The Shifting Tide

TWO

In the morning the mist had blown away. Monk left the house by seven to begin his investigation, and his education concerning the river and its customs. Hester slept a little later, but by eight she, too, was on her way to the house in Portpool Lane almost under the shadow of Reid’s Brewery. It was over three miles, and necessitated the use of two omnibuses and then a walk, but she was too aware of the expense to waste money on a hansom, except in the middle of the night. She arrived just before nine to find Margaret already there, having made a note of the night’s work and busy considering what might best be done for the day.

Margaret was a slender woman in her late twenties. She had the confidence that goes with a degree of money and education, and the vulnerability of a woman who was not yet married and had therefore failed to fulfill her mother’s ambition for her—and indeed her own for her social and financial survival.

She was dressed in a plain wool skirt and jacket, and had a pencil and piece of paper in her hand. Her face lit when she saw Hester.

“Only one admission during the night,” she said. “A woman with a serious stomachache. I think it’s largely hunger. We gave her porridge and a bed, and she looks better already.” There was a shadow on her face, in spite of the harmlessness of the news.

Since the move from Coldbath Square there was no need for rent to be paid, so Hester knew it was not that which caused Margaret’s concern. This building was theirs—or more accurately, it belonged to Squeaky Robinson, who remained out of prison and with a roof over his head strictly on condition that they had the sole use of the house for as long as they should wish. It had allowed them to expand their work, and now a greater part of London was aware that here prostitutes who were injured or ill could find help, without religious conditions attached or any questions from police.

The building was a warren of rooms and corridors. Originally it had been two large houses with appropriate doors or walls knocked down to turn it into one, and it possessed an adequate kitchen and an excellent laundry. Its use in Squeaky Robinson’s time had been as a brothel; the laundry in particular was an inheritance from that time. Ideally if more walls were removed they could turn rooms into wards, which would make it far simpler to care for patients, but that would cost money they did not have.

As it was, it was getting more difficult to afford the necessities: coal, the raw materials for laundering, cleaning, lighting, and food. Too little money seemed to be available for medicines.

“Where did you put her?” Hester asked.

“Room three,” Margaret answered. “I looked in on her half an hour ago, and she was asleep.”

Hester went to see anyway. She opened the door softly, turning the handle with no noise, and stepped inside. The place was still well furnished from its original use, which had been only a matter of months before. There was quite a good rug, albeit made of bright rags, but it kept the warmth, and there was old paper on the walls, which was better than bare plaster. Now the bed was made up with sheets and blankets, and a young woman lay sound asleep, curled up sideways, her hair knotted loosely at the back of her neck, her thin shoulders easily discernible through the cotton nightgown. It was one belonging to the clinic. She had probably come in wearing her own gaudy street dress, which would show too much flesh and give no protection from the cold.

Hester touched the thin neck with the backs of her fingers. The girl did not stir. She looked about eighteen, but more likely was far less. Her collarbone protruded and her skin was very white, but her pulse was steady enough. Margaret was probably right, it was no more than chronic hunger and exhaustion. When she woke up they would give her more to eat, but after that she would probably have to go. They could not afford to feed her regularly.

Hester wondered who she was. A prostitute without sufficient skill or beauty? A servant thrown out because she had lost her character, either willingly or unwillingly, with one of the men in the house? A girl who had had a baby, and perhaps lost it? An abandoned wife? A petty thief? The possibilities were legion.

She went back out and closed the door. She returned to the main room, which had been created with rather simplistic carpentry from two smaller rooms a few months ago. Margaret was sitting at the table and Bessie was carrying a tray from the kitchen with a teapot and two cups. Bessie was a big woman with a fierce countenance and hair which she screwed back off her brow and twisted into a tight knot on the back of her head. She would never have said so—it would have been a sign of unforgivable sentimentality—but she was devoted to Hester, and even Margaret was earning considerable favor in her eyes.

“Tea,” she said unnecessarily, putting the tray down on the middle of the table. “And toast,” she added, indicating the rack with five pieces propped up to remain crisp. “We in’t got much jam left, an’ I dunno where we’re gonna get any more, ’less we get it given us! An’ ’oo’s gonna give jam ter the likes of us? Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Monk!” And without waiting for an answer she swept out.

“Are we really out of jam?” Hester said unhappily. “And so low we can’t afford any more?” She would have liked to bring some from home, but she was far more aware of the need for economy there than she had allowed Monk to know. She already bought less meat, and cheaper cuts; and herring more often than cod or haddock. She had told the woman who came in to do the heavy cleaning that she was no longer needed, and when she had time she meant to do the work herself.

Before Margaret could respond there was a sharp bang on the door and a moment later, without waiting for an answer, Squeaky Robinson came in. He was a thin man, dried up and bent over. He was dressed in a very old velvet jacket that had lost whatever its original color had been. His trousers were thick and gray and he wore slippers. He carried a leather-bound ledger in his arms. He put it on the table, eyeing the tea and toast, and sat down in the third chair opposite Hester.

“We cut it down,” he said with satisfaction. “But you’ll ’ave ter do better.” He had the air of a schoolmaster with a promising student who had unaccountably fallen short of expectation. “Yer can’t put out more’n you get in.”

