by Forbes, Kit
So I decided to be model—and bored spitless—patient until tomorrow when Jackass Palmer made his rounds.
***
Genie
Normally I adored Sarah’s sponge cake with melted chocolate glaze but tonight I barely finished my first serving. As they had with earlier courses, guilt pangs stung my conscience as I pushed the uneaten dessert away. A few short weeks ago, I would practically have sold my eyeteeth for a rich meal like this but I simply couldn’t eat more than politeness decreed.
From the moment he’d arrived, Jack hinted that he had something to discuss with us all and as our meal drew to a close, my tension rose. If he had something to announce he would do it before he and Father retired to the den for brandy and cigars.
I clenched the napkin on my lap when Jack made a gentle throat-clearing sound. When everyone’s attention was upon him, Jack spoke.
“As you all know, my family is away in India and has been for some time. It should come as no surprise that in the past year since I arrived in London that I’ve come to look upon all of you as part of a dear extended family.”
Father beamed to the son he never had, Mother smiled like a distracted queen of the manor, and even Phoebe looked on contentedly like an adoring sister. I clutched my napkin tighter as Jack Palmer’s gaze swung toward me and my family’s followed.
“Of course you all know I had the privilege of working with Eugenia at the infirmary and came to admire the care she showed to those less fortunate. I’m sure we will all agree that such a caring, gentle soul is wasted upon many in the charity wards.”
My family nodded sagely while I tried not to throw up in disgust.
“It is clear Eugenia has inherited your nursing instinct, Mrs. Trambley, and I know I’m not alone in saying how wonderful it would be for her to carry on in your footsteps, in raising funds for the wards and paying official calls on private convalescing patients.”
Mother beamed, her eyes bright and shining with pride. If I didn’t know better I’d think she hadn’t had any of her nerve tonic today. I averted my gaze to my unfinished cake as Jack droned on.
“With your permission, Dr. Trambley, I would like to ask for Eugenia’s hand in marriage so that she might be a pillar by my side when the day comes that I enter into private practice, just as Mrs. Trambley has for you.”
Oh, good Lord.
I glanced up. Phoebe was misty-eyed and smiling. Mother and Father were far from teary but it was plain to see they were firmly in Jack’s corner. Even Sarah, hovering by the door to the servant’s stairs, grinned.
Jack reached down, took my hand, practically prying my fingers from the napkin, and gave it a squeeze that cramped my fingers. “Eugenia, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Did I have a choice? If I rebelled against their expectations again, would there be no coming back if I failed?
Chapter Thirty-two
Mark
Palmer came strutting into the ward like a boss followed by his minion pack. He usually started at my end of the room but today started at the opposite side. I wondered what he was up to.
To no one’s surprise, it was more of his usual douchbagness.
“You’ve been availing yourself of the hospital’s charity long enough, Mr. Jenkins. You need to clear out before noon.”
“But the pain’s not going. It never goes, an’ it hurts when I relive meself.”
Palmer huffed. “Mr. Jenkins, if we mollycoddled everyone in the East End with symptoms of Bright’s disease there wouldn’t be enough wards in all of Christendom to hold you. Your drinking and whoring got you into this; let it comfort you in your declining days.”
He gave much of the same caring treatment down the line and I was more than happy to listen to his crap if it got me out of here a minute sooner.
He paused at the foot of my bed, took his own sweet time glancing over the paper in his hand.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Fitzhugh.”
“Sir?”
Palmer gave him a pissy look. “Earlier you asked how my evening went.”
“All right. How did it go, Doctor?”
Palmer directed his answer straight at me. “Miss Trambley accepted my marriage proposal. Isn’t that smashing?”
Being the perfect minions, Palmer’s med student troupe gave him a swift quiet round of applause.
“Good for you.” I swung my legs off the bed. “Sign whatever you have to sign, give me back my clothes, and let me get out of here. I’m sure they’re lining up outside to sample your lovely bedside manner.”
“I’m not sure we even have your clothing, Mr. Stewart. It was in such a deplorable, filthy state the nurses may have burned them.”
“Even the shoes? Give me the shoes and I’m out of here.” I stood and grabbed for my too short crutch.
Palmer yanked it away and shoved my shoulder—the sore one—hard enough to knock me back on the bed.
“Have a lie down, Mr. Stewart. We’ll try to have you out of her sooner than later.”
The “sooner” didn’t come until two days later. And as I hobbled my way through the maze of halls in the hospital, I caught bits of gossip about “ginny kidneys in boxes.”
Right on schedule, the Ripper struck again with his little souvenir sent to the Vigilance Committee guy. I needed to come up with a new plan, an ultimate plan that couldn’t fail. I knew the scene of the upcoming last murder. I just needed to be there.
When I finally made my way outside a blast of cold damp air cut through me and delivered a nice sharp jolt to my ankle. I tottered a bit on my sad crutch. Where was I going to go? The cough and achy lungs still hung on and as much as I appreciated Gurov’s backroom it was awfully drafty. Besides, I doubted he’d let me hang out there without being able to do any heavy work.
