The Web Weaver

happy to get home to Michelle.

Seven

The day after the party I was very busy with patients, but after a quick supper, I took a cab to the Wheelwrights’ home. Henry did not want me to go, and truly, after the events of the past twenty-four hours, I would have been happy to spend a quiet evening with him. All the same, Violet was my friend and my patient—I felt I must go, especially since Henry had not seen her in the morning.

Lovejoy was surprised, but since I had my medical bag, he must have assumed it was a professional visit. Ladies of good breeding did not make social calls after supper. He told me Mr. Wheelwright was out, and then assured me that the cook, Alice, and his wife were all feeling much better and did not require my attention. A maid, Gertrude, led me up two flights of stairs to Violet’s bedroom.

Gertrude knocked lightly at the door. It swung open. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, the doctor is...”

“Oh, Michelle—you need not have come. You must be exhausted yourself.”

“I wanted to see you, Violet.”

“Come in. Thank you, Gertrude.”

The bedroom was an enormous one, easily larger than our sitting room, and very inviting. Many of my wealthy patients had terrible taste, their bedrooms overflowing with bric-a-brac, lace, gaudy drapes, patterned wallpaper and borders, and baroque furniture. This room was clean, bright, and simply done, the curtains and the wallpaper cream-colored, the carpet a reddish Persian pattern. The bed had no canopy, and the chairs were comfortable-looking but not ornate. A large desk sat near the tall windows, books and papers covering it. Violet’s nightclothes were also simple, not the silk negligee or robes one might expect, but a white nightgown of cotton flannel which fell to her feet, and over it, unbelted, a pure white wool robe. She gestured at a chair near the fireplace.

“Sit down. You do look tired.”

“I am weary. It was a very busy day. Where will you sit?”

“I shall bring over another chair in a moment. I do not want to sit just yet.”

I was only too happy to rest. A chunk of glowing coal gave off welcome warmth after the damp chill of the cab ride.

Violet stared down at the black iron grate. She held out her hands, her long slender fingers spread apart. They began to quiver slightly. She made fists, then thrust her hands into the pockets of her robe. Her face appeared pale and thin, but her dark eyes were restless, agitated. Her long black hair fell nearly to her waist. I had not seen her before with her hair down; she appeared younger and slighter, oddly vulnerable. Perhaps it was only that I was accustomed to seeing her elegantly dressed with not a hair out of place. The robe and gown hid her woman’s shape; she reminded me somehow of young waifs I had seen on the street.

“I fear I am hardly presentable,” she said. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Of course not. You look very comfortable. I envy you.”

She gave me a smile that had none of her usual irony. “Take off your boots if you wish and join me in my slovenly ways.”

“Thank you, I shall.” I bent over and undid the buttons, then slipped my feet free. The boots were well made and did not have the high heels and pointed toes fashion decreed, but it was still a relief to have them off after a long day. I thrust forward my feet and flexed my toes before the fire.

“Ah...” I murmured. “This is the best I have felt all day.”

The room was very quiet; the wind rattled the windowpanes gently. Violet took a step closer to the fire. Her bare feet protruded from under the lacy hem of her nightgown. Her feet were pale, her toes long and slender like her fingers.

“I am glad you came, Michelle. I was...” Her voice faded away.

I reached out and gave her wrist a squeeze. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

She raised her shoulders but said nothing.

“Lovejoy tells me Alice and the cook are perfectly well. And his wife is much better.”

“Thank God for that,” she said.

I sighed and closed my eyes. It would have been easy for me to fall asleep in that chair. With the bustle of the day done and the room so warm and peaceful, I could feel how fatigued I really was. “I wish there was something I could do, some way I could help you.”

“Oh, Michelle, you have helped me—only... I cannot—I cannot bear your kindness—I do not deserve it. You are so... good. You are everything I am not.” Her voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears.

“What are you saying? Your servants worship you. You are known throughout London for your kind heart and your good work. I have seen you at the clinic. Somehow you understand my patients; they sense it. You are one of the few women of your class I know who is completely free of prejudice and vanity.”

“Oh, Michelle.” The tears started down her cheeks, and she turned away. “If you only knew... what your friendship means to me... what...” She took a deep breath, her back straightening, and she rose up on the balls of her feet and clenched her fists as she struggled to master herself. Suddenly she wilted, knees bending, body twisting about as her right hand clutched at her side. “Dear God.” Her face went white.

I was out of the chair at once. I did not try to make her stand but guided her to the chair. She collapsed and bent over with a groan. “Oh, it hurts...”

“Try not to fight it so,” I said. “It will pass. Take a deep breath. Yes, that’s good.”

Slowly, she straightened up, a peculiar smile tugging at her lips. “That was the worst one ever.”

I frowned. “Have you been having these pains for long?”

“For a while, but not so often. Since last night they come and go all the time.”

“What kind of pain is it?”

“Very sharp. I imagine a knife slipping between one’s ribs would feel that way.”

“Is it better or worse on an empty stomach?”

“Worse.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I... I am not exactly sure.”

“You did not eat supper?”

“I could not face Donald—not today. I...”

“Violet, that is foolish! You must eat regularly. You may have the beginnings of a stomach ulcer.” Actually, it was probably quite far along. “Where is the pull for the maid?”

She took a deep breath and sat up. “There, by the bed.”

I walked over and pulled twice. I poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. “Drink this. It should help.”

“Thank you.” Her color was coming back, but she still held her hand to her side.

There was a knock at the door. I walked over and opened it. Gertrude looked up at me; she was so small she made me feel like a giantess. “Your mistress needs some food. Could you bring some hot soup and bread up on a tray?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

I closed the door, then walked back across the room, picked up a chair and carried it over next to Violet and the fireplace.

Her mocking smile had returned. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Violet, you must take care of yourself.”

She sighed, and then put her lip between her teeth. “I shall try.”

I put my hand on her shoulder; she felt so bony, so slight. She was only five or six inches shorter than I, not tiny like Gertrude, but next to Violet I must resemble some brawny peasant lass. She brought out both my maternal and professional instincts: she needed to eat more—she was far too thin.

“Is the pain better?”