Hester looked at him patiently, but it required a certain effort. “You’ve balanced the books, Squeaky. What do we have left?”

“Of course I’ve balanced the books!” he said with satisfaction, even if he was masking it by a pretense of being offended. “That’s wot I’m ’ere fer!” He was there under constant protest, because at first he had had nowhere else to go when Hester and Margaret had very neatly tricked him out of his appalling brothel business, and at a stroke gained the building for use as a clinic. But as he had busied himself with small jobs there, he had gained a certain pleasure from it, even if he would sooner have given blood than admitted it.

“So how much have we left?” she repeated.

He looked at her lugubriously. “Not enough, Mrs. Monk, not enough. We’ll manage food for another five or six days, if yer careful. No jam!” He pulled his lips down at the corners. “ ’Ceptin’ fer yerself, pr’aps, an’ Miss Ballinger. No jam fer these women! An’ careful wi’ the soap an’ vinegar an’ the like.” He took a breath. “An’ don’t tell me yer gotta scrub! I know that, just scrub careful. An’ boil them bandages up an’ use ’em again,” he added unnecessarily. He nodded, pleased with himself. He was becoming more and more proprietary each time they discussed the subject.

“Carbolic?” Hester asked.

“Oh, some,” he conceded. “But we need more money, an’ I dunno where yer gonna get it, ’less’n yer let me foller a few ideas o’ me own.”

Margaret raised her cup to conceal a smile.

Hester could make an educated guess as to what Squeaky’s ideas might be. “Not yet,” she said firmly. “And we don’t need to attract any attention that we could avoid. Give Bessie what she’ll need for food, but be sure to keep back at least two pounds. Tell me when we get that low.”

“I can tell yer now,” Squeaky said, shaking his head. “It’ll be day arter termorrer.” He sniffed. “Sometimes I think yer live in a dream. Yer needs me ter wake yer up, an’ that’s a fact.” He rose to his feet slowly, clutching the book. There was an air of profound satisfaction in him, the ease of his body, the smug line of his lips, the way his hands folded over the ledger.

Remembering his previous occupation, and his outrage at being tricked into yielding the house and all its furniture, which was his entire livelihood, Hester smiled back at him. “Of course I do,” she agreed. “That’s why I kept you.”

His satisfaction vanished. He swallowed hard. “I know that!”

“I’m glad you do it so diligently,” she added.

Mollified, he turned and went out, closing the door with a snick behind him.

Margaret put down her cup, and her face was grave. “We do need to get more money,” she agreed. “I’ve tried the usual sources, but it’s getting more difficult.” She looked rueful. “They’re all generous enough when they think it’s for missionary work in Africa or somewhere like that. Speak about lepers and they are only too willing. I began two evenings ago at a soiree. I was with”—she colored slightly—“Sir Oliver, and the opportunity presented itself to approach the subject of charitable gifts without the least awkwardness.”

Hester bit her lip to disguise her smile. Oliver Rathbone was one of the most brilliant—and successful—barristers in London. He had not long before been in love with Hester, but an uncertainty about a step as irrevocable as marriage, and to someone as unsuitable in her outspokenness as Hester, had made him hesitate to ask her. Not that she would have accepted him. She could never have loved anyone else as she did Monk—in spite of their continual quarrels, the erratic nature of his income and his future, let alone the dark shadow of amnesia across his past. To marry him was a risk; to marry anyone else would have been to accept safety and deny the fullness of life, the heights and the depths of emotion, and the happiness that went with them.

She believed that Rathbone could find that same joy with Margaret. And deep as her friendship with him still was, being a woman, she felt most sensitively for Margaret, and read her with an ease she would never have betrayed.

“But the moment they knew that it was for a clinic for street women here,” Margaret went on, “they balked at it.” She bit her lip. “They make me so angry! I stand there feeling like a fool because I’m full of hope that this time they’ll give something. I know it shows in my face, and I can’t help it. I’m trying to be polite, and inside I am veering wildly from pleading with them, thanking them overmuch as if I were a beggar and the money were for me, and fury if they refuse me.”

She did not add that she had been acutely conscious of Rathbone beside her, and what he would think of her manners, her decorum, her suitability to be his wife. But on the other hand, would he lose all respect for her, and she for herself, were she to do less than her best for a cause she believed in so passionately?

“And they say no?” Hester said gently, although something of her own anger crept into her tone. Cowardice and hypocrisy were the two vices she hated the most, perhaps because they seemed to give rise to so many others, especially cruelty. They were woven into each other. She had learned how many men used the street women, and she refrained from judgment on that. She also knew that quite often their wives were perfectly aware of it, even if only by deduction. What she hated was the hypocrisy of then turning and condemning those same women. Perhaps the interdependence was what frightened them, or even the knowledge that what separated them was often an accident of circumstance rather than any moral superiority.

Where there really was a moral honor, a cleanness of spirit, she had found there was also most often a compassion as well. Margaret was an example of exactly such singleness of intent.

“And then I feel so ridiculously disappointed,” Margaret answered, looking across at Hester and smiling ruefully at herself. “And I’m disgusted to be so vulnerable.” She did not mention Rathbone’s name, but Hester knew what she was thinking. Margaret caught her eye and blushed. “Am I so obvious?” she said softly.

