Heaven's Bones (27 page)

Mrs. Huxley was a wise woman, and wrote an innocuous reply to her son, hiding away his letter at the bottom of her correspondence
drawer and declining to mention his concerns to her husband or her daughter.

Upon the taking of her medical degree Sophie had received a letter from Dr. McPherson, congratulating her and asking the favor of a visit at his offices. Smiling at her mentor's old-fashioned and courtly tone, Sophie had scribbled an assent and met him the next day in the same room where she had sat, nervous but determined, and asked him to instruct her.

This time there was a woman perched in one of the doctor's chairs, some years older than Sophie, with coifed blonde hair under a stylish hat. Her clothing was fashionable, but not extravagant, and she was what her mother would call “quite lovely,” with gray-blue eyes in a delicately colored, friendly face.

She was taller than Sophie, but thinner, and the hand she held out was wiry and strong.

“Lady Cecelia Agnew,” said the Professor. “May I present Miss—pardon, Doctor Sophia Huxley, one of the best students it's been my honor to teach.”

Sophie felt herself blushing deeply at the Professor's heartfelt tone. Lady Cecelia smiled at her, and Sophia decided that she liked her very much.

“I've heard so much about you, Doctor Huxley,” she said in a clear alto voice.

“Really?” said Sophie, raising an eyebrow at Professor McPherson. “I hope the reports were favorable.”

Lady Cecelia laughed.

“Indubitably,” she said. “So much so that I'm here to offer a proposition.”

She gestured for Sophie to sit, and she did, wondering if the woman was looking for a personal physician, a companion of some sort with the added bonus of medical expertise. She looked to be in good health, certainly—but one never knew what real or imagined
illnesses could be lurking beneath the surface.

She didn't seem the self-indulgent type, however. And her name was familiar—Sophie was sure she'd heard the name of Cecelia Agnew before.

Professor McPherson rang for tea before taking his place behind the desk.

“Lady Cecelia is an acquaintance of long standing,” he said, reaching for his ammonite and turning it over in his hand. “And I have been privileged to be able to assist her in some small ways in some of her charitable endeavors.”

That was it. She'd heard her mother mention her name—after she'd been to one of her at-homes, perhaps. A young widow with a substantial fortune, for her husband's estate had not been entailed; she was on the board of several charitable organizations. Sophie had also heard that she had purchased property near Whitechapel, where several tenement houses had burned down some years before.

A pretty widow with money—it was surprising that she hadn't remarried. But perhaps she found good works more engaging, and didn't want to give up her freedom.

Sophia could certainly understand that point of view.

“For the last few years I've been engaged on a project that I hope you can help with,” said Lady Cecelia, leaning forward in her chair and fixing Sophie with her clear eyes. It occurred to Sophie that she must be rather hard to resist.

“I've wanted, for some time, to build a medical clinic for the needs of women, specifically poor women, in the London slums,” she continued. “I'm sure you're aware that there's a dreadful lack of adequate care for women of the lower classes, and that they are subject to a great deal of neglect and ignorance—harmful ignorance.”

“Very aware,” returned Sophie. She felt the spark of excitement in her breast. This wasn't a woman who sat at teatime with a circle
of upper class, well-meaning matrons criticizing the Poor's lack of initiative. This was a woman who
built
things.

“The situation has been improving,” Lady Cecelia continued, over the jangle of tea things being brought in. She took a steaming cup from the maid and smiled at her.

That's her strength, thought Sophie. That's why she's not like the women on a dozen charitable committees, who knit scarves for foundlings but discharge the servant girl when the son of the house gets them pregnant. She sees people, no matter what they are.

“The London Maternity Hospital has a charitable wing, as does the new Hospital,” Lady Cecelia went on. “But I want to reach the women where they live, in the streets, in the slums. The shop girl, the docker's wife, the prostitute.”

She smiled again. “I'm sure you will excuse my indelicacy.”

Over her tea Sophia smiled back. “I am difficult to shock, although I'm sure it can be done,” she said. “But not by mention of the oldest profession.”

“Doctor McPherson has kindly agreed to supervise the clinic,” said Lady Cecelia. “And will make some rounds there. But I would like a full-time physician on staff, a physician the clients will talk to honestly, more honestly than they might a man. I want a female doctor. The job is yours, if you will take it. You'll receive an adequate salary, plus room and board.”

Sophia put down her cup carefully. Her hand was trembling a little.

Her own clinic, her own place, her own work, without having to put up with the condescension of the male doctors who would not acknowledge her existence, or who considered her a freak and an amusement. Doctors less qualified than her who would be promoted over her. Men who would treat her with less respect than a nurse, because she had dared to step out of her proper place.

“Not all women like to be treated by a female doctor, you know,”
she said, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. “Many will refuse to see me.”

“I will attend several days a week,” said the Professor, laying the ammonite on the glass top of the desk and giving it a spin. “And they will get used to you.”

“If Professor McPherson thinks I can do it,” said Sophie, “then I have every faith I can.”

Lady Cecelia beamed and clapped her hands.

“Oh, I am so glad!” she declared, looking suddenly girlish. “I was dreadfully afraid you'd say no, Doctor Huxley.”

Sophie couldn't help laughing as Lady Cecelia drew her into an embrace.

“Sophie,” she said through a mouthful of feathers from Cecelia's hat. “You must call me Sophie.”

Sophie snuggled down into her sheets and pillows, hoping against hope that the noise came from next door or from the street and had nothing to do with her.

No joy. “Doctor Huxley,” called Janet, letting off pounding the door only to call her name. “Doctor Huxley, you're wanted.”

