by Jo Goodman
“What were you doing there that night?” he said. It was ridiculous, he supposed, to pose the question when there was no reason to expect she would answer him. “Did you mean to rob me?” He paused as though giving her time to consider her response. “Or kill me?”
The widow’s daughter had found a chair in one of the other rooms and suggested they place it near Miss Rose’s bed. It lightly scraped the floor as Sherry pulled it to him. He protected the candle flame as he sat. In profile she was as still as death.
“I’m done with that life, you know.”
She didn’t know, of course. He’d only recently decided. Saying it aloud to her, to someone who was insensible of him and of that profoundly secret life he’d led, was a test of his own resolve. That he felt not the slightest regret proved that he’d made the choice he could live with.
He wondered about the life she had been living. Teacher of young thieves. Participant in the abovestairs trade at the Blue Ruination. What cause had she to bind her breasts and dress herself in boy’s clothes when she ventured into the street? And the blacking in her hair? What purpose had that served?
He had not known she was female when she lay full on top of him, but he had known she was French.
“Je n’avais pas un couteau. Quel dommage!”
The words, her last before she slipped into unconsciousness, revealed something more than her disguise had hidden. The accent was impeccable, the ironic intonation perfect. Why wouldn’t she speak these words, he thought, the ones she believed might well be her last, in her native tongue?
“I didn’t have a knife.” Then even more softly, confirming her regret, “What a pity.”
For days he had considered what she had been trying to tell him. As last words, their absurdity could not be questioned. As the truth, well, as often was the case it depended on one’s perspective. The knife she said she did not have was buried deep in her side. Perhaps she was only communicating surprise and a sense of loss that it was no longer in her hand.
Sherry did not like that explanation. The ironic edge to her words still gave him pause. It was almost as if she were castigating herself for not having a weapon. That at least would fit what Pinch had said and his companions had supported: Miss Rose did not carry a blade.
It was this construction that troubled him. He knew he had not put the knife to her, and if she had not caused the injury herself, then . . .
The most logical conclusion was that there had been a third party involved. When Sherry considered the number of people rubbing elbows that night, the idea of identifying a single suspect was daunting. As little as a week earlier he would not have been caught so unaware or unprepared. He would have noticed individual faces in the crowd and not been fooled by his assailant’s less than perfect disguise.
But by then he’d made his decision to leave London for Granville. That night he had been strolling in Covent Garden, it was as if he’d had one foot and almost all of his mind in the country. Now he was fair on his way to believing that his life had been turned by this moment’s inattention.
What he did not know, could not know, was if he had truly been the target. Miss Rose was engaged in dangerous practices; she may well have been the mark. Another attack on one of them would certainly answer that niggling question, but waiting for it was not his way. Ignoring the possibility that the blade had been meant for him, however, was foolish in the extreme.
“You have the advantage, Miss Rose,” he said quietly. “You know something I do not.” One corner of his mouth lifted, the expression more considering than gently amused. “Your recovery would be of great service to me, although I cannot promise that it will not end at Tyburn for you.” An eyebrow lifted as he regarded her pale, immobile features. “It is not so much the choices we must make but the choices we are given. Scylla. Charybdis.” He turned his hand over, then over again, as though examining two sides of a coin. “They are not so very different, are they?”
She remained quiet. He could not hear her breathing, but the rise and fall of her chest assured him that she was. Her slender arms lay at her side outside of the blanket. His shirt was absurdly big for her. The sleeves were rolled three times and still the cuffs rested just above her wrists. The shirt’s neck was open, slightly askew, and the sharp line of one collarbone was visible. Her skin was drawn so tightly over it, it looked painful.
He had revised his ideas about her age. Once her bindings had been removed, he knew she was much closer to twenty than she was to twelve. He and Kearns had made every effort to preserve her modesty, but he was keenly aware that Midge had been correct in his assessment of his teacher’s physical attributes.
The boys seemed to have found nothing odd about her attire that night, yet they knew very well that she was a woman full grown. Did they understand the purpose of her disguise? Sherry realized he had never asked them. Recognition of this oversight changed the shape of his slight smile so that it became more derisive. How many more mistakes could he make before the full weight of them was brought to bear?
Sighing deeply enough to make the candlelight flicker, Sherry wondered about his next course of action. He would permit her to recuperate in his home, if she survived the journey there. To protect his reputation and that of his family, some measure of secrecy would be required, but he was practiced at secrets. He had already decided that moving her into his residence would best be accomplished at night and through the servants’ entrance. His neighbors were unlikely to notice anything untoward, but their retainers were infinitely more alert to activity out of the ordinary. He would rely on his own staff to quell rumors. It was to their benefit to do so. There was no standing in being associated with an employer—even one with a title and fortune—who had gone queer in the head.
Sherry leaned toward the table and set the candlestick down. He started to rise, glimpsed a faint movement from his patient, and dropped back in the chair. At first he didn’t know what it was he had seen. Her breathing seemed unchanged by any exertion or flutter of awareness. Then he caught the quarter turn of her wrist. Her fingers began to curl with aching slowness until her hand formed a loose fist. She did it several times over before he realized she was trying to tug at the blanket covering.