“Only to me,” Hester answered. “Because I’ve felt just the same.” She finished the last of her tea. “But we do need more money, so please don’t stop trying. You know me well enough to imagine what a disaster I would be in your place!”

Margaret laughed in spite of herself. Seeing her amusement, it flashed across Hester’s mind to wonder if Rathbone had ever told Margaret of some of the social catastrophes Hester had precipitated in her single days when she had been newly home from the Crimean battlefields and still full of indignation at incompetence. Even then, she had burned with belief in her power to move people to change, to reform. She had wanted to sweep away vested interest and follow discovery and truth. She had spared no one with her tongue, and achieved very few of her dreams.

“I suppose so,” Margaret conceded. “I hold my tongue far more than you do. I don’t think I like that in myself. I’m thinking just the same as you are; I’m just too used to not saying it.”

“It doesn’t achieve anything,” Hester admitted. “In the end it is self-indulgent. You feel wonderful for a few minutes; then you realize what you’ve lost.”

Margaret rubbed her hand over her brow. “I hate having to swallow my beliefs and be civil to people because I need their money!”

“The women need their money,” Hester corrected her. She leaned forward impulsively and put her hand on Margaret’s. “Don’t be as frank as I was—it horrified Oliver. The fact that most of what I said was true made it worse, not better. Give him time to come to it himself. Believe me, he is a lot more liberal than he used to be.” Memory lit sharply in her mind, and she found herself almost laughing. “A year ago he would have been paralyzed with horror at the idea of what we did to Squeaky to get this place, but I honestly think he rather enjoyed it!”

A smile lit Margaret’s face, making her eyes dance. “He did, didn’t he?” she remembered.

Bessie came in, as usual without knocking, to say that there was a young woman looking for help. “Like an ’a’penny rabbit, she is,” she said wearily. “All skin an’ bone. Never make a livin’ like that! In’t ’ad a square meal in weeks, shouldn’t wonder. White as a fish’s belly an’ wheezin’ like a train.”

Hester stood up. “I’ll come,” she said simply. She glanced back once at Margaret, and saw her go to the medicine cupboard and unlock it to check what they had, and what they might afford to buy.

She followed Bessie, and found the girl standing in the waiting room shivering, but too wretched to be frightened anymore. She looked much as Bessie had described. Hester estimated her to be about sixteen.

Hester asked her the usual questions and studied her as she answered. She was slightly feverish and had heavy congestion in her lungs, but her principal problems were exhaustion and hunger, and now also cold. Her thin dress and jacket were useless against the late October rain, not to mention the freezing fog which would shortly come up from the river. If only they had money to give her a hot bath and decent clothes! But the little there was, was already in jeopardy. Hester dearly wanted Margaret to marry Rathbone, but if she did then she might no longer be able to work at the clinic. At best her time would be restricted. As Lady Rathbone, she could hardly spend as many hours there as she did now. She would have social obligations, and of course pleasures she had certainly earned. Rathbone had more than sufficient financial means to give her all she could wish of position and comfort, not like Monk, who understood both hardship and work only too intimately.

And then why should she not have children? That would end her connection with the clinic altogether.

But it could not be fought against, nor would Hester have wanted to, even were it possible.

She told Bessie to put the kettle on again and use the warming pans to heat a bed for the girl. She could at least stay there and sleep until the bed was needed for a more serious case. A little hot water and honey would ease her chest, and a couple of slices of bread her hunger. It is hard to sleep well on an empty stomach.

“We in’t got much ’oney left,” Bessie said warningly, but she was already on her way to do it.

By the time Hester left in the late afternoon, the regular costermonger, Toddy, had called by to give her the bruised apples he could not sell and the heavier vegetables not worth his while to take all the way back home again. He had consulted her about his cough, his bunions, and the blister on his hand. She had looked at them all and assured him they were not serious. She recommended honey for his throat, and he went away happy.

Effie, as the new girl was named, was still sound asleep, but her breathing was less noisy and there was a look of deep peace on her white face. The other patients were well enough, and Margaret was renewed in her determination to hold her tongue at social events, no matter what it cost her temper or her indignation. Squeaky was still grumbling about the responsibility of balancing the books, but if there was a man in London who could do it, it was he.

Hester was pleased to arrive home, even though she was aware that Monk would probably not be there. At least he had a case to work on, rather than looking for business, hoping and failing. Although as she cleared out the grate to light a low fire, being careful from habit to use no more coal than necessary, in spite of their suddenly improved circumstances, she could not keep her thoughts from turning to the problems he would face in an area so unfamiliar to him.

She lit the fire and watched the slow flame seeking the wood sticks, then the smaller pieces of coal. But after a brief blaze, the fire was not catching. The flame had sunk to a smolder. She bent down on her hands and knees and knelt forward to blow gently at the small part that was still alive. She knew the trick of placing an open newspaper over the whole front of the fireplace, to make the chimney draw, but she had no newspaper. It was an extra expense unnecessary at the moment. Anyway, she was too busy to take much interest in the world and its troubles. There was no time to read such things.

The flames licked up again.

