Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  With the warmth of spring soaking my skin, and the sounds of birds and soft wind in my ears, London couldn't have felt farther away. Two and a half years ago, on a grey November day, I'd stepped off a train from New York. From the shelter of my arms, Klara had blinked her blue-grey eyes up at me. Weary from a two-week journey across the Atlantic, I hadn't even found the energy to smile at her.

  And right there and then, a furious northeast tempest had slammed into us, ripping off my hat, upturning my umbrella, and driving a torrent of icy rain in Klara's face. We were soaked to the bone within the few short moments it took me to wave down a cab. Klara hollered until we reached our hotel, and had drawn a bath to warm our frozen limbs. That same night she fell ill. We spent more than a week in bed, her feverish body curled against mine, her hunger ravenous.

  Boston couldn't have been more unwelcoming. And yet, despite that cold first embrace, it felt like returning home.

  I lowered the coffee cup to my lap and squinted at the gently sloping garden — the grass kissed by dew, spiderwebs, and golden light. There was a flutter in my stomach, and I asked myself why I had ever left Boston. And for what?

  Eight years ago, my reasons had been clear enough: It had made little difference then whether I worked in Boston or in some antiquated European country. I’d lived disguised as a man, so the countless restrictions women were facing hadn’t applied to me. But that life had come with a price: I couldn't make friends, for they would ask questions that were too private and impossible for me to answer. Even more awkward were the young ladies unsubtly hinting I might take them to social events. They had worried me to death.

  I huffed a laugh. Dr Anton Kronberg was reportedly chased across the Atlantic by wanton girls. Wouldn't that make an interesting headline.

  Now, everything had changed. Medical schools for women had sprung up in the American north, and I could live without the need to bind my breasts and sneak from one hiding place to another. I could simply do my work and talk openly — as a woman! — about patients, surgeries, and cures. It was delicious.

  Addictive, even.

  What turns would my life have taken had I stayed in Boston and not left for London?

  A gentle tap tap of small feet behind me was the answer: I wouldn't have met the man who'd fathered Klara, wouldn't have thought it possible for me to conceive, and I wouldn't have murdered my husband. Nor would I have met the two men who came to mean so much to me. One, a thief and gentle giant. The other as sharp as he was sensitive — a man who feared intimacy more than his own death.

  Strange, how moments of happiness always brought back dark memories. Stranger yet, that I occasionally wondered about the "what-ifs." Where was the need for that? I was happy with what I had and what I was.

  Perhaps that was just how my mind worked. Possibilities and impossibilities wanted to be analysed. Wasn't that how one learned? By reflecting upon the past, on the errors and successes — all melting into one another, changing with time, experience, and perspective? Only with reflection had I felt able to grow, to make peace with what had happened and what I had done, hoping that one day I would be a little wiser.

  Tap tap.

  I pretended to be oblivious to Klara sneaking up on me. I placed the cup on the floor and began to snore softly. She was very close now.

  Tap tap.

  I snored louder.

  She attacked with a high-pitched scream that made me worry about the window panes. I shot out my arm and poked her in the stomach, showed my fangs, and produced my best and most evil snake hiss. Then I grabbed her and wrestled her onto my lap (she was a rather noisy and wiggly mongoose), and blew a raspberry against her cheek. She twisted and bit my neck in retaliation.

  'I love you, my little monster,' I said, and brushed my nose against hers.

  The fast report of heels on floorboards announced Margery's approach. 'God's nightgown!' Her bosom was pumping dramatically. 'Did someone stick a pig on our porch?'

  'It was a mongoose catching a cobra. And the wicker chair is coming apart. Either that or I'm sitting on a hedgehog.' I rose with Klara in my arms, who seemed undecided whether her physical form was that of a mongoose or a clingy octopus. 'Do we still have some of that delicious cobra casserole in the larder?'

  Margery narrowed her eyes. 'Just don't say the gardener did the cooking.'

  * * *

  We took breakfast in the kitchen (sans cobra casserole). It was the first room to catch the early morning sun, the first to be warm in winter. It was the place where we ate and talked, and shared our silence.