Work. Shit.
I fished in my pocket and checked out the coins. I was sure I’d had more cash. I could have lost some when the Ripper knocked me out and dragged me wherever or some shady hospital attendant could have snagged some to supplement his wages. It didn’t matter, did it? It was gone and I was screwed.
I made my way away from the hospital and out to Whitechapel Road. I found a spot to stand out of the way of foot traffic. My two choices seemed to be Ian and the tea shop. Ian and his wife had come by twice, mostly to see if I’d remembered anything, but neither of them had said anything about me staying with them when I got discharged.
Since Genie had been with her mother the last time I saw her, and especially since she was engaged to Jackwagon Palmer—God, the thought of that made me want to throw up—my guess was she went back home to live. So my room over the tea shop was free. But probably not. Cheap, decent rooms weren’t easy to come by and Mrs. O’Connell was a pretty shrew business lady. She’d rent that place out in a heartbeat.
But I supposed it didn’t hurt to ask. At least I could afford something decent to eat while I figured things out. I was starving. I don’t know what kind of crack old Oliver Twist was on when he asked for more gruel because it wasn’t something I wanted to experience again in this lifetime.
Mrs. O’Connell gave me a big bowl of soup and some unexpected but good news.
“Your room’s all nice and ready for you, and you even have a fire in the stove to make you nice an’ cozy.”
I grinned and sopped up the last of the soup broth with a thick slice of buttered bread. “Mrs. O’Connell, have you gone and added crystal ball-reading to your list of talents?”
She laughed and smacked my hand. “T’weren’t nothing magical about it, my lad. Miss Eugenia sent a boy round with a note saying you’d be getting out of hospital today. It was her who made me promise to keep your room free when she moved back home. Oh she was worried something awful about you, she was.”
I pushed my bowl away and lifted my leg to the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Why did she go back home?”
“Her mother wasn’t well an’ the doctor asked
her to come home to look after her.”
The bell over the door tinkled.
“And speak of the devil. Here she is.” Mrs. O’Connell pulled another chair over to my table. “Have a seat, dear and I’ll get you a nice cuppa.”
“No thank you, I can’t stay. I was passing on my way to Mr. Gurov’s and wanted to see how Mr. Stewart felt.”
“I thought we were on a first name basis. Isn’t that what you said at the hospital?”
She did her best to contain a smile, sad little smile that it was. I thought girls got all bouncing off the walls happy about weddings and commitments, but Genie didn’t appear thrilled. Unless Jackoff Palmer lied. I settled back in the chair, rested my elbow on the top rail. “So, is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“About you and Palmer?”
The budding smile vanished. “He proposed.”
“And?”
She swallowed and twisted the strings of her purse. “I accepted,” she said in a near whisper.
“Why?”
“It’s a sensible decision. It’s high time I made more of them.” She swallowed again and nodded. “I hope your recovery is a swift one, Mr. Stewart. If I can be of assistance please send word.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll have my people call your people. We’ll do lunch,” I muttered as she hurried away like a scared mouse about to be caught by a hungry cat.
For the lack of anything better to do, I hung out in the tea shop a while longer until it got closer to lunch time and people filed in. I was getting myself ready to go outside and tackle the long climb upstairs when Gurov came in to pick up his lunch.
“So he lives but is in no condition to work.”
“Not just yet, Mr. G. but I’m getting there.”
“You’d better be ready to dance by five, November.”
I laughed. “I’ll bite. Why should I be ready to dance by then?”
Gurov pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to me. “It seems Miss Trambley requests your presence at her engagement party. She picked up the invitations earlier and asked I give one to you personally.”
I steadied myself on my crutch and took the invitation from the envelope. The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate Genie shackling herself to Scumbag Jack, but I knew I had to go. Maybe I could get him to confess before the last murder on the eighth or at least find a way to expose his total d-bagness so Genie would break the engagement.
I was glad Mrs. O’Connell hadn’t tossed my stuff when I skipped out of the apartment the first time. The fancy party suit Ian gave me was still there and Mrs. O. said she’d be happy to get it cleaned and pressed and in tip-top shape by party time.
All I needed to do was try to get myself in shape by then.
***
Genie
It had been a long time in coming but now I truly understood the vacant expression on so many of Whitechapel’s poorest residents. I saw the same expression in my own eyes as I entered with the box of invitations. It was a look of hopelessness, total resignation to the fact that this was how things were and nothing short of a miracle from on high could change them. As I went to check on Mother and make out the guest list I hated myself for even daring to compare my lot to that of the poor. I had a lovely home, would have an equally lovely home to call my own by this time next year. I had ample food, fine clothing. I had the entire world at my feet.
And yet I felt so empty inside.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” Phoebe said as my list was passed around at teatime. “That man who runs that radical scandal sheet? A Russian Jew, no less?”
I sipped my tea to calm my nerves, hoping the fine Limoges handle wouldn’t snap off under the strain of my grip. “Mr. Gurov is a very nice, intelligent man. He’s a friend and did an exquisite job printing up the invitations at short notice.”
