The Winter Rose (30 page)

She tried again. She placed one hand on the woman's abdomen, the
other disappeared inside her. Her hands became her eyes. They told her
what she had suspected. "Her uterus is punctured. In several places. I'm
going to have to operate. Arnold, carbolic. Fitch, chloral and a mask."

"Dr. Jones, please..." It was Miss Milo. Her eyes were open and
lucid. "When my parents come for me, don't tell them what happened.
There was a baby. It was my employer's. He's married."

"Who did this to you? Where did you go?"

"I don't know. Thomas took me. It was in someone's kitchen. A woman did it. It was dirty there and it hurt so."

Miss Milo swallowed, her eyes fluttered closed. Her hands scrabbled at the air. India caught them in her own bloodied ones.

"I'm afraid," Miss Milo whispered. "Oh, God, I'm so afraid..."

"The chloral, Fitch!" India shouted.

"Right here."

India watched as the nurse pressed a mask over Miss Milo's face. She
took three deep breaths then stopped breathing altogether. Her chest
sank.

India ripped the mask off. She started chest compressions. Behind her, the two nurses traded worried glances.

"One... two... three..." she counted, pistoning her palms into the
woman's chest. "Fitch, roll a sheet and put it under her back. Arnold,
pull her arms above her head. Come on! Where are you? Move!"

"Dr. Jones... ma'am, she's gone," Arnold said quietly.

India stepped back, shaking her head. "She's not. She can't be. I've
never lost a patient. She can't be." She looked at the woman, at the
blood between her legs, at her lifeless eyes. "Oh, God," she said,
pounding the heels of her hands against her forehead.

"Don't blame yourself, Dr. Jones. She did it to herself and it served
her right. What she done was wrong. Dead wrong," Fitch said.

India closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, but it didn't help. "Get out," she said.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Get out of here."

"But I have to take her to the mortuary."

"Don't touch her. Get out. Go."

"Yes, Dr. Jones," Fitch said, looking sullen but stepping smartly.

India straightened Miss Milo's splayed legs, then covered them with a
sheet. She wiped her own bloody hands on the hem of her even bloodier
jacket, then gently closed the woman's eyes.

"I should be doing that, Dr. Jones," Sister Arnold said.

"I can manage."

India and her nurse picked the dead woman's underthings off the floor
in silence, folded them, and placed them next to her body. Arnold
snapped open another sheet and draped it over Miss Milo.

"I should have helped her," India said hollowly.

"You did help her," Sister Arnold said. "There was nothing more anyone could have done. She'd lost too much blood."

"I meant earlier. When she first came to see me. I should have helped
her. I'm a coward. A damned coward." She turned and walked out of the
surgery and back to her office. She'd left her roster there in her haste
to get to Miss Milo.

She'd meant to get the roster and leave. She had rounds to do.
Instead, she sat down in her chair and put her head in her hands. Hot
tears welled behind her eyes. She squeezed them back.

She heard Fenwick's voice again. You what, Jones? You feel... You are not in my class to feel.

Don't feel, she told herself. Don't feel this. Don't feel anything.

There was a knock on the door. India didn't hear it. The knob turned and the door opened.

"Dr. Jones?" a masculine voice said.

She lifted her head. It was Sid Malone. She quickly stood, embarrassed. "Mr. Malone," she said. "What can I do for you?"

Sid said nothing. He was staring at her coat, wide-eyed. She looked down at it. It was covered in blood.

"Sorry. I didn't realize..." India started to say. She stopped, then
started again. "A girl. No more than seventeen. Botched abortion. I lost
her. Just now."

"She's the first, isn't she? The first one you lost."

"Yes, she is," India said. "How did you know that?"

"You told me," he said.

He held her gaze, and she wondered how such a hard man could have such gentle eyes.

"It was bad. She suffered," he said.

India broke his gaze, unnerved.

"No one dies smiling, Mr. Malone. Did you know that? The very idea is
a fairy tale. Utter tripe. People die in pain and afraid. Screaming,
crying, cursing, begging, but never, ever smiling. So yes. To answer
your question... yes, she suffered." India angrily ripped her coat off,
wadded it up, and threw it in a corner.