  Klara sat on my lap, dismembering a slice of bread until only a ring of crust remained. She placed it on her head like a crown, then blew bubbles in her milk. A heartbeat later, she spat milk across the table.

  'Well, now, young lady!' Margery said sharply.

  Crying, Klara hid her face in my shirt. On some days, she reverted back to the maturity of a nine-month-old. It worried me. Other times, she didn't make a peep for a day and a half, and committed herself to calm observation of birds and beetles. She either focused on a task for hours on end, or wasn't able to focus at all.

  And then there was the fact that she could read. At twenty-six months, her fingers began following the lines we read to her. Zach tested my theory by "reading" the wrong words to her. Words that weren't printed where her small fingers touched the page. She'd thrown herself on the carpet and hollered for twenty minutes.

  Zachary sniffed at Klara's cup. 'The milk has turned.'

  Margery took it from him, tasted it, and grunted. 'Hum. Still have a gallon left of that. Should make some nice clabber.' She busied herself dabbing at the puddle on the tablecloth, and checking the contents of the icebox.

  Klara had stopped crying and was staring at her hands — two chubby starfishes on white linen. Zach's large hand reached out to cover both of hers, and she leant down and gave him a slobbery kiss on his wrist.

  Margery placed a mug of fresh milk in front of Klara, and then turned to Zachary to discuss a new variety of zinnias she wanted him to grow, and talk about the roof of the annex that needed fixing.

  My thoughts drifted away, along railway tracks, over shreds of clothes and skin, and the face of a dead woman I had stared at, trying to find something familiar. Perhaps the coroner would know more.

  When Margery stood and brushed crumbs onto her plate, I looked up and asked, 'First patient at nine?'

  She nodded.

  About an hour and a half, then. That should be time enough to write reports for the police, the coroner, and the post-mortem surgeon. I tweaked Klara's pigtail, kissed her neck, and transferred her to a chair.

  'I'll be in my office,' I said, and made to leave.

  Catching my brief glance at the sink, Margery pushed out her chin. There were limits to her flexibility, and a mistress who dabbled in the affairs of the housekeeper was far from acceptable. Two years before, she'd thrown a fit when she'd caught me beating eggs, flour, and milk for Yorkshire pudding.

  * * *

  Halfway into my report, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. 'Come in.'

  Margery stuck her head into my office. 'One Mrs Heathcote is here and asked to see you. She has no appointment, but says you are friends and it's urgent.'

  'Hattie Heathcote? Has something happened?' I asked, but the woman in question was already peeking over Margery's shoulder.

  The door shut. Hattie was beaming.

  'No one died, I take it?' I said.

  'Quite the opposite.' She sat in the chair across from me, and placed her hat on the desk. 'I believe I am with child.'

  I pushed my reports aside, and grasped her hands. 'Wonderful news! Did you come to tell me, or because you need a physician?'

  Blood rose to her cheeks. Hattie was a beautiful woman. She always made me think of Snow White — raven black hair, skin the colour of new milk, her body fine-boned and graceful. What made her stunning were her light blue eyes. And now the blush. She had the intensity of a diamond in the e
vening sun.

  'You know that I wasn't…wasn't able to carry my last two babies to term.'

  'I didn't know. I'm sorry.'

  She waved me away. 'I'm twenty-five, have two beautiful daughters, and no reason to complain. Robert, my husband, he has been… He wants a son. And so I was hoping that this time…' Her chin began to wobble.

  'You are worried you might lose another child.'

  'Of course I am!' She dashed a tear away. 'I've had two miscarriages. Who's to know if this one will make it?'

  'It's all right, Hattie. Now, tell me about the previous pregnancies, and what your family physician suggested.'

  Hattie talked. About the pains that began in the fourth or fifth month of her pregnancies, the bleeding. About the elderly doctor who wouldn't do much but pat her hand and ask about her diet. She wanted a lady physician, and it had to be me. Her husband didn't approve, but he wanted an heir — as though the Boston elite were royals and there was a throne to be occupied — and so it was decided that I was to prevent a miscarriage at all costs.

