Ripper (3 page)

William stepped inside the curtain again. Josephine had left with Dr. Bartlett to find supplies and other attending nurses, and we were now alone with the girl.

With fearsome intensity, William ran his hand through his sweat-soaked curls and contemplated the girl. Then, in a single movement, he pulled the sheet that was across her legs away and cut off the rest of her dress.

At that point, Dr. Bartlett, Josephine, and two other nurses returned.

The nurses carried a tray upon which rested several instruments: scalpels, a small thin knife, scissors, many other instruments that I did not recognize, several lengths of dressing, large needles, heavy thread, and jars of liquid, including a jar of iodine and one of carbolic acid.

“We are going to have to cut your baby out,” Dr. Bartlett said quietly to the girl. “My nurse will give you some medicine and you will not feel pain. Everything will be all right in the end.”

He patted her shoulder.

At this point, even Dr. Bartlett could not calm her. In what was nothing less than a miraculous burst of energy, she began screaming, “I'm 'bout to die! I'm 'bout to die!” She grabbed at me violently.

“Hush! Hold her
still
!”
William shouted to me and one of the attending nurses. I frowned at him, although he was too focused to notice. Such an explosion would only escalate the girl's hysteria.

After Josephine rushed forward to administer the ether, the girl fell asleep almost immediately.

William waited until a nurse had disinfected the girl's abdomen and then moved the scalpel lightly across her pelvic region, deciding the proper place to cut.

“That's fine,” Dr. Bartlett whispered from where he stood behind William.
“
There
.”
William had placed the scalpel on one section of the girl's lower pelvic region.

A thin red line of blood followed William's cut. I looked away then, not wanting to see the layers of fat and intestines that would be exposed.

After what seemed like several minutes, I heard a squeal.

“Perfect. A baby girl!” Dr. Bartlett exclaimed as William severed the umbilical cord.

Josephine efficiently whisked away the bloody, screaming infant.

I had never witnessed a birth and felt a little thrill at the delivery. Even William's mouth twitched a bit in the hint of a smile. I experienced a strange envy that he had been the one to bring that baby into the world.

But then his face darkened.

“
Damn!
”
He stared at the girl's chalky face and then down at her incision.

I looked down and saw that the girl did not appear to be breathing.

“
Damn! Damn!
”
William probed the incision wound with his finger.

“She's hemorrhaging,” Dr. Bartlett responded quietly.

“From where?! Can we suture it?”

“By the time we find it, she will be gone.” Dr. Bartlett felt the girl's pulse. “She's dying.” He laid his hand on William's shoulder. “There is nothing that can be done.”

I watched as life drained from the girl. Her breathing ceased, and then she became fearfully still.

William continued staring at the incision wound.

“This happens, William.”

The girl had been a stranger to me, but I felt a little of the familiar, brutal emptiness I had experienced when I had watched Mother die.

“Go home, and take the rest of the day off,” Dr. Bartlett gently commanded William. “Sleep. And if it has stopped raining, take a long walk.”

William did not say a word. Abruptly, he washed and dried his hands, snapped the curtain open, and stormed away from the delivery area.

Dr. Bartlett sighed, felt the girl's pulse again, and then shut her eyelids.

I felt frozen, unable to move. My throat burned painful and parched as I stood near her head, clutching the sponge in my hand.

“Abbie, why don't you go home, too? I am sorry that your first morning had to be so difficult. I understand if you do not wish to come back.”

“I do. If it's all right, I would like to return tomorrow.” After what I had just witnessed, my immediate answer sounded strange even to me. But I also felt that it was the only possible answer.

Dr. Bartlett glanced up from the corpse to look at me, his expression unreadable.

“Certainly. But do please go home now. You have done enough for today.”

The nurses entered, and, after methodically covering the body with a sheet, they rolled away the bed.

The inside of the hospital had been so muggy that the autumn wind shocked me as I stepped out of the building to meet Dr. Bartlett's carriage, and I lost my footing.