This was the season of year when stew was a very welcome meal, and if the big pan was left on the back of the stove, she could add vegetables to it every day, and it kept perfectly. It also meant that whatever time Monk came home, a meal was hot and waiting. This time she felt free to add a nice amount of fresh meat, and when she heard his key in the lock shortly after seven, the meal was cooked.

“Well?” she asked when they were seated at the table and the bowls were steaming in front of them.

He thought before he replied, watching her reaction. “I’ve never been so cold in my life!” he answered, then smiled widely. “At least not that I can remember . . .” Since recovering so much of his past in the recent railway case, the fact of his amnesia no longer haunted him as it had from the time of the coach crash which had caused it, a month or two before they had first met—now nearly seven years ago. It was as if the ghosts were laid, the worst known and faced, and they had been not giants but ordinary weaknesses after all, frailties that could be understood, pitied, and healed. The horror had shrunk to human proportions, into tragedy rather than wickedness. Now he could joke about it.

She smiled back. A long-borne weight was gone. “Is the river very different from the streets?” she asked.

“It feels different,” he replied, taking another mouthful and savoring the richness of it compared with their recent frugality. “Everything’s governed by the tides; all of life seems to revolve around them. Ships go upstream and downstream with the ebb and flow. Get caught at low water and you run aground, but try to pass under the bridges at high water and you break your masts. The rivermen know it to the foot.” He thought for a moment. “But the water has a beauty the streets don’t. There’s a feeling of width. The light and shadow are always changing.”

She looked at his face and saw the awe of it in him. There was something in the elements of the river which had captured him already. Again the fear touched her that he was out of his depth. Might he be too occupied in seeing what was physical to be aware of the differences in the minds of thieves and receivers, the subtleties of deceit and violence whose warnings he might not recognize because he was unfamiliar?

“You aren’t listening,” he accused her.

“I’m trying to picture it,” she said quickly, meeting his eyes again. “It doesn’t sound like the city at all. Where do you start to look for the ivory? Can you trace where people have passed when there are no tracks, no footprints?” Then she wished she had not asked, because how could he know? It was too soon.

He looked rueful. “I learned that today. I spent most of the time just walking around the docks. I’ve lived in London for at least fifteen years, but I had no idea how separate a world the docks are. Thousands of tons of cargo go through them every week, from every part of the world. It’s amazing there isn’t more lost.” He leaned a little forward over the table towards her, his food temporarily forgotten, his voice rising in urgency. “It’s the gateway to the world, in and out. Ships have to wait to unload until they can find space at one of the wharves. Sometimes it’s days, sometimes weeks after they drop anchor. There are people on the water all the time—”

“How are you going to find out who took the ivory?” she interrupted.

He took another mouthful of food. “I’m not sure that I can begin there,” he replied. “I think I’ll have to come at it the other way, find out where it went and trace back from there to who took it. I need the thief because he killed Hodge. Otherwise I wouldn’t care about him. But he sold the ivory to someone, or he will. Everything that’s stolen gets sold sooner or later, unless you can eat it, burn it, or wear it.”

“Burn it?” she said in surprise.

“Coal,” he explained with a sudden smile. “Most of the mudlarks on the banks are after coal. Some are looking for nails, of course, or anything else you could use.”

“Oh . . . yes.” She should have thought of that. She tried to imagine wading up to her knees in the winter river, bending to search for bits someone would buy. But perhaps it was no worse than walking the alleys at night in the rain, hoping to sell the use of your body for half an hour. Poverty, and the need to survive, could change your view of a lot of things. Thank heaven that if Monk did not find the ivory, at least they could turn to Callandra Daviot to help them—temporarily. That is if Monk could bear to ask her.

Perhaps Hester should go to her and ask for something for the clinic? Callandra, of all people, would understand. She had worked ceaselessly for the good of the hospital, and never shrank from asking anyone for money, time, or anything else she needed. She had shamed many a society matron into a larger gift than the woman had ever intended.

She stood up and cleared away the plates. She had a hot bread-and-butter pudding in the oven, and she brought it out and served it with considerable pride. Making it so well was a very recent achievement. She watched him eat it with pleasure, noting the amusement he strove to hide, not with great success. She caught his smile, and shrugged a little ruefully.

They were still at the table when there was a firm rap on the front door.

Monk stood up immediately, but there was surprise in his face. It was too late for anyone to call socially, and he expected no information on his case for Louvain yet. Either the caller was for Hester, to do with some emergency at Portpool Lane, or a new case for him.

Hester picked up the dirty dishes and carried them out to the kitchen. When she returned, Callandra Daviot was standing in the sitting room. Her hat was askew and her hair was as wildly untidy as usual, curling in the damp and falling out of its pins, none of which mattered in the slightest. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She had one glove in her hand; the other one was nowhere to be seen. She was glowing with happiness.

Hester was delighted to see her. She went forward to welcome Callandra.

“How are you, my dear?” Callandra said warmly.

“Very happy to see you,” Hester replied, letting her go and standing back. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Callandra looked startled. “Oh! No thank you, my dear.” She stood still in the middle of the floor as if unable to make herself sit down, the smile still wide on her face. “How are you both?”

