The Winter Rose (48 page)

"I haven't taken one."

"Why not? You should have. Where's your bag?"

"I threw it away."

Ella banged her fist on India's night table. "Nar ainer!"

"No, I'm not a fool. For once I'm trying to be wise."

"Are you eating?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Vomiting?"

"No."

"So then. Besides a few bruises and an ugly lip, there's nothing wrong with you."

"Ella," India said quietly. "I've made up my mind."

"S'teitsh! Nisht do gedacht!" Ella said, so distraught that she was unaware she was speaking Yiddish.

"Yes, it is possible! Two people died because of me. Three, if you
count Miss Milo. Four, if you count Mrs. Adams. A lot more if you count
the childbed fever cases that I should have reported Gifford for weeks
ago. I'm finished. Done. I'm not up to the job. I'd do more good--and
far less harm--in Westminster than I've done in Whitechapel."

"Lokshen!"

"No, it's not nonsense. It's--"

"Hert zich ein..."

"I am listening, Ella."

"No, you're not. That mother and son did not die because of you. They
died because they never had proper care. Because they didn't call a
doctor until the last minute. Because they couldn't bloody afford to. I
thought you wanted to change that. I thought you wanted to build a
clinic where poor women could come for care. I thought you wanted to
make a difference. You've already started to, India. Don't stop now."

India turned her face toward the wall.

"You look at me!"

"Please, Ella. I'm tired. I want to sleep."

Ella sat back and bit her lip. She wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't
sure what to say. Because she wasn't sure what was wrong. Then she
heard her mother's voice, If God wants people to suffer, He gives them
too much understanding. As always, her mother was right. India was in
the midst of a breakdown, Ella realized. It wasn't the bruises on her
face and body that had caused it, it was the bruises on her heart. India
cared. Deeply. Too deeply. And this was the price she paid for it.

"India, listen. Please listen to me. This isn't you. Don't you see
that? You're exhausted and hurting and at the end of your rope. You've
been through a lot recently. You just need some rest. Give yourself a
few days to recover and you'll want to work again, I know you will."

"Sister Moskowitz? How is our patient?" It was Freddie. He was peering around the door.

Out of her mind, Ella wanted to say. "Fine," she did say. "There's
nothing wrong that rest and chicken soup won't cure. I left a basket in
the other room. It's from my mother. There's plenty if you're feeling
hungry."

"That's very kind of her. Please give her our thanks." He turned to India and frowned. "All right, darling?"

"Yes, quite."

There it was again. That dead, flat voice. It scared Ella. More than
India's wounds, more than her pallid face and gaunt body. She tried so
hard to hide her emotion. It was so important to her to be in control,
but her voice always betrayed her real feelings. There was always fire
in that voice. Always passion. And Ella would have given anything to
hear it now. Why, she would have suffered one of India's endless rants
on Dr. Gifford, or the fecklessness of the working class, or the
immorality of Sid Malone...

Sid Malone.

There was something between them. She wasn't sure what, exactly, but
she knew they had spent an entire night touring Whitechapel and that
India had been different afterward. Oh, she'd still been India, but
she'd soft-ened a bit. She'd stopped going on about porridge quite so
much and no longer told everyone who came to Varden Street to stop
drinking. Sid had gotten to her that night. Pierced her armor somehow.

Suddenly, Ella knew exactly what to do. "Well, I'm off. Must get back," she said, picking up her carpetbag. "Ta-ra!"

"Miss Moskowitz?" Freddie said smoothly. "Could you possibly do Dr. Jones an enormous favor?"

"Of course. Anything at all."

"Would you please tell Dr. Gifford that she won't be resuming her
duties? She'll submit a formal letter in a day or two. When she has a
bit of strength back."

"I'll give him the message," she said.

Anyone who knew Ella would have known it was not in her nature to
give up so easily. Luckily, Freddie and Maud didn't know her or they
would have seen in her too bright smile, in her purposeful expression
and hasty departure, that she hadn't given up at all. Like a good
general, she'd only conceded a hopeless battle. A war was being waged
for India's soul, and she was about to send for reinforcements.

"How long has she been this way?" Sid asked.