"And now you are."

"I don't take your meaning."

"Suffering. Because she did."

"I'm angry, that's all," she said quickly. "I had a useless nurse
assisting me and I had to work on a decrepit operating table with no
stirrups because Dr. Gifford, my employer, took the best table for a
gallstone surgery." She threw her hands up in frustration. "Gallstones!
They're a doddle. A monkey could take them out. On a fruit crate. With a
corkscrew. And he's got to take the best table without even a thought
for what anyone else is going to do if we get a miscarriage or an
obstructed labor, never mind a botched abortion."

India talked on, telling Sid about the appalling state of medical
care for women and the lethal hypocrisy of a medical establishment that
provided birth control to the moneyed classes and forbade it to the
poor, the very ones who needed it the most. And Sid said nothing. He did
not make faces, spout platitudes, or advise her to calm down. He let
her talk. He listened until she ran out of steam and stopped pacing, and
then he said, "Your guv's no good."

"My guv?"

"Gifford. He's no good. You should be out on your own. You could do things your way then. The right way. Why aren't you?"

"I can't afford to. And I don't want to. At least, I don't want to be
in private practice. I have hopes, only dreams, really...of opening a
clinic one day. For poor women and children. Here in Whitechapel. I've
started saving for it. Patients would pay only what they could afford,
even if it was nothing."

She stopped talking. He must think I'm mad, she thought. Maybe I am.
Because I've done it again. Poured out my heart to him. First about my
studies, then about Hugh, now this. I've never told Freddie some of
these things. What on earth is wrong with me? Why do I tell him these
things? Him of all people?

"Can't you ask your father for the money? You said he was loaded."

"I don't want his money. I haven't asked him for a penny since the day I left Blackwood. I won't start now."

"I'll give you the money, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll give you the money for your clinic. How much do you need?"

India stared at him. She couldn't believe that he would make such a
wildly generous offer--or that he would think for a second that she
would accept it.

"Thank you. Very much. But I couldn't possibly take it," she said.

"Why not?"

She did not reply.

"My money's dirty. Is that it?"

"Mr. Malone, I am a doctor. I took an oath to heal people. How can I accept money made by destroying them?"

It was Sid's turn to go quiet. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and touched it to her forehead. "Blood," he said.

India stood stiffly as he wiped it away. He was standing so close to
her and his touch was so gentle. She had the sudden overwhelming urge to
lean her head on his chest and cry for Miss Milo. To cry out all her
sadness and anger.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malone," she said briskly, taking a step back. "I'm
certain you did not come here to listen to a diatribe on the state of
medicine in Britain or to a junior doctor's career goals. Why did you
come? What can I do for you?"

Sid held his hands up. "No, it's me who's sorry. I only wanted to
stop in before I left, that's all. Tell you thanks for what you did."

"Really, Mr. Malone, I was just--"

"Doing your job. I know. All in a day's work, right?" he said, with a
touch of bitterness. "I still want to say thank you. And to tell you
that if there's ever anything I can do for you--anything you need..."

"Yes, well, should I ever find myself in need of a stolen painting or
a pound of opium, I shall know upon whom to call," India said tartly.

"Aye, well... ta-ra, Dr. Jones," Sid said. The depths of his eyes
were hidden to her now. The gentleness was gone. He doffed his cap and
then he was gone, too.

India closed her eyes and groaned. Why had she said that? He had only
tried to thank her, to offer his help, and in return she had all but
pushed him out the door. Why?

She knew the answer. She knew that if she had cried for Miss Milo, if
she had leaned her head upon his chest, he would have let her. There
would have been no words, just his strong arms around her, his cheek
pressed against her own. And she knew that she'd wanted his warmth just
then, his touch, more than she'd ever wanted Freddie's.

She knew it, and it terrifled her.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lytton."

"Prime Minister."

"I'm ready to hear a brilliant speech. Are you ready to make one?"

"I am, sir," Freddie said, smiling. "And history."

Lord Salisbury's bushy eyebrows shot up. His shrewd eyes sparkled.
"Not lacking for confidence, are we? That's the spirit, my boy."