  What she didn't expect was that my physical examination would extend beyond touching her abdomen through her dress.

  * * *

  I washed my hands as Hattie shook down her skirts. She cleared her throat, her gaze following the patterns of the rug.

  Clearly, she needed time to compose herself, but I couldn't give her that. I needed answers. 'I can't help but wonder if your husband helped your miscarriages along, Hattie.'

  Her head snapped up. 'No! He is ever so gentle when I'm in the family way.'

  'He beats you up only when you are not pregnant?' My crude choice of words made her flinch. But I found bruises around the genitalia much cruder than words could ever be.

  'No. You don't understand. It's… It's just games that we play. He likes it a little rougher. A little…birching, here and there. Am I… Am I not supposed to please my husband?' She was defiant now. Shoulders squared, spine straight.

  'You are a grown woman. You know what you want and what you don't want.'

  'Precisely.' Suddenly, she deflated a little, then pulled back her chair and sat. 'Don't tell anyone, please.'

  'Communication between a doctor and her patient is always confidential. And you are my friend, Hattie.'

  'That's the problem. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to come here. You might tell Warren.'

  'Warren? Your brother? I've never even met him. Honestly, Hattie, I don't ever talk about my patients' issues with anyone but my patients.' I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. ‘All right?’

  'Oh! I almost forgot! Warren is coming home. And it's about time. You have to meet him, Liz. We'll all be there. It's going to be one of our nights. At six or seven o'clock he'll be back, he said. Oh, please come.'

  'Tonight?'

  'Didn't I say that?'

  'A Freak Consortium night…' I mused, waiting for Hattie to wink with both her eyes — a hilarious thing she would do when she was impatient, or making a joke. It made her look like an owl after too much coffee. When she clapped her lids, I laughed. 'Well, why not.'

  She thumped a fist on the desk. 'You will love him!'

  'My good friend's seafaring twin brother? I'll probably be jealous and hate his guts.'

  3

  'And then those hairy beasts raced past us, scantily dressed in white linen trousers falling short of the knee, and armless, throatless shirts. Imagine the shock!' Eliza's voice drowned in collective chuckling.

  I almost snorted my wine out through my nose.

  Hiccuping, Eliza poked Margaret in the ribs. 'And you thought they were inmates fleeing some lunatic asylum.'

  Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s what you thought, I didn't. I had too much fun watching you blush to tell you about the Hare and Hounds Club runners.'

  'No hats! And bare legs!' Eliza squeaked and collapsed into Margaret's lap.

  Margaret lit a cigar, leant back and puffed it, smug as a cat. She hid her auburn curls under a bowler hat and her long legs in pinstripe trousers. I wondered what she would say if I told her I'd lived disguised as a man for years. She would probably laugh, box my shoulder, and ask me to adopt her.

  Margaret touched her fingertips to Eliza's cheek, and Jerome used the moment of distraction to snatch the cigar from her. He stuck it between his teeth and puffed once, twice, and then returned it.

  Glowering, Margaret readied her sharp tongue to fling insults at him. She was cut off by a bang. The door to the room burst open. A knapsack was thrown in and a dishevelled man followed.

  The sharp contrast of blue eyes to black hair — so much like his twin sister — identified him as the prodigal heir of the Amaury family, and the owner of this townhouse that we frequently abused for…well, planning to "overthrow something," as the others called our meetings.

  According to Hattie, Warren ran every time his mother tried to arrange a bachelor's ball for him. He'd last disappeared just before his sister dragged me from a rehearsal of the Symphony Orchestra to a drinking hall to meet her friends — the Freak Consortium — which had been roughly three months earlier.

  Warren was holding a handkerchief to mouth and nose. Blood soaked his shirtfront.

  Jerome jumped from his armchair. 'What the dickens happened? Who did this to you?' He cracked his knuckles for good measure. Jerome's fists were ready, as always. But for the sake of his father — Judge Fletcher, who had extricated him from several tight spots before…well, before finally threatening disinheritance — Jerome was trying to master the art of self-control.

  He didn't like it much.

  Broad, dark, and with a violent streak, Jerome was Uriel's antipode. No one really knew why the two were best friends.