“Uncomfortable, are you?” he asked. “That is something I can fix.” He lifted the woolen blanket carefully where it had bunched under her hip and retucked it under the mattress. “Better?”
The question was not meant to elicit a response, so Sherry was surprised when two of his fingers were caught by hers. She squeezed lightly at first, so lightly that he thought he imagined it; then he saw the change in the shape of her knuckles and knew it was true. His eyes went to hers and saw they were still closed, but when his gaze dropped to her mouth he witnessed the parting of her lips and the effort to form words.
“Qu’est que vous faites ici?”
He thought she might ask for something to moisten her dry lips. A sip of wine perhaps, or tea. What she wanted, though, was to know what he was doing here. She had definitely stolen a glance in his direction. His response was in French, although he didn’t answer the question she put to him. “Do you remember me?”
“Oui, vous étiez au théâtre.”
Her voice was whisper soft, and he had to lean closer to hear. “Yes,” he said, in French again. “I do go to the theatre. Is that where you saw me?”
Her lashes lifted a fraction in response, as though it were too great an effort to nod. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. Instead of wetting them, it seemed to cling there. “J’ai soif.”
“Of course you’re thirsty. I have wine for you. The water is not fit to drink.” He did not inform her the wine also had tincture of laudanum in it. The wine bottle was sitting on the windowsill. Sherry retrieved it and filled a third of a glass. Slipping an arm gingerly under her shoulders, he helped her rise just enough to tip the glass against her bottom lip. “Sip.”
She pursed her lips, breathing in the wine more than drinking it. When
she tried to reach for the glass to hold it herself, he would not let her. Instead, he made sure she was resting the weight of her shoulders fully against his forearm and kept the glass firmly in place.
“Fermez vos yeux,” he told her.
The corners of her mouth tilted upward even as she complied and closed her eyes. “Quel jour sommes nous?”
“Mercredi,” he said. Wednesday. Then he realized the lateness of the hour and corrected himself. “Non, c’est t’aujourd’hui jeudi.” He could not tell if she was in any way surprised by this intelligence; her pale and placid features gave nothing away. Five days had passed since the stabbing, but it was likely she was aware during some of that time.
“Thursday,” she said on a thread of sound. “Thursday’s child has far to go. It is as good a day to die as any, I suppose, and mayhap heaven is no greater a distance to journey than hell.”
The movement of her shoulders was what he always thought of as the quintessential Gallic shrug. The words, nevertheless, were spoken in English, and the accent was the perfectly pitched inflection of the ton.
Three
Sherry sat, stunned. Her command of the King’s English was flawless. The tone and cadence of her speech would have allowed her to converse among the guests at the Court of St. James without arousing suspicion. She spoke English as fluently as she did French, a talent mastered only by those young women with an exemplary education or a demanding tutor. At present, Miss Rose did not strike him as one who had had benefit of either.
After picking up the wine bottle, Sherry permitted himself a long pull. He watched her for several more minutes, the bottle neck dangling between two fingers, before he got to his feet. He went to the window, set the bottle down, and braced his arms against the frame while he stared out. It was a cool night. The light from small fires flickered along the street. People gathered in twos and threes to keep warm; some found respite in the protected doorways of taverns or under the canted bed of a produce wagon. He heard a bottle crash against the cobbles, then the sound of cursing followed by raucous laughter. There was a scuffle, muffled oaths, and then blessed silence. Sherry supposed the combatants had finally felled each other or made amends.
It was a hard life here, he reflected. Even the meanest structure became someone’s home, and usually it became home to more than a single someone. The Gazette reported of tenements that accommodated thirty people in their cellars. It was in his lifetime that there had been mass open graves within sight of where he stood. Rats had roamed the streets with impunity. The graves were finally covered; the rats were only marginally less bold.
Sherry leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the glass. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to consider the fate of the woman he knew only as Miss Rose. In spite of his intervention, it was a very real possibility that she would die tonight. He had known it, accepted it, at the moment he’d approached her foul-smelling quarters. Now he wondered if he was prepared to accept as fully the possibility that she might live.
He was brave enough to pose the question to himself but unwilling to hear his own answer. Pushing away from the window, he straightened and wearily rubbed the back of his neck.
He returned to the chair and sat. He would keep vigil here, he decided, and offer her what comfort he could. To that end, he took her hand in his.
He was of the firm opinion that no one should die alone.
Pinch opened the door just enough to slip inside the sickroom. Dash and Midge followed. They tiptoed to the bed, although their stealth was unnecessary. They were so slight of build that their weight did not cause the boards to creak.
Dash took his place on the floor near the head of the bed and leaned sideways so his cheek rested against the mattress. Pinch knelt beside the chair where Sherry slept. He edged his fingers close to the handclasp. Midge carefully crawled into the bed and lay down. He did not mind that she smelled like the advent of death.
