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  “You know, the theory is that the murderer might possibly be a physician or medical student,” he said. “But I have also heard that the police have been questioning butchers and other workers in the area. Try not to take it too personally.”

  “Still, I wished they would ask their questions and leave. They could at least take suspects to the station to question them. Have they questioned you?”

  “Twice, actually. They interviewed me in Dr. Bartlett’s office on Monday, then again yesterday. They have spoken to all of the male workers here. I think there are no leads, and I am inclined, like you, to think that they should move on, or at least maintain a more discrete presence.”

  I watched Simon as he turned to examine another baby. He possessed a cool handsomeness, his forehead marble-smooth, uncreased even when he concentrated. Since yesterday, besides working alongside of him, I had assisted him in three deliveries, and his perpetual control even in stressful moments impressed me. He seemed dedicated and kind, spending more time with patients than most of the physicians did. Perhaps because of his kindness, or perhaps due to our bond from the morning when he returned with me to Kensington, I felt more comfortable with Simon than I did with William. And yet oddly, in spite of all this, there was an enigmatic strain to him, a veil in Simon beyond which I could not see.

  The baby Lizzie, when we reached her, concerned us both. She had continued to lose weight, even just since Monday.

  “Has Josephine found a wet nurse for her?” I asked, after Simon had listened to her chest with a stethoscope.

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Rose Elliot? Is she still here? She just had a child, perhaps she still has milk. I know she needs to rest, but after losing her own child it might help her to care for Lizzie.”

  Simon straightened, paused. A flicker crossed his gaze momentarily.

  “An excellent idea, Abbie.”

  Later that same day, I assisted Dr. Bartlett during a surgery on the third floor.

  He had congratulated me, the day before, on my triumph over Rose Elliot’s husband. That incident, to my relief, had gone mostly unnoticed—I think due to the overall chaos in the ward and also the general preoccupation of staff members with the Polly Nichols murder.

  The particular patient Dr. Bartlett was operating on was a middle-aged woman, an alcoholic, who was one of the second floor patients. She was anesthetized with chloroform. I stood beside Dr. Bartlett at the operating table and gazed into the woman’s open abdomen.

  “Here is the mass, Abbie,” he said, removing a lumpy substance from the woman’s liver. After placing it in a metal pan held by one of the attending nurses, he explained to me that the woman suffered from tumor growths in the liver. Although he had removed this one, the tumors would probably continue to return more aggressively until she succumbed to the disease.

  I listened intently as Dr. Bartlett explained the surgery. He was an expert in surgeries and conventional deliveries, and he was not afraid to attempt new surgical practices. At one point the previous day, Simon had explained that Dr. Bartlett not only taught at various universities but also traveled a great deal; according to Simon, the horizontal-cut caesarean I had seen the previous week was not practiced widely in Europe. Dr. Bartlett had learned the practice from African midwives, and believed that it caused less blood loss and abdominal trauma in an already dangerous procedure.

  I watched as Dr. Bartlett stitched up the liver and then slowly, carefully, stitched up the woman’s abdomen. Many of the attending nurses had left for their other tasks. Our conversation moved away from the details of the surgery to more personal matters. He asked after my grandmother and how she was doing.

  “Quite well.”

  His eyes met mine very quickly before refocusing on his continued stitching, the long needle moving in and out of the skin tissues.

  “You look remarkably like Caroline, Abbie.”

  I had forgotten that one of the reasons I was here was because Dr. Bartlett was a family friend. I swallowed, suppressing the lump of grief that began to swell in my throat. I knew very little about Mother’s life in London before she eloped and gave birth to me. Even Grandmother rarely talked about her.

  “How well did you know my family?”

  Dr. Bartlett did not take his eyes off his work as he spoke. “Decently well. Your grandmother for years has donated generously to various charities. In fact, she was one of our main financial supporters when I began this hospital.”

  I sniffed in spite of myself. Giving to charities, for Grandmother, was quite “vogue.”

  He had finished the stitches and, after laying aside the needle and thread, he began wiping blood away from the wound.

  “I dined with her and with Caroline a few times. Caroline, as part of her artistic pursuits, attended a few of my surgeries in the operating theatre at Oxford.”

  “Operating theatre?” I asked.

  “Essentially a place exactly like this surgery room, except that the surgery is conducted on a sort of stage surrounded by an auditorium where medical students and physicians might observe the surgery. Once in a while, artists attended my lectures—to learn more about the anatomy and structure of the body as they painted. Your mother was one of those artists.”

  He turned to wash his hands in a nearby basin.

  “Lady Westfield and I have corresponded through the years, but unfortunately I lost touch with Caroline once she moved away from London.”

  The air became heavy with the unspoken. I felt sure Dr. Bartlett was aware that the reason I had returned to London was Mother’s death.

  Gracefully, he changed the subject.

  “Abbie, on Friday evening, would you join me and some of the other physicians at my home? We meet frequently for socializing purposes, though we also review scholarly topics and medical ethics issues together. I value their input as I develop this hospital, and I would very much like you to be included in these meetings.”