Hester thought of lying politely, but she and Callandra had known each other too long and too well. The generation between them had not affected their friendship in the slightest. It had been Hester, rather than anyone her own age or social class, who had watched Callandra’s heartbreaking love for Kristian Beck, and understood it. It had been Hester and Monk to whom she had turned when Kristian had been accused of murder, and not only because of Monk’s skill, but because they were friends who would not mock her loyalty or intrude upon her grief.

Hester could not deceive her. “We are struggling to make ends meet in the clinic,” she answered. “Victims of our success, I suppose.” However deep their friendship, she would not tell her that for Monk work had been poor of late. He could do so if he wished; for her to do it would be a betrayal.

Callandra immediately turned her concentration to the subject.

“Raising funds is always difficult,” she agreed. “Particularly when it is not a charity one feels comfortable boasting about. It’s one thing to tell everyone at the dinner table that you have just given to doctors or missionaries scattered across the Empire. It can stop conversation utterly to say you are trying to save the local prostitutes.”

Hester could not help laughing, and even Monk smiled.

“Do you still have that excellent Margaret Ballinger with you?” Callandra asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes,” Hester said with enthusiasm.

“Good.” Callandra lifted up her hand as if she should have had an umbrella in it, then remembered that she had left it somewhere. “I can give her some reliable names for raising contributions. You had better not be the one to ask.” A smile of profound affection softened her face. “I know you too well to delude myself that you would be tactful. One refusal, and you would render such an opinion as to make all future approaches impossible.”

“Thank you,” Hester said with mock decorum, but there was something in Callandra’s words which disturbed her. Why did Callandra not offer to ask them herself? In the past she had not been hesitant, and she could surely see in Hester’s face that she was already busier than she could manage with comfort.

Callandra was still standing in the middle of the room as though too excited to sit. Now she was searching in her reticule for something, but since it was more voluminous than most, and obviously over-full and in no sort of order at all, she was having difficulty. She gave up. “Have you a piece of paper, William? Perhaps you would write them down for me?”

“Of course,” he agreed, but he glanced at Hester rapidly, and away again before he moved to obey.

Hester was on the edge of asking what it was that had brought Callandra, unannounced, and was so clearly momentous to her that all her usual care was scattered to oblivion. But to do so might be intrusive. She was a dear friend, but that did not destroy her right to privacy.

Monk brought the pen and paper, and an inkwell, setting them on the table for Callandra. She sat down at last and wrote the names and addresses herself, and then after a moment’s thought, with a flourish added what sums she thought they could comfortably contribute. She held the list up in the air and waved it for the ink to dry, since Monk had brought no blotting paper, then she handed it to Hester. “Don’t lose it,” she commanded. “I may not be able to replace it for you.”

Monk stiffened.

Hester looked up at him slowly, hardly breathing.

Callandra’s eyes were bright. It was with happiness and tears, as if she were on the edge of some tremendous step and she was clinging to the last moments of the familiar, because it too was dear to her and she could not let go without pain.

“I am going to Vienna,” she said with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “To live there.”

“Vienna!” Hester repeated the word as if it were close to incomprehensible, and yet it made the most devastating sense. Vienna was the original home of Kristian Beck, before he had left with his wife to come to London. Then he had met Callandra, his wife had been murdered, and grief and shattering revelations had followed. Perhaps as difficult as those of his dead wife’s character had been the discovery of Kristian’s own origins, turning upside down everything he had previously believed. But was Callandra going to Vienna because Kristian had decided to return? What was his part in her decision? Hester was already dry-mouthed with fear that Callandra would be hurt yet again, and she had borne so much already.

But Callandra’s eyes were shining, and it did not seem a wild hope but rather a steady understanding. “Kristian and I are going to be married,” she said softly. Her voice was tender, and absolutely sure. “He has decided that he needs to face the past, look at it honestly and discover the answers, whatever they are.”

She turned from Hester to Monk. “I’m sorry, William. Sharing cases with you gave me interest and purpose during many years when I would have had neither without you. Your friendship has meant even more to me—as much, in its own way, as Hester’s. But Kristian will be my husband.” Her eyes flickered down, and then up again. “I wish to be with him, and if leaving my home and my dearest friends is the price, then I will pay it willingly. I thank you with all my heart for the love you have given me in the past, and for your skill and loyalty in defending Kristian . . . and me. I know what we would have suffered without you.”

Hester went forward and put her arms around Callandra, holding her tightly and feeling Callandra’s eager response. “I couldn’t be more delighted for you,” she said honestly. “Go to Vienna, and be happy. And whatever Kristian finds there, help him to remember that he is not responsible for the sins or the ignorance of his fathers. None of us are. We cannot ever undo our own pasts, let alone anyone else’s. But we have the future, and I am so glad yours is with Kristian. That couldn’t be better.” She kissed Callandra on the cheek, hugged her hard for a moment longer, and then stepped back.

Callandra turned to Monk, her face still touched with uncertainty.

He did exactly as Hester had done. “Go and be happy,” he said sincerely. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than both of you. And when you’ve solved the problems of the past, there’ll be other good causes to fight for. If there’s anyone who knows that, I do.”

Callandra sniffed hard, gulped, and gave up the battle. She let the tears flow, standing quite still, her face smiling in spite of them. Then as Monk pulled out a handkerchief, she accepted it and blew her nose.