“Always nice to be wanted,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling, which was dimly illuminated by the glow of streetlights that curtains and shades could not quite keep out. What time was it, anyway?

Another flurry of knocking, and Sophie kicked away the down comforter, cursing beneath her breath.

“I'm coming, Janet,” she called, untangling her legs from the sheets and groping about for her dressing robe. The knocking ceased and she was tempted to fall back into bed, but it was a fool's dream—Janet was relentless when necessary. An admirable, even essential, quality in the woman—but at the moment Sophie didn't appreciate it.

The glow from the yellow gas jet in the hallway dimly lit Janet's face—her familiar dour, puffy face with its lines bought from a life lived harshly, mostly on the streets, now in Sophie's service.

Three years ago now, Janet had come to her door, looking for work, and she didn't seem afraid either of blood or the fetid streets Sophie ventured through often enough. She was ill-tempered, obstinate, and fiercely loyal to her friends. Sophie loved her dearly.

Janet was already dressed in her customary gray work blouse and black skirt.

“It's Lottie Barnes, miss,” she said, pronouncing the last name in two syllables as “Bar-ens.” “She's asking you to come out, quick. Something's happened to one of the Haymarket girls—something bad.”

Sophie considered her work clothes draped over the chair at the foot of her bed—she'd been too tired to hang them up and sponge the day's grime away. Very well—Lottie Barnes would have to take her as she came. If she knocked her out of bed at three in the morning she couldn't expect her to be daisy-fresh as a minister's wife at Sunday service.

“What's wrong? A bad job?” asked Sophie, shrugging off her robe and tossing it on the bed. A “bad job” had become her shorthand for a back-street abortion gone wrong, which happened far too often.

Janet picked up Sophie's skirt, shaking it out and holding it ready for her to step in. Sophie was used to dressing herself but this early—or late—she appreciated the help.

“I don't think so, miss. Seemed worse'n that, from the way she asked for you. She's fair shaken, our Lottie is.”

Sophie stood still while Janet fastened the buttons at the back of her neck. Lottie Barnes was a respectable—by Whitechapel standards—woman, who owned one of the cleaner boardinghouses on Whitechapel Road. The whores who rented her rooms were
expected to behave with a modicum of propriety, and they did, for Lottie could be fearsome.

She also served as an occasional midwife and was as much an expert on contraception as any medical professional of Sophie's acquaintance. She was also known to be available to “take care” of inconvenient pregnancies, but she was careful in her work, taking a certain professional pride in it, and Sophie had never been called to treat an infection from her efforts. She tolerated Sophie and her work with benign contempt for the most part, which had evolved over time to grudging respect as Sophie had proved to be neither faint-hearted in her work nor of the breed of do-gooders who descended periodically on Whitechapel, blazing with plans of reform, poking their heads into every tenement room with sound financial advice and threats of eviction from hygienic-minded Societies for the Benefit of the Poor.

Sophie wondered what it would take to shake the somewhat draconian Mrs. Barnes.

“Must have been a beating,” she remarked, sitting to lace up her boot. Janet kneeled and slipped the other one on.

“P'raps,” she said. “There—you're done now, miss. Don't forget your coat. It's a chilly night, and the fog's still thick on the ground.”

Sophie let Janet drape the coat over her shoulders and grabbed her medical kit from its place on her bedside table. The weight of the bag, warm worn leather with brass buckles, felt good in her hand, as always. It had been a gift from her father upon her receiving her medical degree. She could never help smiling when she hefted it.

Lottie Barnes was waiting in the foyer and inclined her head slightly as Sophie, shadowed by Janet, came down the stairs.

The older woman was deadly pale, and some ineffable expression crossed her face at the sight of Sophie—could it be relief?

“Thank you, Miss Sophia,” she said, and Sophie stifled a smile as
she felt Janet tense at her back. It was an endless source of frustration to Janet that so many of her mistress' professional acquaintances refused to call her
Dr. Huxley
.

“I wouldn't have hauled you from your bed,” Mrs. Barnes continued, her voice implacable despite her white, shaken face. “I felt—I felt you might be able to help. It's a case for the police, I suppose. But …” She shrugged. “You'll understand when you see her. I'd never imagine such a thing.”

The fog was indeed thick outside the comparatively warm interior of the row house, although it was breaking up into clots that exposed the damp street and sidewalks. Lottie strode purposefully along, with Sophie and Janet close behind, surefooted, turning down this alley and that byway as if she was the mistress of the East End streets—which, in a way, she was.

Once a drunken figure lurched toward them, accosting them when he saw three women out at night. The filthy figure might have been twenty or fifty, with features blurred by gin or worse, and he leered at them, showing blackened teeth. His expression changed, however, when he recognized Lottie, and under her piercing gaze he shrunk aside, touching his grimy cap.

“Beg pardon, missus,” he managed, as all three swept past him. “I didn't know.”

The building where Mrs. Barnes presided presented a slightly better appearance than most, in that even in the dim light one could see that its steps were swept free of debris and that the glass of the front windows was unbroken, not plugged with wads of cloth and newsprint as so many were against the autumn chill and the persistent fog. It seemed to Sophie, waiting as the door was unbolted from inside at Lottie's imperious knock, that a wisp of the fog coiled about her face and stroked her cheek with a clammy and unwarranted intimacy, and she shivered to her very bones. Goose across my grave, she thought, as yellow light streamed from the entrance
and silhouetted the slight, bent figure of the crippled boy that served as Lottie's doorman.

He peered past Lottie at the two women behind her, blinking nervously. Lottie spoke to him softly.