"A week now," Ella said.

"You should have come to me sooner."

"Chance would be a fine thing, wouldn't it? I couldn't bloody find
you! Ever try to get information out of Frankie Betts? Desi Shaw? It's
like trying to pry open a clamshell with a feather."

"She won't get out of bed?"

"No. Barely eats, either. She's had some kind of breakdown. Over the
mother and baby she lost. At least that's what I think happened, but
maybe there's more to it."

Sid ignored her probing look. "Did you give Gifford Lytton's message?"

"Forgot. Sorry, luv."

Sid smiled. "That's my girl."

A volley of coughing stopped his smile. He turned to the little girl
sit-ting next to him. She was about eight years old. Her cough was loud
and harsh, and once it started, she could not breathe. It took several
seconds, which felt to Sid like hours, until she caught her breath
again.

"Not much farther, luv," he said. She nodded listlessly, too sick to care how far it was.

When the carriage stopped, Sid got out, handed Ella down, and then
her basket. Then he lifted the little girl out. She leaned her head
against his chest and closed her eyes. Together he and Ella made their
way up the steps to India's flat.

Ella knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. Nothing.

"I told you. She won't even come to the door now. The only one who goes in and out is Lytton. And her sister. They have keys."

Sid handed the girl to Ella. He knew she could carry the weight, for
the girl was frighteningly light. He reached into his pocket and pulled
out a hairpin and a dentist's pick.

"I'm not seeing this," Ella said.

"Good."

Within seconds he had the door open. He carried the large basket of
food they'd brought inside. There was brisket in it. Barley soup. Fresh
bread. Half a dozen side dishes. He'd cleaned out the Moskowitzes' caf�/p>

Ella carried the girl inside and put her down on India's settee. She rewrapped her blanket to make sure she was warm.

"Freddie," a weak voice called from the bedroom. "Is that you?"

"No, luv. It's me, Ella."

"Ella? Who let you in?"

"The...uh...landlady did. I'm not here to stay ...I...um... just brought your things from ...um...Dr. Gifford's."

Sid rolled his eyes. "Criminal mastermind, you," he said quietly.

"Thank you, Ella. Put them anywhere. You can let yourself out?" India asked.

"Oh, aye," Ella shouted. "Will you be all right?" she whispered to Sid.

He nodded and bade her goodbye. Then he took a deep breath and walked
into India's bedroom. She was in her bed, her back toward him. Evening
light from the single window washed over her. She did not turn at the
sound of his steps.

"What is it, Ella?"

"I'm not Ella."

India gasped, then sat up. "What are you doing here?"

"Jesus Christ," Sid said softly, shocked by the sight of her face. He sat down on her bed.

"Sid, I must ask that you leave," she protested, gathering the bedclothes around her.

"Be quiet." He leaned forward and gently felt the bone beneath her
right eye. "You're lucky he didn't smash the socket." He parted the
collar of her nightgown and inspected the bruises on her neck.
"Actually, you're lucky you aren't dead."

"It's nothing, really," she said bitterly. "He came out the loser, believe you me. I killed his wife and child."

Her collarbones were sharp beneath her skin. She had lost a good deal
of weight. Sid was no doctor, but he knew why. It was a condition he
was all too familiar with. She was being eaten alive by guilt. He
released the fabric of her gown and she quickly buttoned her collar.

"Why are you here?"

"I have a little girl with me," he said. "She's in the other room.
She's very ill. I know her mother. She can't afford a doctor."

"Maybe she can't, but you can. There are doctors in East London. You didn't have to bring the child all the way to Bloomsbury."

"I wanted someone good."

"I'm sorry, I'm not practicing any more. I can't help you."

"It's not me who's asking for help. It's the little one in the next room."

"Didn't you hear me?" she snapped. "I said I've stopped practicing. I've left Gifford's. I'm finished."

Sid stood and in one swift motion ripped the bedclothes off her. "Get up out of there. Right now."

India refused; she scrabbled for the sheets. Sid took hold of her arms and lifted her out of bed.

"What are you doing?" she screeched. "Stop it!"