In a single instant, I slipped, falling in three painful thuds down the nine wet concrete steps of Whitechapel Hospital for Women.

Four

M
y right foot, which had borne most of the burden of the fall, throbbed in pain. When I tried to stand, a firelike sensation shot up from my right ankle, bringing me to my knees. I looked up to see Dr. Bartlett's carriage approaching and tried to stand again. The pain in my foot was sharp, unbearable. My knees quaked violently.

I fell again.

This time someone caught me before I hit against
the pavement.

My rear was only a few inches above the ground when he caught me; my legs had splayed awkwardly in front of me. The young man who held me was grasping me under the armpits, and when I looked upward, I saw the sun cracking through morning rainclouds and silhouetting his face. All of this only accentuated his striking, ethereal appearance—a pale complexion, blue eyes, and thick blond hair that framed his face like a halo.

“I think it is only sprained, but still, you had better not put your weight on it. Here, I'll carry you.”

The carriage had just arrived.

“That is not necessary—my ride is here. I'm fine.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You should not walk on the foot at all at the moment.” Though tall and slender, he picked me up effortlessly, before I could say another word in protest.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Kensington.”

“I can accompany you there.”

Feeling a strange mix of irritation and gratitude for this stranger who was carrying me, I asked the glaring question.

“Who are you?”

“Simon St. John. I work here at the hospital. And you are?” His light blue eyes, kind and yet self-assured, cut into me. His voice was as soft and refined as gossamer threads.

Before I could answer, the driver dismounted to open the door for us. When I saw William departing from the hospital, I felt humiliated by my position; it was so very “damsel-in-distress.”

Unfortunately, William saw us, and a great smile spread across his face while he approached. “How nice of you, Simon, to assist Dr. Bartlett's new young ward Miss Arabella Sharp, the granddaughter of
Lady
Charlotte Westfield.”

I knew by the tension settling in the atmosphere that Simon and William were not fond of one another.

Simon ignored the sarcasm and carefully placed me on a seat in the carriage before turning to William. “She fell down the front steps leaving the hospital. I think it is merely a sprained ankle—badly sprained, but not broken. Still, I'm going to see her home.”

“Yes, of course, this is no time to scrimp on chivalry.”

Simon raised one eyebrow and kept his voice low and very level. “I'm going to accompany her home. In all seriousness, William, are the wards calm enough that I might be away for a bit? I will return as quickly as possible.”

William glanced at me for the first time in the conversation, his eyes narrowed, but out of concern or just distracted interest, I could not tell. “Dr. Buck has just arrived, as well as a few medical students. So it should be safe for you to take her home. In fact, I am going home for the day.”

“Fine,” Simon said abruptly. After shutting the door behind us, he thumped on the carriage side and the vehicle lurched forward.

Through the window, I watched William walk away. His brows furrowed, and I guessed that he was thinking about the tragic delivery. His moody transparency captivated me to the point where I felt as if a cord connected us. I wanted to sever it, but I confess I continued to gawk until William crossed Whitechapel Road and was entirely out of my line of vision.

Simon, meanwhile, had knelt in front of me and gently removed the boot on my right foot. His fingers felt cool and soothing, even through my thick stockings.

“You are a physician?”

Simon nodded, but said nothing as he examined my foot. All of his movements were quick and very graceful. I observed his sculpted profile and thought again that he possessed a decidedly celestial appearance, like a figure in a Blake painting.

“Does this hurt?” He bent my foot gently forward.

“Not much.”

“And this?” He bent it slightly sideways.

I grimaced.

Gingerly, he put the boot back on my foot and sat on the seat across from me. “It is sprained, Miss Sharp, likely a torn ligament. It will probably swell and hurt very badly for the next day. But keep it elevated, wrapped in cold compresses, and it should feel better by Monday.”