  'Sit,' Uriel said and tugged at Jerome's waistband, effectively dumping him back onto the chair and snuffing out his wild temper.

  Warren mumbled, 'Gobbeb Lubber,' around his handkerchief, and kicked the door shut.

  'What?'

  'Goh-beb Lubber.'

  'He quoted Luther,' Hattie translated.

  'Huh-hum.' Warren raised an index finger. 'I bould nob fmell fe foul odour of your name!'

  'Well, at least you didn't use the quote with the farts and the mouth. That's progress.'

  A soft cough announced the butler, Owens. 'Will you be needing this, Sir, or may I send the maid to take it away?' He pointed an impeccable white-gloved hand at the knapsack.

  Warren mumbled something and waved the bag away. Owens, without ever changing his expression of utter neutrality, curled a pinky around the strap, and carried the knapsack from the room, holding it at arm's length.

  Warren followed him with his gaze until he was gone. 'How bib he bo fhat?'

  'I hope he sends refreshments,' Hattie said, and gently tugged Warren's hand from his face to reveal his injury. The view of his swollen, bloody nose tinged the skin around her eyes green.

  ‘Is it broken?' she asked me.

  Warren's gaze followed Hattie's. 'Who'f fhat?'

  I emptied my wine, stood, and held out my hand. 'Doctor Elizabeth Arlington, pleased to meet you.'

  He eyed me with curiosity, then wiped his palm on his trousers, and took my hand in his. 'B-bwarren,' he said. His gaze fell. His grasp tightened as he turned my wrist. 'Inberefbing.'

  He was instantly poked in the gut by his sister.

  I extricated myself from his grip.

  'You have no manners whatsoever!' Hattie hissed at him. And then to me, 'I'm sorry, Liz. He's horrible. Always had been.'

  'Well.' I wiggled the remaining fingers of my right hand. 'It is interesting.'

  'A dog ate it,' Jerome provided, earning himself a whack on the forehead from Margaret.

  'That's what she said, wasn't it?' He rubbed his brow.

  I'd lied, of course. The truth lay in the same pit where I'd buried my name and my past.

  With a groan, Warren lowered himself into an armchair, snatched the wine bottle from the table and put it to his mouth. He flinched at every swall
ow, but drained a good portion of it, and then clamped the bottle between his legs. 'Gods, I'll nebber geb used to ib. Gebbing on a ship makes me ill, gebbing obb a ship makes me ill. Perhaps, I shoulb just sebble down.'

  Margaret snorted. 'Why not try not to get punched in the face?'

  'You have to tell us all about your trip. We're running out of material,' Eliza said.

  'Doesn't she habe enoub queer sb…sb…stories to tell?' he thrust his chin out at me. 'Her tongue smacks of continental life.'

  'I've lived quite…sheltered, Mr Amaury. There is no queer story to tell.' An easy lie that was met with a tilt of his eyebrows.

  'Mister Amaury?' He looked about the room. 'Is she not one of us?'

  'She is. Hush now. Liz, check his injury, please. He might have splinters in his brain, the way he talks.'

  'All right.' I moved to sit on Warren's armrest. He jerked back.

  'I'm a physician, I won't hurt you more than absolutely necessary.'

  'And that is supposed to ease my terror?'

  'Hold still.' I grabbed his chin and turned his face toward me. His eyes widened.

  'How was Chile?' I said by way of distraction.

  'Huh?'

  Gently, I ran my fingers along the bridge of his nose, feeling for signs of a fracture. 'The tag on your knapsack read "Valparaiso."'

  There was a patch of dark stubble at the edge of his jaw. He must have shaved hastily, perhaps without a mirror. His black hair curled at the nape of his neck, partially concealing a deep scratch that was fresh but had stopped bleeding. Bruises were beginning to bloom around his throat. His collar was loose, a button missing. 'But that wasn't a fight with sailors, was it. You must have disembarked in New York, but got roughed up less than half an hour ago.'

  'Hrmpf.'

  'This might hurt a bit.' I applied gentle pressure to his nasal bone.