He marched her into her sitting room. The child sat motionless on the
settee. Her face was white. Her breathing was labored. Her eyes sought
India's, pleading.

"Tell her," Sid said, pushing India forward. "Tell her that you quit."

"This is blackmail," she hissed.

"Whatever it takes."

"I need my instruments. My bag. I don't have it anymore."

Sid went to the door and picked up the black leather bag Ella had
placed on the floor. "I got it back," he said, handing it to her.

"How?"

"Put the word about. Found out Shakes had pawned it."

"Who?"

"The old toe-rag whose gin you were swilling. On a bench outside the underground station. Or so I heard."

India colored. She snatched the bag. "Do you think I might have my wrapper? For decency's sake?" she asked.

Sid went to get her robe, but when he came back into the sitting room
she impatiently waved it aside. She'd begun her examination and was
barely aware of him. The little girl--Jessie was her name--didn't even
react as she took her temperature, her pulse, and then peered into her
eyes, nose, and throat. Then, as India was listening to her chest,
Jessie began to cough and could not stop. Her face reddened; her eyes
grew large with fear as she struggled for air, and then came a harsh,
sucking gasp.

"It's whooping cough," India said.

She dug in her bag, pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, and started
scribbling. Sid looked at the little girl. The paroxysm of coughing had
stopped. The child was slumped over onto the arm of the settee. Her eyes
were closed and her skin was slick with sweat. He felt frightened for
her. India tore off two sheets from her pad and handed them to him.

"Take these to Dixon's the chemist's on Tottenham Court Road. While
he's filling them, walk three or four shops west to Worth's Hardware and
buy me four bamboo poles. Each four feet high. Hurry."

Ronnie was waiting outside in the carriage and Sid was able to get
what India needed and get back to her flat quickly. When he returned, a
tea ket-tle was steaming in the kitchen and India had taken Jessie into
her bed-room. She was lying well bundled in India's bed. A small table
with a porcelain basin had been positioned at her feet.

"I need you," she said when she saw Sid. He gave her the bottles from
Dixon's and she handed him a ball of twine and told him to lash the
bam-boo poles to the four sides of the bed. While he was doing so, she
gave the child a dose from one of the bottles. It was quinine; Sid had
seen the label. As soon as he had the poles secured, she draped two
sheets over them to make a tent. Then she poured some oil from the
second bottle into a basin. Immediately the room smelled of eucalyptus.
She disappeared and returned with the kettle. Ducking into the tent, she
poured the steaming wa-ter into the basin, then quickly came back out.

"You all right in there, Jessie?" she said.

"It's awfully foggy, miss," came the weak reply.

India smiled. "It's good for you. Close your eyes and breathe it in."

"I'm afraid. What if it starts me coughing?"

"It's all right to cough, Jessie. It's scary, I know, but it's all right. Try to stay as calm as you can when it's happening."

There was a silence, then a disbelieving "All right, miss."

"You're going to get better. I promise. The medicine and the steam
will help you. It may take a day or two, but you'll be well and back
home before you know it."

There was no answer.

"Do you believe me, Jessie?"

"Yes, miss." The child's voice was stronger this time, and hopeful.

"Good. Try to rest. I'll be back in shortly to add more hot water. We'll try a bit of hot soup later if you can manage it."

"Thank you, miss."

India waved Sid out of the bedroom. He walked to the sitting room
with his hands in his pockets and sat down. India followed and took a
seat across from him.

"She'll have to stay here," she said. "She's too delicate to move."

"I'll pay whatever it costs. Buy whatever she needs."

"I'll help her, Sid," India said. "But this doesn't change anything.
I'm not going to practice anymore. I can do more good on a parliamentary
commit-tee. Working on public health reform."

"Who told you that? Freddie?"

"Nobody told me anything. I arrived at the decision myself."

Sid was silent for a few seconds, then he said, "India, it's not your fault."

She was on her feet immediately, her hands balled into fists. "How
the hell would you know that?" she cried angrily. "Are you an expert in
obstetrics now, Sid? Read your Simpson and Kelly, have you? Know your
Blundell?"

"No," he said, calm and unblinking in the face of her fury, "but I know you."