“Have you worked at the hospital long?” I desired to change the subject away from my injury.

“Only a few months—I passed my examinations in the spring.”

“So you are finished with school?”

“With medical school, but I am not yet finished with seminary.”

“Is not medical school difficult enough?”

He smiled. When he looked at me, I found his gaze to be irritatingly impenetrable—his eyes lovely pools that I could not quite see the bottom of.

“You are quite right Miss Sharp. But I feel that the humanist responsibilities demanded of me by seminary make me more effective as a physician in this district.”

He peered out the window as he spoke. “Reverend John Perkins, whom I studied under at Oxford, is the first to accumulate data from censuses in the area. The numbers of those in the East End who die from disease, alcoholism, starvation even, are startling. Most infants born in the district never live beyond their first year. I decided when I began my medical studies that I might be more effective as a Whitechapel physician if I cultivated a more holistic view of my patient. Seminary seemed logical.”

I felt myself smile a bit at Simon's formality and zeal. “You believe that most physicians do
not
care about the patient in the holistic manner that you describe?”

“With the exception of Dr. Bartlett, I truly believe that most physicians at Whitechapel Hospital view the institution as a mere laboratory.”

A shadow crossed his face, and I guessed that he was thinking of William.

“And you, why are you here?” he asked me, pointedly.

I sighed. The truth seemed best.

“I do nothing that matters in my life with Grandmother. I've lived with her for two months, and she is now requiring that I work at the hospital—punishment for my unrest. But it's not punishment at all. I've had very little exercise—mental or otherwise—since arriving at Kensington Court.”

Simon smiled in cool amusement. “Did you know that I'm your neighbor?”

“Excuse me?” Simon did not seem like a typical Kensington resident.

“My mother, Elinor St. John, lives a mere block from Lady Westfield. She's a very good friend of your grandmother. In fact, we have known Lady Westfield since my childhood. You probably have not met my mother yet, as she is spending much of this year at our seaside residence.”

I felt almost too astonished to speak. “I hope I did not offend … ”

Simon waved his hand in gentle dismissal. “Not at all. You have no idea how alike we are in our sentiments.”

The carriage stopped.

“Truly, I … ”

“I insist.” He lifted me into his arms.

I felt more humiliated now than when William had found me in such a position. If I returned to Grandmother, wounded on my first day of work, she would feel more than mildly vindicated.

Simon knocked, and the door swung open. I panicked when I saw that it was Ellen who had opened it.

Her freckled face puckered and her eyes bulged before the shrieking began:
“
Lady Westfield! Lady Westfield! Dr. St. John is here with th' Miss Abbie! She's 'urt, she is! Dreadful 'urt!
”

She turned, running upstairs to fetch Grandmother.

Simon cast a wry smile down upon me, and I felt, in that moment, an affinity with him. He seemed to know Ellen's nature quite well. Unaffected by her hysterics, Simon stepped inside, still carrying me in his arms. Richard arrived in the front entrance hall to attend to us as Ellen screamed from the second floor landing.

“Richard, would you be so good as to bring Miss Sharp some warm wine or brandy?” Simon asked as he carried me toward the parlor.

The moment Simon settled me onto the couch, Richard arrived with the brandy. As I sipped it, I saw that Grandmother had stepped into the parlor doorway. Her beaky face remained shadowed as the sun glared through a window behind her.

“It is merely a sprained ankle,” Simon said, standing and turning to face her. “She fell down some steps today.” He repeated to her the directions he had just given me regarding its care—rest, cool compresses.

Grandmother stepped a bit away from the glare. “Thank you, Simon. I will make certain that she rests over the next week.”

“But that will not be necessary. I am returning to the hospital on Monday,” I said, feeling already emboldened by the warm rush of brandy. I sat up straighter on the couch. “Dr. St. John said that I would be feeling better after the weekend, so I see no reason, if that is indeed the case, as to why I should not return to work on Monday.”

