The Winter Rose (22 page)

She described how it felt to examine another human being--to talk
with someone who was ill, sometimes in terrible pain, to gain her trust,
to touch her. She told him how important it was to her to always be
worthy of that trust. She told him about the indescribable joy of
healing, of making a person well, of battling for someone's life. He
watched her face as she spoke. Usually contained, it became animated and
radiant.

He asked her how she could cut someone open, and she told him about
the terror she experienced the first time she did it because she saw a
person then. But over the years she'd trained herself not to. Now she
saw only a tu-mor, a hernia, a ruptured appendix.

"How did you train for that? The cutting," he asked.

"We practiced on cadavers. People. Dogs. Pigs. Whatever we could get."

"You never."

"What else would we practice on? Live people? They might object to
being sat down and cut open, don't you think? The only problem is the
decay. We always got the ripe cadavers at the women's school. It's not
the same, cutting through decayed fiesh. It's slippery. The scalpel
skids instead of catching. And sutures? They rip right through. Living
fiesh is tougher, more resilient."

"Bloody hell, stop. Please."

"Sorry," she said. "That's why I don't talk about my work much. I get car-ried away. Can't help myself."

"Bet you're a popular dinner guest."

She laughed. "Not very."

"What's it like when your patient pops off?" Sid asked, desperate to
keep her talking. The red wall of water was building. He knew if it
caught him again it would take him out, and this time he would not be
able to make his way back.

"I don't know. I've never lost one."

"I think I'm going to be your first."

"You will not."

She almost sounded arrogant. "Don't see how you know that," he said.

"It's a fight, Mr. Malone. A human being--the most beautiful,
complex, miraculous machine ever created--against a single-celled
parasite. A bacterium. An organism that lacks a mind, a soul,
consciousness, purpose, and reason. Would you like to be bested by such
an opponent? I would not. And will not."

Her gray eyes sparked with passion as she spoke. Sid looked into them
and for a second he glimpsed her soul. He saw what she was--fierce and
brave. difficult. Upright. Impatient. And good. So good that she would
sit covered in gore, shout at dangerous men, and keep a long, lonely
vigil--all to save the likes of him. He realized that she was a rare
creature, as rare as a rose in winter.

He wanted to tell her what he saw. Wanted to tell her that he had
known good people once. A lifetime ago. But he couldn't. She would think
him mad. So instead he said, "Tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you became a doctor."

"I..." she began, then stopped speaking and shook her head no.

"Give me more dope, then," he said. "One or the other. You've got to."

"It's getting worse?"

He nodded unwillingly. He felt helpless, totally dependent on this
woman, and he hated it. He didn't allow himself to be dependent on
any-one. For anything. Ever.

She took his pulse again and frowned.

"No dope?"

"Not yet."

"All right, then. Once upon a time..." he prompted.

She looked away, at the rain on the window, and he knew she was seeing another window, another place.

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a little girl who lived at Blackwood, a beautiful castle in Wales."

"I was joking about the once upon a time. I want a true story."

"Keep quiet and you'll get one."

"Go on, then."

"The castle was an unhappy place, but around it were woods and
streams and the black hills towering, and the girl had wonderful friends
to play with. A sister named Maud. A cousin named Wish. Their friends
Freddie and Bing. Bea, the gamekeeper's daughter. And Hugh, Bea's
brother. Hugh and Bea lived in a cottage in the woods, where there were
always fairy stories by the fire told by a lovely, smiling mum. And tea
and biscuits. They grew up together and were inseparable, the girl and
her friends."

"Was there a witch? A wolf?"

"No, Mr. Malone, there were not. Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones?"

That was aimed at him, he knew it was. His anger flared. Who was she
to judge him? And why did he care what she thought? For God's sake, why?
He wanted to tell her to leave, but he couldn't. Her voice was the only
thing keeping the pain at bay.

"But then the children grew older and had to leave the forest. Hugh became a groom at the castle. And Bea became a maid."

"And the girl?"

"A sad and useless prisoner in a corset and gown."

"That's not a very happy story."