“Thank you,” she said, handing the handkerchief back to Hester. “I apologize. But I cannot add stealing your clothes to my general desertion. My carriage is waiting. Will you allow me to retreat with what dignity I have left?”

“Of course,” Hester said, her own voice thick with emotion. “Good-byes are ridiculous. One is quite sufficient.”

“I’m most grateful,” Callandra said, her eyes brimming again.

She dug in her reticule and this time quite easily found what she was looking for. She brought out two small packages, handsomely wrapped and tied up in ribbon. She glanced at them, then handed one to Hester and the other to Monk. From the expectancy in her face she was obviously waiting for them to open the gifts now.

Hester started with hers, undoing the ribbon and paper carefully. Inside was a box, and within it the most exquisitely carved cameo, not of the usual head of a woman, but of a man with an elaborate helmet and flowing hair. It was mounted in a rich filigree of both yellow and rose gold.

Hester gasped with delight, then looked up at Callandra and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.

Monk unwrapped his more impatiently, tearing the paper. His was a gold watch, a perfect piece of both art and workmanship. His appreciation was abundantly clear in his face even before he spoke to thank her.

“So you will remember not only me but how much I care for you both,” she said a little huskily. “Now I must go.”

She smiled once more and then swept out of the door as Monk held it open for her. Her skirts were crooked, her jacket not quite matching, and her hat had slipped to one side, but her head was high. She did not look behind her, even once.

Monk closed the door and returned to the fire, the watch still in his hand. Hester was still clasping the cameo. She was thrilled for Callandra. Her friend had loved Kristian profoundly and hopelessly for so long that to have wished her anything but success would be unthinkable. But she was aware, with the cold from the open door still sharp in the air, just how alone it left them. She was not sure what to say. The awareness of the difference it would make, especially now, was like a third presence in the room between them.

“It had to happen,” she said, lifting her gaze slowly to meet his. “We couldn’t have wished it differently. If the position were the other way around, and it were you and I in their place, and they in ours, I should go to Vienna, or anywhere else, if you needed me—or wanted me with you.”

He smiled slowly. “Would you?”

She knew he was joking, fighting the fear so she could not see it. She pretended she had not. “I’d like tea,” she remarked. “Shall I fetch some?”

By ten the following day, when Monk was back at the dockside, Hester was going through the cabinets in the main room at Portpool Lane. There was conspicuously less of almost everything than there had been the day before. No later than tomorrow they would have to buy more disinfectant and at least carbolic, lye, vinegar, and candles. It would be nice to have brandy as well, and fortified wine to add to beef tea. She could list another dozen things it would help to have.

The girl who had come in the day before was still deeply asleep, but her breathing was easier and there was already a little color in her skin. If they could have afforded to feed her for a week or two, she would probably have recovered completely.

Hester had turned away from the cupboard and was going to the drawer of the desk when Bessie came in. She had her sleeves rolled up and an apron tied around her waist. There was an old smear of blood across the center of it.

“We got another of ’em as can ’ardly breathe,” she said wearily, her face puckered in anger because the problem was too big. She had spent as long as she could remember trying to cope with it, and as fast as she cured one, another turned up, if not two. “Why couldn’t the good Lord ’a designed us better?” she added tartly. “Or else done away wi’ winter. ’e can’t ’a not see’d this comin’! It ’appens every year!”

Hester did not bother with an answer, not that she had one anyway. The question was rhetorical. She turned from what she had been going to do and followed Bessie to the entrance room, where a middle-aged woman in brown was sitting hunched up on the old couch, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She breathed slowly and with obvious difficulty. In the candlelight her face was colorless; her fair hair, liberally streaked with gray, was piled on her head like so much old straw.

Hester looked more carefully at her pinched face and saw the whiteness about her lips and around her eyes, and the slight flush in her cheeks. It was probably bronchitis, which could turn to pneumonia. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Molly Struther,” the woman answered without looking up.

“How do you feel, exactly?”

“Tired enough ter die,” the woman replied. “Dunno why I bothered ter come ’ere, ’cept Flo tol’ me ter. Said as yer’d ’elp. Daft, I call it. Wot can yer do? Gonna change the world, are yer?” There was no mockery in her voice; she had not the energy for it.

“Find you a warm, dry bed—undisturbed for the most part—and some food,” Hester replied. “Plenty of hot tea, with maybe a nip of brandy in it, at least until the brandy runs out.”

Molly drew in a deep breath of amazement and broke into a fit of coughing until she all but gagged. Hester fetched her some hot water from the kettle, put a spoonful of honey in it, and held it out for her. Molly sipped at it gratefully, but it was several minutes before she tried to speak again.

“Thanks,” she said finally.

Hester helped her to one of the rooms with two beds, while Bessie went off to heat a warming pan. Half an hour later Molly was lying on her back, blankets up to her chin, eyes still wide with surprise and the sheer unfamiliarity of it.

“We gotter get more money!” Bessie said to Hester when they were back in the kitchen. She poked tentatively at the stove, wondering how long it would burn without adding more coke to it. It was a fine balance between using the minimum it would take to keep burning, and so little it actually went out.

