but drowning out his words.
He stared questioningly. “Shave. Would you help me get the hang of that straight razor?”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to back away. “I suppose, since we seem destined to keep running into each other, I would prefer for you to look respectable.”
“Great,” he said, “I really appreciate it.”
I waited for him to open the door. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat and inclined my head.
He seemed confused for a moment, then brightened as he took the not-too-subtle hint. I couldn’t help but shiver again when his arm brushed against me as he reached past to open the door.
Leading the way around the corner to the flat entrance, Mark cautioned as he unlocked the door to the small corridor. “Watch your step. Stairway’s kind of dark.”
I hesitated, my common sense shouting to turn at once and go. If anyone saw this, I’d be ruined, totally ruined! And yet, the moment he called, “You coming up?” I followed like an obedient puppy.
“Here we go.” Mark smiled. He unlatched the door and motioned me inside. “It’s not much but, considering breakfast is included, I think it’s a good deal.”
“It’s quite nice for this area.” I took in the room, no bigger than our parlor. There were two serviceable wooden chairs, a small round table, a bed, and several small cabinets. There was a worn braided rug in the middle of the floor. Along the back wall was a shelf that served as the cooking area with a gas ring, basin, kettle, and a few cooking implements. “There are families of six or more that live in smaller spaces. Or worse.”
Mark looked a little guilty and in a haste turned away to hang up his hat. The awkward silence descended again while my inner voice continued to scold me on the foolishness of being here. I was about to heed the warnings when Mark spoke. His smooth, accented voice froze me in place.
“I’ll get the razor,” he said. “Ian was nice enough to give me a spare along with a shaving cup.”
He took the kit from the bureau, brought it and a small porcelain basin to the table, and went to get the water pitcher. He moved so smoothly, so confidently, not at all the arrogant preening stride of the young doctors at Father’s hospital. I watched as Mark poured some hot water into the basin. My jaw sagged open when he unbuttoned his shirt.
“Mr. Stewart! Whatever are you doing?”
“Taking off my shirt? I don’t want it to get wet. It’s the only clean one I have and I’m supposed to go to Ian’s later.”
“Oh.” I fidgeted with my reticule strap.
His look changed to one a little more direct. “You’ve seen me with nothing more than a towel on. I don’t see why me without a shirt is a problem now.”
My heart hammered in my chest. “Well, then you were a patient. It was quite different.”
“Oh?” he asked, a glint in his eye.
I struggled to retain my composure. Setting my bag on the table, I picked up the razor. “I declare the subject of your dress, and lack thereof, closed.”
Mark laughed, then plucked the razor from my hand. “You were going to teach me, not shave me, right?”
“Correct.” I made a mental note to stop at Christ Church and pray for forgiveness for my impure thoughts in dwelling upon the memory of the perfection that was his bare torso.
I stood idly by and watched as Mark sat at the table, coaxed lather from the shaving cup and applied it to his face. More impure thoughts roused me at the sight of his every move. The way his muscles rippled along his shoulders and arms and across his chest, the way the cords of his neck stood out at he turned his head. Yes, it was quite different from the last time. This time it felt far more dangerous. I pressed my hands together a moment to still the trembling of my fingers before I moved to stand behind the chair. I leaned over him and adjusted the angle of the razor.
“The secret to this is smooth, firm, yet gentle strokes.”
He pulled the razor back and laughed.
“And just what is so funny Mr. Stewart?”
“Oh,” he said, shaking off his laughter. “Nothing. It just reminded me of—something else.”
I puzzled over the comment for a moment before a possible meaning struck. Heat rushed through me and my head felt a little giddy. I steadied myself on the back of the chair, glad I stood behind him until I realized he was watching me in the shaving mirror.
“Mr. Stewart!”
His eyes grew wide and innocent. “Miss Trambley, what were you thinking?”
“This is a very bad idea!”
I darted around the chair to grab my bag only to have his hand clamp about my wrist, holding me in place.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. He let go on my arm then brandished the razor with a flourish and carefully applied it to his face. “Smooth, firm, yet gentle strokes—at this angle, right?”
I nodded, certain I blushed the entire time he spent shaving.
Chapter Twelve
Genie
“It so happens I have discovered someone who might know something about the George Yard murder,” I told him while I dabbed a styptic pencil at the last of the nicks he’d inflicted upon himself. Despite the nicks, he’d done a respectable job.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Because you were too busy telling me what was wrong with society.”
“Whatever. Has she gone to the police? Or have you?”
“I would have, but now she’ll only talk to you. So I suggest we go find her.”
Mark tugged on his shirt and waistcoat and fumbled with his cravat while I shook my head until he finally gave in and allowed me to knot it properly. “I suppose I shall have to educate you in dressing as well.” Not waiting for an answer, I made my way to the door.