  “I would love to attend!”

  “Wonderful.” He moved to leave the room. “I cannot accompany you, but I will send my carriage. About seven o’clock?”

  “Yes, that will work well.”

  As I left the operating room to assist William in the second floor ward, I felt a flurry of excitement. Through allowing me to attend the surgery and now in this invitation to his house, Dr. Bartlett was treating me with the same respect he gave the younger physicians who worked with him. I had not said anything to him about possibly pursuing a career as a physician, but I felt encouraged, now, that he would not make any issue of my gender. I made a mental note to ask him about medical school.

  I had not seen William since Monday when he escorted me back to Kensington; however, the second floor ward was so busy that I scarcely had a chance to talk to him. Almost every bed along the wall was filled. For three hours, I did nothing but change sheets and chamber pots, and help some of the nurses give medicine doses to patients.

  Shortly before it was time for me to leave, I found myself in a side room of the second floor, a sort of laundry room, folding towels and bedsheets. My feet and back ached and I wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  “I see you survived Lady Westfield’s wrath the other evening.”

  William stood in the doorway. His stance was awkward, unusual for him.

  “Yes, I’m still here.”

  I felt myself flush against my will. The story of William’s bohemian upbringing had intrigued me, and I wanted to know more of him. Also, as always, his presence could be so disorienting. I felt my heart thud repeatedly inside my chest.

  There was a strange pause in the air. I steadied my breathing and placed another folded towel in a basket.

  “I heard that Dr. Bartlett invited you to his house.”

  “Yes. Are you going to be there?”

  “No. Christi
na will be volunteering at New Hospital—it’s another hospital for low-income women, actually quite similar to Whitechapel Hospital. She will be there late on Friday and wants me to stay at the house with her ‘friends,’ as she calls the women who live with her.”

  His eyes flashed, a little mischievously—as if he were about to tell me some gossip. He lowered his voice and stepped closer to me.

  “Dr. Bartlett lives in a huge house at the end of Montgomery Street. His house is quite posh, but the street is rather—transitional. He does not live alone; for years, he has lived with three other men. None of them have families of their own, and all are dedicated whole-heartedly to their work. The only time they live apart is when one or more of them lectures for a term at Oxford or travels abroad for study or research purposes.”

  “Are the others physicians as well?” I asked.

  “No. That is the interesting part. Each has his own profession that he excels at. Marcus Brown is an accomplished scholar of philosophy and history. John Perkins is a devoted theologian. And then there is Robert Buck. Although he occasionally helps treat patients, he truly is more of a biologist than a physician. I’m sure you know that he has an office here and specializes in botany, zoology, and herbology. He has collected plants, fish, and animals from all over the world. No home has ever contained so much talent and intellect within its walls as the Montgomery Street house—it could be a university or even a museum. It’s sprawling and fascinating. There is one particular gallery on the second floor, near the top of the stairs … ”

  “Dr. Siddal!” Josephine’s voice rang out on the stairs. “We have a delivery!”

  William lingered near me for two more seconds, as if he wanted to say something else.

  “Dr. Siddal!”

  He exhaled loudly, flashed me a brilliant smile, and then hurried from the room.

  The moment I finished the laundry, I felt I could leave. A quick peek out of the laundry room window showed me the bleak dusk settling upon Whitechapel. Wind whipped across the street, scattering trash and bottles. The heaviness of the atmosphere had a pre-storm appearance, and I involuntarily clutched my arms as goose bumps broke out across my skin. The carriage already waited for me in front of the steps, and I rushed from the room hoping that the driver had not been there too very long.

  In my hurry, I collided with a man who had just stepped onto the landing from the stairs. If he had not caught my arms at the elbows, steadying me, I would have plunged straight past him down the stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” I stuttered, feeling foolish and embarrassed. Then I glanced up at him.

  He was well-built, with startlingly green eyes and curly dark hair. I had not yet seen him around the hospital. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, and might have been one of the hospital’s young physicians. His eyes arrested me, and for a split second I could not look away.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He smiled, and yet his eyes sparked more rogue than kind.

  “Yes, quite. Thank you.”

  I continued quickly down the stairs, feeling his eyes upon my back.

  Eight

  Arabella, you smell.” Grandmother wrinkled her nose. “You smell like infant vomit.”

  The carriage ride to Lady Catherine’s house for dinner was tense. I had arrived home later than Grandmother had expected, and I had only a few minutes to get ready for the dinner. I had washed, but apparently not well enough.

  “I’m sorry. I did wash. The hospital odors can be so strong.”

  Grandmother sighed loudly and looked out the carriage window. Still without looking at me, she said, “Please make an attempt not to embarrass me tonight. Lady Catherine has arranged this for your benefit.”

  “What do you mean, for my benefit?”

  “Cecil Clairmont, a barrister, will be there, as will his fiancée, Mariah Crawley. She is Violet’s ward. She is your age and a trifle libertine, but otherwise … ” Grandmother’s voice trailed off a bit. “The point is, as I told you last week, there is someone at the party whom Catherine and I very much wish for you to meet: Chester Clairmont. He is Cecil’s nephew. He is a student of the law, not much older than you, and the Clairmonts are an excellent family.”