“I know,” Hester admitted. “Margaret’s trying, and I’ve got a list of names to go on with, but people are uncomfortable about giving because of the women’s occupation. They feel better about sending their offerings to Africa, or somewhere like that.”

Bessie made a snarl in her throat that was eloquent of contempt. “So they think them Africans is better than we are?” she demanded. “Or they’re colder, or ’ungrier, or sicker mebbe?”

“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with that,” Hester replied, warming her hands above the cast-iron surface of the stove.

“O’ course it in’t!” Bessie snapped, filling the kettle up again from the ewer of water in the far corner near the stone sink, and putting it back on the hob. “It’s ter do wi’ conscience, that’s wot it’s ter do wi’! It in’t our fault if Africans starve or die; it’s too far away fer us ter feel bad about it. But if our own is freezin’ an’ starvin’, then that’s summink ter feel bad abaht, aw-right. ’Cos mebbe we should ’a see’d they wasn’t like that in the first place.”

Hester did not answer.

“Or mebbe it’s ’cos they in’t no better than they should be,” Bessie went on, drying her hands on her apron. “They sell theirselves on the street, which is sin, in’t it? An’ we might get our skirts dirty if we ’ave anythin’ ter do wi’ the likes o’ them! Never mind our ’usbands go ter them poor sods fer a bit o’ wotever we don’t wanter do—’cos we got an ’eadache, or it in’t decent, or we don’t want no more kids!” She slammed the grate door shut on the stove. “It in’t nice ter know about things like that, so we pretend as we don’t! So o’ course we don’t want ’em fed or nursed; we’d rather play at it as if they in’t real. Gawd ’elp us, it in’t our daughter, or sister, or even our man!”

“That’s probably more like it,” Hester agreed, hoping the kettle would boil soon. A hot cup of tea would warm her through before she went around collecting the linen to wash, and turned her thoughts to what they could fall back on if Margaret failed. She didn’t want an idle mind, or it would be too quickly filled with thoughts of how Monk was progressing on the docks in the blustering rain, searching for evidence he might not even recognize if it was there in his hands.

“ ’Course it is,” Bessie retorted. “Stick yer ’ead in the coal cellar, an’ then tell the world there in’t nobody there, ’cos you can’t see a bleedin’ thing! Gor, I dunno! Are they stupid, or just frit out o’ their brains?”

Hester did not reply. She was upstairs changing beds, ready to wash the linen, when Bessie came tramping up about two hours later.

“I’m here!” Hester replied, coming to the door.

“Got another sick one, poor cow,” Bessie said cheerfully. “Looks like death on a bad day, she do. Shoot ’er’d be the kindest thing.” She caught a stray length of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Mind, I’ve felt like that at times. It don’t last forever, jus’ seems like it. But she got a feller with ’er wot’s askin’ real nice, all proper dressed an’ all. An’ ’e says ’e’ll pay us wot it costs ter look arter ’er, an’ more besides.” She waited expectedly for Hester’s approval.

Hester felt a stab of pity for the woman, but she could not help the flood of relief that washed over her that someone was here this minute with money, not the promise but the actuality. “Good!” she said enthusiastically. “Let’s go and see him. Whoever he is, he’s come to the right place!” And she followed on Bessie’s heels as they went downstairs and back to the front room.

The man was standing looking towards them. He was a good height, not unusually broad, but strong and supple. His light brown hair was thick with a slight wave to it, but cut shorter than most, and sprung up from his brow. His skin was weather-burned, his eyes blue and narrowed as if against light that was harsh.

“Mrs. Monk?” He stepped forward. “My name is Clement Louvain. I’ve heard that you do a great work here for women of the streets taken ill. Am I told rightly?”

Louvain! She was uncertain whether to show that she knew his name or not. “You are told rightly,” she replied, intensely curious to know why he was there with a woman who was obviously extremely ill. Even at the slightest glance that Hester had been able to afford her, she looked fearful. She was all but fainting where she sat on the couch, and she had not even raised her head to look at either Hester or Bessie. “We help all those we can, particularly if they have not the money to pay a doctor,” she told Louvain.

“Money is not the problem,” he countered. “I shall be happy to pay whatever charges you consider reasonable, as I told your woman. Plus a contribution so you can care for others. I imagine such a thing would be welcome? Folks can be hard to persuade when they can excuse themselves by a nice moral judgment.” There was a bitter humor in his eyes, and he appeared to know that Hester understood his meaning precisely. He was speaking to her as an equal, at least on the subject of irony.

“It would be welcome,” she agreed, warming to the intelligence in him, and the dry wit. “Without money we can help no one.”

He nodded. “What would be fair?”

She thought rapidly. She must not pitch it too high or he would be angry and refuse to pay, but she wanted as much as possible—at least sufficient to look after the woman well, feed her, give her clean linen, sit up with her if necessary, and give her such medicines as would ease her distress. “Two shillings a day,” she replied.

He seemed pleased. “Good. I will give you fourteen shillings and come back again in a week, although I imagine it will be unnecessary. She has family who will come for her before then. It is simply a matter of caring for her in the meantime. And I shall donate five pounds to your charity, so you can care for others as well.”

It was an enormous sum. Suspicions flickered in her mind as to why he would give so much, and who the woman really was. But the money would keep them open for another week at least, and she could not afford to refuse it. After that surely Margaret would have succeeded in persuading at least one benefactor from Callandra’s list who would give something.