"I quite agree, and I'm afraid it gets worse. When Bea turned
sixteen, she fell in love. She wouldn't tell me, or any of us, who he
was. We thought she was only telling stories, playing games."

Sid noticed that the little girl had become "me" and that India's
voice had grown wistful, her eyes faraway. He stared at those eyes. As
long as he could see them he could stay above the pain, tread its dark
waters.

"One day I went to look for Hugh in the stables. Bea was there. She'd
been crying. She told us that she was going to have a baby. The father
was a boy from the village. He'd run off when she told him about the
baby. I wanted to help her. I told her to wait. We would figure
something out. But she was frightened of her parents' finding out. And
mine. My father was her employer. Had he known, he would have sacked her
immediately."

India took a sip of her tea, then continued. "A few days later, a
pair of very valuable hair combs that belonged to my mother went
missing. One of them reappeared at the local pawnbroker's. The
pawnbroker got scared, I think. He recognized the comb's worth--and the
initials on it--and turned it over to the police. He described the young
man who'd sold it to him: it was Hugh. The police went looking for him,
but they couldn't find him. I did, though. I found him in our meeting
place, the ruins of an old cottage on my father's estate. Bea was there,
too. Lying on the ground. Hugh had made her a bed out of horse
blankets. They were soaked with blood. She'd had an abortion and whoever
did it had butchered her. Hugh had taken the combs to pay for it.

"When he saw me, he told me to leave, but I wouldn't abandon Bea. She
needed a doctor. I told him to bring her to the gates in half an hour. I
went to the stables and waited for the head groom to leave for his
dinner. Then I rigged one of our traps. I met Hugh and Bea at the gates
as planned and hid them in the back under blankets. I drove all the way
to Cardiff, to the hos-pital there. Freddie came with us." She stopped
and shook her head. "I was so stupid. I had brought no money. My mother
believed that well-bred young ladies don't carry cash, you see. I had to
find a pawnbroker and sell my earrings. By the time I got back to the
hospital Bea was dead. The po-lice were summoned. I was frightened for
Hugh. We tried to get out of the place, all three of us, but we went the
wrong way." She stopped talking again and gave a bitter laugh.

"What? Why are you laughing?"

"We ended up on the pulmonary ward. The pulmonary ward! Every-where I looked there were miners dying of black lung."

"I don't follow you."

"Forgive me, I thought you knew. Many people do. My father is Lord
Burnleigh. He owns half the coal mines in Wales. Most, if not all, of
the men dying on the ward worked for him. We saw men of thirty who
looked like they were a hundred. Miners' children wasted by consumption.
A little girl--no more than six--coughed blood into her sheets as we
passed. A woman saw me and recognized me. I had a peacock-blue coat on
that day. Mother had bought it for me in London. The woman spat at me.
She told me she hoped I liked my coat because it came dear. Her
husband's life had paid for it." She stopped then, unable to continue.

Sid was quiet for a few seconds, then he said, "So that's why you're a
doc-tor. Because of Hugh, the gamekeeper's lad." There was something
harsh in his voice, something mocking. Don't, he told himself, but it
was too late.

India heard the harshness and flinched, suddenly vulnerable. "I have
no idea why I told you all this, Mr. Malone. I must have bored you
dreadfully. Please forgive me." She stood.

"Wait. What happened to him?"

"The police arrested him," she said, gathering the tea things.

Sid snorted. "Of course they did. Your father pressed charges, didn't he? Even though he got the combs back."

"He got only one back. Hugh said he hadn't taken the second one, but neither my father nor the police believed him."

"And you?"

"I did believe him. I still do."

"He loved you, didn't he?"

The teacup she held slipped from her hands, clattering noisily onto the tray.

"That's rather too personal a question."

"And you loved him."

She did not answer.

"But you're not with him now."

"No, Mr. Malone, I am not," she finally said, picking up the tray.

"Poor bollocks. Probably back in some coal mine eating his heart out
for you. But I can't quite see Dr. Jones, Lady India, hitched to a
jailbird."

"Hugh died, Mr. Malone. In prison. Of typhus."

