Hester had not realized it, but at mention of the food she was aware of how long it had been since she last ate, or sat down comfortably, without the need to find words to comfort a frightened, inarticulate old man or woman, powerless as she was to give any real help.
'Yes,' she accepted quickly. 'Please.'
Cleo jerked her hand to the right. 'Along there, love, same as usual.' She withdrew, and they heard her feet clattering away on the hard floor.
They went together up to the staff room and sat at one of the plain wood tables. All around them other women were eating with relish, and the porter glasses were lifted even more often than the forks. There was a little cheerful conversation in between mouthfuls, or during. They overheard many snatches.
'… dead ’e were, in a week, poor devil. But wot can yer ’spect, eh? ’Ad no choice but ter cut ’im open. Went bad, it did. Seen it comin’.'
'Yeah. Well, ’appens, don’ it? ’Ere, ’ave another glass o’ porter.'
'Fanks. I’m that tired I need summink ter keep me eyes open. I gorn an’ popped that ’at, like yer told me. Got one and tenpence fer it. Bastard. I’d ’a thought ’e’d ’a given me two bob. Still, it’ll do the rent, like.'
'Your Edie still alive, is she?'
'Poorol’ sod, yeah. Coughin’ ’er ’eartup, she is. Forty-six, lookin’ like ninety.'
'Yer gonner get ’er up ’ere, then, ter see the doc?'
'Not likely! ’Oo’s gonner pay fer it? I can’t, an’ Lizzie in’t got nuffink. Fred’s mean as muck. Makin’ shillin’s, ’e is, at the fish market most days, but drinks more’n ’alf of it.'
'Tell me! My Bert’s the same. Still, knocked seven bells outta Joe Pake t’other day, and got ’isself locked up fer a while. Good riddance, I say. Yer got any more o’ that pickle? I’m that ’ungry. Ta.'
Hester had heard a hundred conversations like it, the small details of life for the women who were entrusted with the care of frightened and ignorant people after the surgeon’s knife had done its best to remove the cause of their pain and the long road to recovery lay ahead of them.
'Perhaps if I got figures together?' Hester said softly, as much to herself as to Callandra. 'I could prove to Thorpe the practical results of having women with some degree of training!' She kept her voice low, not to be overheard. 'Women with an intelligence and an aptitude for it, like Cleo Anderson. I know it would cost more, as he would be the first to point out, but it would be richly rewarded. Money’s only the excuse, I’m sure of that.' She was reaching for reasons, arguments, the weakness in his armor. 'If he thought he would get the credit… if his hospital were to have greater success than any other…'
Callandra looked up from her bread and pickle. 'I’ve tried that.' A heavy bunch of hair fell out of its pins, and she poked it back, leaving the ends sticking out. 'I thought I’d catch his vanity. Nothing he’d like better than to outdo Dr. Gilman at Guy’s Hospital. But he hasn’t the courage to try anything he isn’t sure of. If he spent money, and there were no results, soon enough …' She left the rest unsaid. They had been around and around these arguments, or ones like them, so many times. It was all a matter of convincing Thorpe of something he did not want to know.
'I suppose it’s back to writing more letters,' Hester said wearily, taking another slice of bread.
Callandra nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed. 'How’s William?'
'Bored,' Hester said with a smile. 'Longing for a case to stretch his wits.'
When Hester arrived home at Fitzroy Street it was a little after seven o’clock that evening. Monk had already returned and was waiting for her. There were faint lines of tiredness in his face, but nothing disguised his pleasure in seeing her. She still found it extraordinary; it brought a strange quickening of the heart and tightness in the stomach to remember that she belonged here now, in his rooms, that when night came she would not stand up and say good-bye, uncertain when she would see him again. There was no more pretending between them, no more defense of their separateness. They might go to the bedroom one at a time, but underlying everything was the certainty that they would both be there, together, all night, and waken together in the morning. She did not even realize she was smiling as she thought of it, but the warmth was always in her mind, like sunshine on a landscape, lighting everything.