Simon considered me coolly, and I saw the corner of his mouth curve—very slightly.

Grandmother glared at me and then turned her attention back to Simon. “That
cannot
be the case, Simon. I mean, she is not used to hard labor and must allow for recovery time from this injury. Am I not correct?”

Simon's eyes remained on me, “I see no reason why, if she is not in pain, that she should
not
return to work on Monday.”

I smiled at him, grateful, and finished off the glass of brandy.

Grandmother exhaled in exasperation. “Fine, Simon.”

She hated losing—even small battles.

“How is your mother?” she asked Simon suddenly. “When might I expect to see her again?”

“Mother plans to return sometime before Christmas.” His reply came out kind, solicitous.

“We shall have dinner then. I have missed her during these months.”

I could tell by Grandmother's demeanor that she respected Simon and seemed particularly fond of him.

“She would be delighted to see you again. She mentions you in many of her letters.” Simon glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “You must excuse me, Lady Westfield. It is time that I return to work, and I am certain that Miss Sharp needs to rest.”

“Yes, yes.” Grandmother seemed almost irritated when he brought up my name.

“Goodbye.” He bowed slightly to her and then to me.

The moment when Grandmother and I were alone, she came over to stand above me. I braced myself for one of her lectures, but she surprised me. She bent over me, and then lightly brushed my hair away from my forehead. Her touch was methodical, her expression one of concern. Then she sat on the edge of the couch, her hand swiping away another lock of hair. In an entirely rare moment of transparency, I saw her search my face, and I knew that she sought my mother. She was looking for shadows of Caroline—it was a faulty but sincere affection.

“You are pale, Arabella, even after the drink,” she said finally, in her most guarded voice.

“It is only a sprained ankle. I have had sprained ankles before—it will be better in a few days.”

She seemed to hear nothing that I said.

“You may spend the night here in the parlor, if you wish. You should not climb the stairs with your foot.”

She felt awkward; in her awkwardness, she became efficient. Without another word, she swiftly closed the blinds, and, shutting the door behind her, left me alone in the parlor.

As the fire in the fireplace died down and evening set in, I thought of how this move to Kensington should not have jarred me so much—my previous life had been marked by near constant flux. After my father drowned in a swimming accident when I was still an infant, Mother and I had lived in Edinburgh, Sussex, and Dorchester while she worked as a governess. Our time in Dublin had been our longest stay in one place—seven years—as she tutored the children of the wealthy Edgeworth family. Each day, while Mother gave the children lessons, I completed my own studies in the cottage we shared behind the family's mansion.

If I finished early, I played outside the Edgeworth property's gates with some of the local children. During those times, I learned the hierarchies among Dublin street youth. If I wanted to play in certain circles, I had to learn some of the local activities, namely fighting. Sometimes the fighting was play, sometimes self-defense. But in seven years, I learned a great deal about it.

That life had been so textured compared to these past two months with Grandmother, which had made me listless and bored. I still ached for Mother, and fought feelings of guilt that I could do nothing for her when she fell ill. She had caught a violent case of dysentery that had been going around the city; it took her life within two days. Looking back, I wished that I had paid more attention to the increasing number of episodes or seizures she had had in the weeks before her death. But she had suffered from those my whole life.

Mother had an interest in art, and sometimes when she worked on a painting she would become lost to me, snap into a fixed stare. Sometimes she went months without having an episode, but they had intensified shortly before her death. Only two weeks before she died, we had been working in our small garden together and she fell back hard, her sunbonnet falling off her head. She stared at the sky for a full ten seconds as I called her name. I feared she was having a seizure. But she seemed to see something elsewhere; she seemed focused on something I could not see. Then, suddenly, she came out of the trance and returned to normal. Her explanation was that she had just become overheated. I thought that she might have had a touch of epilepsy, but now, ever since my bizarre encounter with the pickpocket, I was considering whether she might have had visions.