You stupid arsehole, Sid said to himself. "Bloody hell," he said to India. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't know. Didn't think..."

"No, of course you didn't. I can't imagine you ever do."

The curtain had come down. The radiant face, so open, was closed off
again. Because of him. He'd said those things to hurt her. Because she'd
hurt him. Calling him a monster. Or had she? Had he just imagined that?
He was furious with himself. He wanted to apologize again. He wanted
her to stay, to tell him more about herself, but he couldn't ask her to.
Not after what he'd said.

"I'll be back in a little while to check your temperature," she said, moving toward the door.

"Wait lease." The pain was growing stronger. And there was something
more ...something underneath the pain. Hiding. Waiting. He began to
shake. "I need another blanket," he said, through chattering teeth.

"You've two already. Are you cold again?"

"Freezing."

She put the tray down and opened another blanket. He shivered
con-vulsively as she put it over him. His heart started hammering, so
fast and so loud, he was certain it would smash through his ribs.

"Dr. Jones ...I..." He tried to tell her about the pain, and the dark
thing lurking beneath it, but he couldn't. He was suddenly gasping for
breath.

"Sister Abel!" he heard her shout. There were the sounds of running feet. Someone was shouting. He heard the words septic shock.

It was rising fast, the red tide of pain. He reached for the doctor's
hand and clasped it. He mustn't let go. No matter what. He was safe
with her. She would hold him here, keep him from drowning, no matter how
high the waters surged.

But then her voice faded, and then he heard nothing, only the sound
of the sea as the red waves crashed over him, pulling him out and
dragging him under.

"Do you love her?"

Freddie ran a hand over Gemma Dean's bare breast, her hip, the soft
skin of her thigh. "No, Gem, I don't," he said. "I love you. I know you
don't believe me, but I do."

"I do believe you, Freddie. At least, I believe you love me as much
as a man like you can love. In other words, not very much at all."

"Gem..."

"If you don't love her, why are you marrying her?"

"Because she's rich. Very rich. And I, unfortunately, am not."

Gemma snorted.

"It's true. My bloody brother controls all the family money. What
there is of it. He gives me an allowance. A pittance, really. I need
real money to get where I want to go in life."

"And where's that, Freddie?"

"Downing Street."

Freddie rolled over onto one elbow. He lay tangled in the sheets in
Gemma's large bed. They had just made love. For the last time, she'd
said.

"Wait until I'm married," he said. "Things will be better between us,
I promise. I'll be so bloody rich, I'll have money coming out of my
ears. I can take care of you then. I'll pay for your flat. A carriage
and horses. Whatever you like."

"Why should I wait for you?" Gemma sniffed. "I'll be married myself
by then. My new man's rich. He buys me everything I need. Dresses. Furs.
He's already paying for this flat."

Jealousy, hot and lethal, gripped Freddie. "Who is he?" he asked.

"None of your business," she said, getting out of bed.

"What's his name?" He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

"Leave off!" she said. "I've said enough. I never should have done
this. I should have pitched you out on your arse. Would have, too, if
you weren't so bloody good-looking."

Freddie smiled. "But I am. And a good lover, too."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not," he whispered, pulling her back, pulling her close, nuzzling her ear.

"Stop, Freddie. It's time for you to go now. Really."

"No, it isn't," he whispered. He sat up and straddled her, then grabbed her hands with one of his and pinned them to the bed.

"Get off me!"

He kissed her, savoring the taste of her, all champagne and chocolate. "Tell me you don't want me," he said. "Go ahead."

"I don't want you," she said.

He snaked a hand between her legs, pushed his fingers inside of her,
making her gasp. "Liar," he said. "You're dripping wet." He stroked her
there, softly at first, then harder.

He stopped to kiss her neck, the place behind her ear, then felt her
shiver as he bent his head to her breasts. He knew she wouldn't stop him
now. Gemma was made for love. She had the most beautiful body he'd ever
seen, all rosy silken curves. She drove him wild with desire. Sex with
her was explosive, combative, noisy--the best he'd ever had. He couldn't
imag-ine losing that, losing her.