“Thank you,” she accepted. Equivocation or a refusal for the sake of courtesy would be absurd. “What can you tell me about her, so that we can do the best for her we are able?”

“Her name is Ruth Clark,” he replied. “She is . . . was . . . the mistress of a colleague of mine. She has become ill, and he is no longer interested in her.” His voice carried emotion, but no anger that she could see. There was an intense pity in him, just for a moment; then he realized she was watching him, and he controlled it until it was hardly discernible. He was not a man who wished to have any softness seen in him, even here.

“He put her out,” he added. “I have sent letters to her family, but it may be a few days before anyone can send for her. They live in the north. And at present she is too ill to travel.”

Hester looked at the woman again. Her face was flushed deep red, and she seemed to be so consumed by her suffering that she was almost oblivious of her surroundings.

“Can you tell me any history of her illness?” Hester asked quietly. Even though she thought the woman was not listening to her, she still disliked speaking of someone as if they were not present. “Anything you can tell me may help.”

“I don’t know when it began,” he replied. “Or if it was slow or sudden. She seems to be feverish, barely able to stand, and since last night when I took her from his keeping, she has had no desire to eat.”

“Is she sick, vomiting?” she asked.

He looked at her quite steadily. “No. It seems to be a matter of fever and dizziness, and difficulty in breathing. I daresay it is pneumonia, or something of the sort.” He hesitated. “I don’t wish her in a hospital with their rigid moral rules. They would despise her for her circumstances, and rob her of any privacy.”

Hester understood. She had worked in hospital wards and knew the pages of directions, the things patients must do, and could not do without removal of privileges, freedoms. Many of them were to do with morality, in someone’s strict opinion.

“We’ll do everything for her that we can,” she promised. “Rest and warmth, and as many hot drinks as we can persuade her to take, will help. But if it is pneumonia, it will have to run its course, until the fever breaks. No one can tell whether that will be for good or ill, but we will do all that can be done. And I can promise you that at least she will be eased in her distress.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and with a suddenly intense feeling, “You are a good woman.” He put his hand into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of money. He placed five gold sovereigns on the back of the couch, and then counted out four half crowns and four separate shillings. “Our agreement,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Monk. Good day to you.”

“Good day, Mr. Louvain,” she replied, but already her attention was on the sick woman. She picked up the money and put it in the pocket of her dress, then rearranged her apron over it. “Bessie, you’d best help me get Miss Clark along to a room and into bed. The poor soul looks fit to pass out.”

And indeed Ruth Clark seemed so deep in her distress as to be beyond helping herself. When Hester bent to half lift her on one side, with Bessie on the other, it was all they could do to get her as far as the first bedroom. Bessie propped her up, sagging against the door frame, while Hester freed one hand to open the door, and then together they half lifted, half dragged her across to the bed. She fell on it heavily. Her eyes were still open, but she did not seem to see anything, nor did she speak.

She was dead weight, and with considerable difficulty, in spite of much practice, Hester took her outer clothes off while Bessie went to get half a cup of hot tea with a drop of brandy in it.

When she had removed all but Ruth’s undergarments and had eased her into the bed, Hester took the pins out of Ruth’s hair so she would be more comfortable. She touched the woman’s forehead. It was very hot, her skin dry. She studied her patient’s face, trying to assess what sort of woman she was and how long she had been ill.

It must have come on very rapidly. Had it been slow—a sore throat, then a tight chest, then fever—surely Louvain would have brought her sooner. She did not look to be a woman of delicate constitution, or prone to infection. The skin of her arms and body was firm and her neck and shoulders had a good texture, not the loose, thin, slightly bluish look of someone frequently ill. Her hair was thick; indeed, it was very handsome, a dark brown with heavy wave, and when she was well it probably had a gloss to it. Her features were regular and pleasing. What kind of a man would have cast her off like this, simply because she was ill? It was certainly not chronic! If she recovered she would again be a healthy, vital woman; she was not beyond her mid-thirties.

Was she some shipowner’s mistress whose circumstances made it impossible for him to give her the care she needed? Was he afraid she was going to die, and he would be unable to explain the presence of her body in his house?

Or was she Louvain’s own mistress, and for some reason he was unwilling to admit that?

Had the reputation of the clinic spread so far that even on the dockside Louvain had heard of it? Or had Monk mentioned something of it when accepting his new job?

Perhaps none of that mattered now. She did not ask questions of the others in her care. Their recovery was all that concerned her. Why should this woman be different?

Bessie came with the tea, and between them they propped Ruth up. A teaspoonful at a time, they managed to persuade her to take it. Finally they eased her down again, put the covers right up to her chin, and left her to sink into a sleep so profound she seemed close to unconsciousness.

Outside the room Hester fished in her pocket and took out the money. She gave one of the sovereigns and the fourteen shillings to Bessie. “Go and get food, coal, carbolic, vinegar, brandy, and quinine,” she ordered. She added another sovereign. “Enough for the rest of the week. Thank God there isn’t rent to pay! I’ll give this to Squeaky. That should make him smile!” And with a lift of hope she followed down the corridor after Bessie.