  We had stopped. The carriage ride only lasted a few blocks, given that Catherine also lived in Kensington; it was quite ridiculous that we took a carriage at all.

  The driver stepped down to open Grandmother’s door.

  “If Chester is not much older than me, how old is Mr. Clairmont?” I asked. I was perplexed at the thought of Cecil Clairmont marrying a girl my age.

  Instead of answering me, Grandmother merely turned as she stepped out of the carriage, her eagle eyes sharp on my face. She clenched her teeth a bit.

  “I know you were raised among the Irish, Arabella, but, once again, do not embarrass me tonight.”

  She smiled daggers.

  The party proved to be as dull as I had expected. It was suffocatingly small, with only Lady Catherine, Lady Violet, Mariah, Cecil, and Chester in attendance.

  Cecil was in fact old, at least fifty. Chester was twenty-one and the spitting younger image of his uncle. As I had expected, Catherine seated me next to him at the table. Despite being young, Chester had terrible allergies and was already balding. He talked the entire meal about himself, about his law studies and travels. I tried to be polite, but he bored me out of my mind.

  Mariah, across the table next to Cecil, appeared much more interesting.

  Tall. Elegant. With her black curly hair piled high on her head, Mariah might have been a model for the sketches in the magazines I browsed. But she looked even lovelier than the magazine illustrations due to her bold and distinct aura. She talked very little during the dinner conversation, and yet her sharp eyes did not miss anything. Once she caught my eye and smiled.

  Mariah’s demeanor intrigued me, particularly as, in spite of her well-dressed appearance, she seemed a misfit here at the Kensington dinner. I wanted to speak to her, but it was difficult to escape Chester. Finally, when she left the table to refill her glass, I drained my own, excused myself from Chester, and followed her.

  While we stood near the punch bowl, she took a nearby plate of gooseberry pie and, without even bothering with utensils, began to eat it, staining her fingers sticky red in the process. She did not seem to care about the stains, and after licking her fingers a bit, she wiped them clean with a napkin.

  Catherine had already introduced us earlier, and now, to make conversation, I congratulated her on her engagement.

  She lowered her voice, even though we were well out of earshot of the rest of the dinner party.

  “Thank you, but you should know that the wedding is never going to happen.”

  “Excuse me?” I nearly choked on my drink.

  “The date is set for early January, but of course I’m not marrying him. Just look at him. Can you imagine what a dull life that would be?”

  As discretely as possible, I glanced at the table. Catherine, Violet, and Grandmother continued to chatter; Chester Clairmont watched Mariah and me and looked about ready to refill his drink, too. Cecil Clairmont had already fallen asleep at his seat and was beginning to snore.

  “All right. You’re absolutely correct,” I said quickly. Chester rose from the table. Mariah and I didn’t have much time. “So why are you engaged to him?”

  “Makes things a bit more fun, doesn’t it?” She winked. “I have a lover, and we’re planning to run off the night before the wedding. The whole thing will make a splash. It will be quite scandalous. In fact, I doubt Lady Westfield will want you to be my friend anymore.”

  She smiled warmly. Briefly, I wondered if she was making this up, joshing with me a bit. I could not believe that within minutes of knowing me, she would confide all this. But something in her eyes told me it was true.

  Chester
had almost reached us.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?” I whispered.

  Her reply came instantly. “Because you look like you would understand. And because you look like you won’t tell a soul,” she added as she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and departed. She left a faint scent of honeysuckle behind. Chester had just arrived at the punch bowl.

  As Chester rambled on, I watched Mariah walk back to the dinner table. She was correct. I would not tell a soul. Grandmother had called her a libertine; I found her intriguing compared to my monotonous Kensington life, and I saw the possibility of a new friendship.

  Two workdays passed quickly, and on Friday evening I arrived at Dr. Bartlett’s enormous white gabled home. William had been correct about the street seeming transitional. Though the outside of Dr. Bartlett’s house was quite well-kept, most of the houses on the street were much more worn and seemed abandoned. I also saw gutted workhouses and factory buildings. The street was mostly dark, as there were no working streetlamps.

  As I stepped out of his carriage, I felt curious and excited about the impending evening. I anticipated that this would be very different from my evening at Lady Catherine’s.

  “Welcome!” Dr. Bartlett exclaimed as he opened the door for me and took my coat.

  He led me to an enormous drawing room immediately to the left of the front entranceway. The room had dark green patterned wallpaper and long narrow windows heavily curtained in sage velvet drapes; it had a grand, earthy feel. Giant potted plants abounded along the walls and in every corner of the room. I saw at least three large fish bowls; one, under a gaslight in the center of the room, was huge, globelike. This globe aquarium absorbed and reflected prisms of light above it into every angle of the room. Unlike the two smaller aquariums, this aquarium contained jellyfish. They were tiny and silver—each a pulsating thimble with long tentacles floating behind like hair. Part of Dr. Buck’s collection, undoubtedly.