When Sherry woke it was with the instant knowledge of changed circumstances, the least of which was the presence of the three dirty urchins in varying states of repose. What pulled his eye was the flush of color in his patient’s cheeks and the uneven rise and fall of her chest. He eased his hand from around her fingers and touched her forehead.
The beginnings of a fever were upon her, but then so was the beginning of a new day.
She had survived the night.
Sherry stood and reached over her to lift Midge off the bed. He had to untangle the child’s fingers from where they were wound in her hair. Turning, he made to set Midge in the chair and paused when he heard movement outside the door. A moment later, Kearns stepped into the room and was arrested by the sight of his employer holding a child in his arms while two others knelt sleeping at his feet.
Sherry sighed. “I cannot explain it myself.”
“One frequently cannot, my lord,” the valet said briskly. He advanced to assist Sheridan with Midge, steadying the chair while Sherry placed the boy on it.
Once Midge was set down, his pointed chin fell heavily and jabbed his chest. This seemed to be enough to trigger an abrupt snore but was insufficient to wake him.
“Little baggage,” Kearns said.
One of Sherry’s brows lifted at the tone of this observation. There was tolerance here—and if he was not mistaken—a hint of something that might be approaching tenderness. “You are demonstrating remarkable forbearance, Kearns.”
The valet sighed. “I cannot explain it myself.”
Chuckling wryly, Sherry stepped away from the bed and pointed to their patient. “I think she’s coming into a fever. Will you send the footman for a basin of water and some clean cloths? Tell him to wake Mr. Rutland if he must.”
Kearns nodded. “And you, m’lord? I have your clothes in the—”
Sherry dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “If a tub can be found, I think these three should be introduced to it. The addition of soap and water and a scrub brush would not be amiss. Mrs. Ponsonby will bar the door and every window if we do not apply some spit and polish to them.” Sherry gave his valet full marks for the attempt he made at schooling his features. “You have some thought on the matter, Kearns? I should like to hear it.”
Uncomfortable, Kearns cleared his throat. “You mean to take them to your residence.”
“Yes. I mean to take her,” he said, gesturing to the bed. Then he indicated the three awkwardly positioned, exhausted boys. “Do you imagine these lads will stay away?”
Kearns looked from one child’s bent head to the next. Although they were all sleeping, their posture and attitude was reminiscent of prayer. “I take your lordship’s point.”
Sherry nodded. “The tub, then.”
“I shall see to it immediately.”
Harris arrived before the noon hour. The first thing he noticed was what wasn’t present. The nearly overwhelming odor of decay had disappeared, and it gave him hope.
“Well?” Sherry asked as the physician made his examination. “Is she improved by the fever or made worse by it?”
“A moment,” said Harris. He tapped her chest and listened to her lungs and heart. He smelled her breath, nodded to himself, then laid two fingers along the pulse in her neck. “You have been keeping her warm?”
“Yes. She does not always appreciate the effort, but she has little strength to fight me.”
Harris nodded. His eyes fell on the basin of water on the table and the cloths lying along its rim. “And her brow cool?”
“Yes,” Sherry said with a touch of impatience. “What I want to know is if it has been efficacious.”
Carefully peeling back the blankets and sheet, Harris took his first look at the wound through her nightshirt and bandage. He would not be pressed by Sherry’s chafing. He answered cautiously, “It is a good sign the wound is not weeping overmuch. The shirt is largely unstained.” He rolled the hem upward until the bandage was exposed. “Are you aware if she awakened at all?” he asked as he began to loosen the cloth wrap.
“She was lucid?”
“Yes.” Sherry did not offer to introduce their conversation, and Harris did not ask.
Harris stopped his examination to retrieve a tincture from his bag. He applied it to the ragged edges of the wound. “Hold her down,” he instructed as his patient began to thrash.
Sherry knelt at the head of the bed as he had done the previous day and took her wrists. Although he had been gentle on that occasion, he saw now that he had also been firm enough to leave faint bruises. For entirely selfish reasons he hoped she would not fight him.
“Hold her,” Harris repeated, looking pointedly at Sheridan’s loosely engaged fingertips. He grunted, satisfied, when he saw the grip tighten. “You won’t break her. Or if you do, it will be far and away less painful than this.” He poured more of the tincture into the wound, causing his patient’s slight frame to seize.
“Bloody hell, Harris,” Sherry said under his breath. He felt every line of her body tense as though the physician had poured liquid fire into her blood. She arched, her back rising off the bed. Her knuckles whitened. In the last moment before her muscles exhausted themselves she ground out her pain between clenched teeth. Part whimper, part outrage, it was all wounded animal.
Sherry grimaced.
The doctor winced.
They both remained dedicated to their task.
“There,” Harris said, satisfied with his work when a white froth bubbled from the wound.
“What is that?” Sherry asked as the physician stoppered the small vial.
Harris shrugged. “Something the chemist has encouraged me to try. A compound that may have healing properties.” He wiped the froth away. “Never fear, I intend to use a poultice and bleed her. I do not abandon old treatments for untried ones, yet if one never tried anything new there would be no advancements.”