Mark took his jacket and hat. I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement when he opened the door without being prodded and let him lead the way down the narrow staircase, praying we would not be seen exiting together
***
Mark
I followed her, but not so quickly that I couldn’t take a minute to appreciate the fascinating movement of Genie’s swaying bustle. When I came up alongside her, remembering to take the street side, I couldn’t help but compare her snug-fitting yet entirely modest long dress to the tight tees and short skirts worn by the girls I knew. Sure, they could dress up and usually had more sensible clothes for school but somehow I didn’t see them giving off the elegant, sexy air Genie Trambley exuded, in spite of her rigid posture and the coolness of her expression.
While I appreciated a girl showing a bit of leg and a lot of cleavage as much as the next guy, and that was a lot, Genie seemed to have something they didn’t. Was it class, something else? What?
Maybe it was the rustling of her petticoats as she hurried along or the smoothness of her waist and the firm shape of her boobs that didn’t have the “bounce” of the girls back home.
Knowing where my hormones were trying to direct this line of thought, I took my attention off Genie. Getting up close and personal with her wasn’t going to happen because, A) she’d never go for it and B) I just plain couldn’t. I needed to stay focused on finding the Ripper so I could get back to my own time. It was as simple as that.
Still, I wondered why I found her Victorian dress
sexy. I also wondered why I wasn’t feeling too weird in my own old-style clothes that left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort. I glimpsed myself in the window of a shop and nearly laughed out loud, imagining my friend Sam’s expression if he saw me in my three-piece suit with the short, wide cravat and bowler hat instead of the usual T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers.
When we reached the busy intersection with Whitechapel High Street, Genie automatically extended her elbow. I stared stupidly before realizing I was supposed to play the gallant gentleman and escort her across the street even though, with the crush of horses and wagons, the sensible thing would have been for her to hike up her skirts and run like hell when the traffic momentarily broke.
I gripped her arm and we made our way across the busy street, Genie leading more than me More than once she pulled me back before I stepped into a pile of horse crap.
Once we reached the safety of the other sidewalk, she pulled back her elbow and shot me with a look of disbelief.
“I must say, Mr. Stewart, one might think you’ve never escorted a lady across a street before.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot less horse crap where I come from.”
Genie looked at me as if trying to decide whether to believe me or not. Finally, she burst out laughing. “Honestly, Mr. Stewart, your answers are always perfectly reasonable and perfectly preposterous at the same time. However do you do it?”
I grinned. “That’s for me to know and for you to keep guessing about.”
She huffed, but a small blush colored her cheeks before she made a sharp turn. “Shall we be going along?” she asked in a tone that didn’t leave any room for discussion.
“By all means, Miss Trambley.” I slid up beside her, hooked her arm through mine the way the ladies had with their dates at that Ripper party. I knew I was flirting with her, but I couldn’t help it. And she did seem to enjoy it in her own “proper lady” fashion.
It was like a slap when it hit me. The it being what it was about Eugenia Trambley that was so fascinating. Even though she was my age, she was a proper old-fashioned lady. She expected a high level of courtesy and respect the girls I knew didn’t. They demanded. Genie automatically assumed it would be given. Because, in her world, “gentlemanly courtesy” was to be expected.
And, I realized, she treated me with the same formal courtesy and respect when, by rights, she probably should have told me to piss off at least a dozen times.
“You, Mr. Stewart, look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. What is it you find so smugly satisfying?”
I glanced over at her, catching the reflection of the two of us walking arm-in-arm. I felt a weird little rush at how we looked together. How good the light pressure of her arm on mine felt. I enjoyed feeling her skirts brush against my leg.
My hormones kicked it into overdrive. I stumbled, nearly toppling off the curb and into the street.
“Are you all right, Mr. Stewart?” Genuine concern showed in her wide eyes.
“I’m…yes…sorry,” I stammered. I had to get a grip before things got entirely out of hand. It was okay to flirt with her, but I couldn’t let myself start thinking along those lines, couldn’t let her get to me that way. What really scared me was knowing she wasn’t even trying to make me hot for her. “I just wasn’t paying attention, I guess.”
“I suppose the pavements in America are much better and you simply haven’t much experience with our crude cobblestones.”
I noticed the twinkle in her eye behind those little glasses. She was flirting with me. Damn. “No, the truth is I don’t have much experience being in the company of a real lady. It plays hell on my concentration.”
Flag on play for Stewart. Stupid use of dumbass move.
The pink flush in her cheeks told me I’d just started something I wasn’t sure I could control. Luckily my working brain brought me back to where I needed to be. And I began scanning the people we passed, wondering if any of them might be Jack the Ripper.
***
Genie
“I want to be a doctor,” I said as we headed towards Christ Church. “My parents refuse to allow it, though Father allowed me the opportunity to get some limited nurse’s training. And that only because I reminded him Mother was with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea.”