The prime minister, flanked by several of his senior ministers, had
just entered St. Stephen's Hall in Westminster, where Freddie had been
standing, silently gathering his thoughts for the ordeal ahead of him.
In a few short minutes, he would deliver his speech in support of the
Irish Home Rule Bill. Salisbury stood with him for a few minutes,
complaining about the rush of tedious governmental business that had to
be completed before Parliament rose for the summer.

"What was it yesterday? Oh, yes! Wine tariffs, an outbreak of
hoof-and-mouth in the Fens, and a petition for funds to establish
traffic lights at Basingstoke. Damned dull stuff, I tell you. It's all
one can do to stay awake." He paused, then archly added, "I don't mind
telling you that I don't think you've the chance of a snowflake in hell
today, but I am looking forward to watching you melt. Should provide a
good hour's entertainment."

"I wasn't aware that you found Liberal victories entertaining, Prime Minister."

Salisbury laughed. "Someone ought to warn Campbell-Bannerman that this young pup's after his job," he said.

"No sir, not his. Yours," Freddie said.

There was laughter from Salisbury's ministers. The prime minister
him-self was smiling, but the look in his eyes was deadly. He had never
forgiven Freddie for crossing the floor. And he would not forgive him
for supporting the Home Rule Bill either. To him the bill, and all that
it stood for-- self-imposed limits on England's reach and its power--was
nothing short of traitorous.

"Good luck, Mr. Lytton," he said, still smiling. "You will need it."

The lion in winter, Freddie thought, watching him go. He was the last
of his breed. He was a Cecil, a member of one of England's greatest
fami-lies, born and bred for politics. His ancestors had served as chief
ministers to Elizabeth Tudor and James Stuart. And though he might be
an old lion now, stooped and gray, he was still a lion and, as Freddie
was well aware, perfectly capable of tearing young comers to shreds.

The clock in the hall struck ten.

"Blast!" Freddie said. He would have to hurry to the Chamber now. He
was already rattled. Very likely the old boy's intention, he thought,
trotting down the hall.

"Freddie! Freddie, have you seen the Times?" a voice suddenly called from behind him.

Freddie turned around. "Bingham! You're here," he said.

"I am. Yes. Obviously."

"Come to hear my speech?"

"Yes, but--"

"Good man!"

"Freddie, have you--"

"No time," Freddie said, heading for the Members' Lobby. "I'm bloody late. Must go. See you afterward."

"Freddie, wait!" Bingham shouted, waving a newspaper.

"Afterward, Bing, afterward! Meet me at the Reform Club!" Freddie
yelled, disappearing into the Members' Lobby. He zoomed into the Chamber
and took his seat on one of the tufted leather benches.

Glancing around the Chamber, with its somber Gothic architecture, he
saw that attendance was excellent. MPs milled about in their frock coats
and silk hats, except for the one and only Labour member, James Keir
Hardie, who wore tweeds and a cap. Whips from both parties had made
certain a majority of their members had shown up to vote. Freddie looked
up and saw various members of the press seated in the Strangers'
Gallery, and recognized more than a few faces from the House of Lords.

Today was the most important day of his political career; it was the
day the Home Rule Bill went before the Commons for its Second Reading, a
period of discussion and debate during which the House would consider
the content and principles of the bill, and then decide whether to
approve it or kill it. Freddie had been working diligently behind the
scenes to garner bipartisan support for the bill. It had been an uphill
battle, and he had only just attained the majority required to push it
through. Some of those might still change their minds at voting time. He
needed to convince a few more doubters and bring them to his side, and
to do that he would have to deliver a speech that was nothing short of
stupendous.

He'd been writing and rewriting the speech for months, furiously
rip-ping up old drafts and starting from scratch until his words were
perfect and polished. Then he practiced. He delivered the speech in his
flat again and again until he was hoarse, until he had every word
committed to mem-ory. Prepared speeches were not allowed in the Chamber.
Notes were, but Freddie, seeing them as a sign of mental weakness,
never used them. A riv-eting orator, he always spoke solely from memory,
commanding a stunning array of facts and figures, and he would do so
today.