“Your sister is right, Eugenia we can’t have him here,” Father said with an air of authority.
Mother and Jack were obviously in agreement on the matter. What could I do? “Fine.” I set down my cup and folded my hands in my lap.
“That Stewart boy is not permitted in this home,” Mother declared as she looked over the list. “And who on earth is Madeline O’Connell?”
I ground my teeth. “I’ve already had Mr. Stewart’s invitation delivered. I can’t very well renege now.”
Mother made a noise but went silent when Father raised an eyebrow to her. Curious.
“Mrs. O’Connell is a dear friend, likely the only one I have,” I said. “She’s a fine upstanding businesswoman.”
Jack reached over, patted my fisted hand. “Calm yourself, my dear.” He took a leisurely sip from his cup. “Perhaps it will be all right. The majority of the guest list is comprised of family, friends, and hospital colleagues. Eugenia should be allowed two guests of her own. I’m sure the tea woman will keep to her place and remain seen but not heard. And as for the Stewart chap, I’ll deal with him should he pose a problem.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. I wanted to scream and strangle them and not necessarily in that order.
Chapter Thirty-three
Mark
A combination of Mrs. O’Connell’s awesome cooking and my ditching the stupid hospital split and bed rest routine did a lot to get things back to normal. Or as normal as they could be, considering the circumstances. The daily cold and damp kept the ankle pain steady but I managed to suck it up and hobble around enough to do some work at Gurov’s print shop. I thought it blew majorly that he hadn’t gotten a party invitation when Mrs. O. and I did but he didn’t seem too bent out over it. It just served to reinforce his socialist views on what was wrong with the “ruling elite” and the need to overthrow them.
It was pretty amusing to see Mrs. O’Connell get herself all hyped up over the party and what she was going to wear. She was quite the hustler, bartering baked goods and hot meals for dress fabrics and seamstress services to put together an outfit “grand enough for some toff fancy dress.”
Gorov paid me the night before the party and when he let me cut out a bit early to get rested up I decided to cruise by the market and see if I couldn’t pick Mrs. O’Connell some shiny hair pin or piece of costume jewelry, something like I’d seen the ladies at that hospital fundraiser wear.
The bright banners and secretive aura of Madam Zharova sucked me right over to her stall. And wouldn’t you know, she had a nice stash of jewelry on display. And I wondered if maybe she really was psychic. I glanced up at the rustle of curtains, which signaled her arrival from the back.
“The pieces are placing themselves upon the great chessboard. It is time.”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that my trip into Tim Burton’s wildest dreams would include a visit to a whacked Wonderland. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mrs. Trambley didn’t turn up in a red dress tonight and shout, “Off with his head!”
I looked at my pocket watch. “Actually, I have about three and a half hours left before I go to a party I don’t want to go to, so it’s not really time for the so-called fun to begin.”
The Gypsy grabbed my wrist. Damn. Talk about an iron grip. “Pay attention to everything. There are many pieces, many players. Miss one and you miss your chance.”
My chance. My chance to go home.
“Who do I have to watch? What do I have to do?”
“It’s not for me to know, not for me to tell.”
Shit. More vague doubletalk that could apply to anything and anyone. I broke away from her hold and pointed to a pin. “How much is this?”
Shaped something like a chrysanthemum, it had little blue rhinestones on silvery petal bits. It was kind of ugly to me but definitely looked like something a grandmother type would like.
Zharova gave me a twisted smile. “Interesting choice. I bought that just yesterday from a pretty young woman. Marie Jeannette.”
“Yeah, it’s nice. I don’t need a w
hole owner’s list, just the price.”
“Ten bob.”
“Half my pay, I don’t think so.” Was I really spazzing over what I’d consider fifty-cents back in my time?
“Five bob, then.”
It was like a quarter. A quarter was nothing. And yet here, a handful of quarters paid a month’s rent.
Great. I’d turned into my father.
I tossed the coins on the booth counter and waited while she wrapped the pin in a square of cloth.
Mrs. O’Connell had invited me to have an early supper with her and her friend Lucy, who was going to help her get ready for the big party later. It was kind of funny to see the always in charge Mrs. O. nervous and worried about making the right sort of impression at the Trambleys. She reminded me of my cousin the day she was going to the prom with a guy she’d been crushing on forever. I decided to hold off giving her the pin I bought until before we left. Kind of like a sparkly corsage.
It took me a couple tries to get my bowtie done right and I regretted picking up a new pair of shoes with my last pay. They were new-shoe tight and the pressure on my foot made my ankle sore. I hoped I’d be able to find a place to sit, preferably a nice dark corner where I wouldn’t have to watch Genie and Jackhole Palmer get all lovey-dovey.
Mrs. O’Connell opened the door when I knocked and I gave her a big bow. “Good evening, young lady. Is your mother home? I’m her escort for the evening.”
She gave my arm swat with the fan she had around her wrist and it reminded me of Agatha. “Oh you and your flattery.”