She kissed him now when he rose to greet her, feeling his arms close around her. The gentleness of his touch perhaps surprised him more than her.
'What’s for dinner?' was the first thing he said after he let her go.
It had not crossed her mind that she would need to cook for him. She had eaten at the hospital as a matter of habit. The food was there. She was thinking of the missing medicines and Thorpe’s stubbornness.
There was food in their small kitchen, of course, but it would require preparing and cooking. Even so, it would not take more than three quarters of an hour at most. She could not bear the thought of eating again so soon.
But she could not possibly tell him. To have forgotten about him was inexcusable.
She turned away, thinking frantically. 'There’s cold mutton. Would you like it with vegetables? And there’s cake.'
'Yes,' he agreed without enthusiasm. Had he expected her to be a good cook? Surely he knew her better than that? Did he imagine marriage was somehow going to transform her magically into a housekeeping sort of woman? Perhaps he did.
All she wanted to do was sit down and take her boots off. Tonight was her own fault, but the specter of years of nights like this was appalling, coming home from whatever she had been doing, been fighting for-or against-and having to start thinking of shopping for food, bargaining with tradesmen, making lists of everything she needed, peeling, chopping, boiling, baking, clearing away. And then laundry, ironing, sweeping! She swallowed hard, emotions fighting each other inside her. She loved him, liked him, at times loathed him, admired him, despised him … a hundred things, but always she was tied to him by bonds so strong they crowded out everything else.
'What did you do today?' she asked aloud. What was racing through her head was the possibility of acquiring a servant, a woman to come in and do the basic chores she herself was so ill-equipped to handle. How much would it cost? Could they afford it? She had sworn she was not going to go back to nursing in other people’s houses, as she had done until their marriage. Her smile widened as she remembered the day.
Automatically, she washed her hands, filled the pan with cold water and set it on the small stove to boil, then reached for potatoes, carrots, onions and cabbage.
Their wedding day had been typical of late spring: glittering sunshine gold on wet pavements, the scent of lilacs in the air, the sound of birdsong and the jingle of harness, horses’ hooves on the cobbles, church bells. Excitement had fluttered in her chest so fiercely she could hardly breathe. Inside, the church was cool. A flurry of wind had blown her skirt around her.
She could see the rows of pews now in her mind’s eye, the floor leading to the altar worn uneven by thousands of feet down the centuries. The stained glass of the windows shone like jewels thrown up against the sun. She had no idea what the pictures were. All she had seen after that had been Monk’s stiff shoulders and his dark head, then his face as he could not resist turning towards her.
He was leaning against the door lintel talking to her now, and she had not heard what he had said.
'I’m sorry,' she apologized. 'I was thinking about the dinner. What did you say?' Why had she not told him what she was really thinking? Too sentimental. It would embarrass him.
'Lucius Stourbridge,' he repeated very clearly. 'His bride-to-be left the party in the middle of a croquet game and has not been seen since. That was three days ago.'
She stopped scraping the carrots and turned to look at him.
'Left how? Didn’t anybody go after her?'
'They thought at first she’d been taken ill.' He told her the story as he had heard it.
She tried to imagine herself in Miriam Gardiner’s place. What could have been in her mind as she ran from the garden? Why? It was easy enough to think of a moment’s panic at the thought of the change in her life she was committing herself to and things that would be irrevocable once she had walked down the aisle of the church and made her vows before God-and the congregation. But you overcame such things. You came back with an apology and made some excuse about feeling faint.
Or if you really had changed your mind, you said so, perhaps with hideous embarrassment, guilt, fear. But you did not simply disappear.
'What is it?' he asked, looking at her face. 'Have you thought of something?'
She remembered the carrots and started working again, although the longer it took to prepare dinner the more chance there was she could force herself to eat again. Her fingers moved more slowly.