“Really? Wow.”
“You’ve heard of the Nightingales then?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was pretty brave of them, going so close to the fighting.”
Genie nodded. “Mother tells of one night when the artillery was bursting all around them. But instead of cowering in some hole, the nurses covered the wounded soldiers with their own bodies to help keep them safe.”
“That probably did more to heal them than all the doctors combined.”
“Mr. Stewart!” I exclaimed. “You have the most—most inappropriate thoughts!”
He grinned. “I’m just a red-blooded All-American boy. Maybe it’s something in the water.”
“That will be more than enough, Mr. Stewart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. This time.” I glanced at him, my amusement barely contained. He winked and I felt the most delicious quiver deep down inside.
As we approached the church, Mark nodded toward the women sitting on benches near the church, sleeping. “They’re not about to get much rest in the daylight.”
“What choice do they have? They aren’t allowed to congregate here after dark. Deprive them of a room by closing the brothels and raising the rents. Make it impossible for them to sleep anywhere at night so they have to try to sleep during the day when they might otherwise be able to find some decent employment, then decry the sloth of the lower classes.”
He looked around as if comparing it to his own homeland and that served only to wipe away the vestiges of my earlier quiver of delight. “And these are the people you expect to ‘take hope’ and ‘stand up’ for themselves?”
Mark cleared his throat once again and scratched his ear.
When he made no attempt to reply, I turned away and woke an older woman to inspect a cut on her forearm. “Where have you been, Mrs. Yost?” I unwound the soiled bandage from her arm. “You know we need to check this and keep it as clean as possible until it heals.”
“I know. I know, but I found me a few days’ work scrubbing and cleaning out some office that’s being let. They let me sleep there so I made it like me own little home while it lasted.” Her arthritic hand patted mine; she smiled. “You don’t need to worry ‘bout me. No one else does.”
“Well, they should,” I answered, only to gasp once the grimy bandage fell away. The wound was an angry red around the edges. “This may be turning septic. You should get down to hospital at once.”
Mrs. Yost’s pale eyes narrowed as she looked over my shoulder toward Mark. “That copper with you then?”
I gently probed the wound, trying to see how deep the infection had gone. “Mr. Stewart is merely an acquaintance.”
“You ask me ‘e’ll be wanting to get far better acquainted. You watch yerself wi’ him, missy.”
I cleared my throat. “I shall be fine, Mrs. Yost. It’s you who needs to be taken care of. You get yourself right down to London Hospital. Ask for my father, Dr. Trambley. He’ll tend to you.”
Mrs. Yost closed her eyes and settled back. “Ain’t makin’ no promises. I been taking care of myself since I was ten. I ain’t about to stop now.”
Breathing a soft sigh, I shook my head, wondering why I ever thought she would simply comply with reason. “Then I shall have to take care of it myself.” I opened my bag and gathered up the bottle of carbolic acid, swabs, and a clean dressing. “This is going to hurt, Mrs. Yost. Do you want me to ease the pain for you?”
She nodded. “Never was a good one for standing pain.” She relaxed herself on the bench.
I leaned over and placed my thumbs carefully on the veins on either side of her mottled neck and applied a sud
den upward pressure until Mrs. Yost’s head fell back and she lapsed into unconsciousness.
“And I thought the Vulcan nerve pinch was made up,” Mark said.
I gave him a quick, questioning look. “This is an old midwife’s technique. I badgered Mother until she taught it to me. She assisted a midwife before joining the Nightingales.”
“Interesting. She seems a bit more complex than I thought.”
“Indeed? That’s an odd thing to say.” I returned to cleaning and dressing the wound.
Mrs. Yost showed signs of stirring just as I finished knotting the bandage.
“All done, Mrs. Yost. Now you take care of that, and keep it clean. I’ll see you when I return from Northampton.”
I stood, aware of Mark’s unwavering gaze, and hoped the warmth rising in my cheeks didn’t show.
He actually took off his hat and bowed. “It seems that you, too, are a far more capable person than you would have people believe. That was very cool, very professional.”
My cheeks heated further, but it was more from people staring because of Mark’s silly bow than anything else. “I told you I’ve had nurse’s training,” I said to dismiss it.
“Nope.” He offered his arm as we resumed our walk. “Some things can’t be taught. It has to be a natural ability. You have a wonderful touch with a patient.”
“And just how would you know?”
“I’ve been looked over by more than one nurse.” He winked. And that thought was something I found more unnerving than I cared to admit. An awkward silence sprung up as we walked.
***
Mark
“So what’s up with the woman you told me about?” I asked once we crossed the road. “When do we meet her?”
Genie frowned. “I thought she’d be near the church. Poll usually is.”
“Maybe she hooked up—found someone to stay with?”
“Perhaps.” She breathed a small sigh. “I’m certain to see her sometime later this evening.”
