Milady,
You wrote to ask about the babe they gave me to raise. I named her Charity to remind her she might be set out on the street except for the pity of others, and she must try to be deserving. She was always a good girl what gave me no trouble, but the payments for her upkeep weren’t enough. I asked every year for an increase, and they never gave so much as a farthing extra. Five months ago I had no choice but to send her to the Stepney Orphans Asylum at St. George-in-the-East.
I wrote to the solicitor to say I would fetch her back if he would make it worth my while, but no reply never came. I pray someday there’ll be a hard judgment on the heartless old screw for letting the poor child end in such a place. Since she never had no family name, they call her Charity Wednesday, on account that’s the day I sent her there. If there is anything you can do for the girl, bless you for it. She’s a sore burden on my conscience.
Yours Truly,
Ada Tapley
Helen was grateful that she hadn’t yet eaten breakfast. She wouldn’t have been able to keep it down after reading the letter. Springing from her chair, she walked back and forth with one hand pressed to her mouth.
Her little half sister was completely alone, and had been for months, in an institution where she might have been starved and abused, or become ill.
Although Helen had never believed herself to be capable of violence, she wanted to kill Albion Vance in the most painful way possible. She wished it were possible to kill a man multiple times—she would enjoy making him suffer.
At the moment, however, she had to think only of Charity. The child had to be removed from the orphan’s asylum immediately. A home must be found for her, a place where she would be treated with kindness.
First, Helen had to find out if the little girl had even survived this long.
She tried to push away the panic and fury long enough to think clearly. She had to go to the Stepney orphanage, find Charity, and bring her to Ravenel House. What were the rules for removing a child from such an institution? Was it possible to do it without having to give her real name?
She needed help.
But who could she go to? Not Rhys, and certainly not Lady Berwick, who would tell her to forget the child’s existence. Kathleen and Devon were too far away. West had told her to send for him if she needed him, but even though she would trust him implicitly with her own life, Helen wasn’t sure how he would react to this. It had not escaped her that West had a streak of ruthless pragmatism, not unlike Lady Berwick.
She thought of Dr. Gibson, who had told her, “You’re welcome to send for me if you need a friend, for any reason.” Had she meant it? Could she be counted on?
It was a risk. Dr. Gibson was employed by Rhys, and she might go to him directly. Or she might refuse to become involved, fearing his disapproval. But then Helen remembered the woman’s incisive green eyes and brisk, independent manner, and thought, she fears nothing. Moreover, Dr. Gibson was familiar with London, and had been inside an orphanage before, and must know something about how they were run.
Although Helen was reluctant to test a friendship before it had even started, Garrett Gibson was her best chance to save Charity. And for some reason, based on nothing but instinct, she felt sure that Dr. Gibson would help her.
“WHY DO YOU wish to see a doctor?” Lady Berwick asked, looking up from the writing desk in her room. “Another headache?”
“No ma’am,” Helen said, standing at the threshold. “It’s a female complaint.”
The countess’s lips pursed like the closure of a drawstring reticule. For a woman who discussed the breeding and reproduction of horses with ease, she was surprisingly uncomfortable when talking about the same processes in the human species. Unless it was in the small, exclusive circle of her society friends. “Have you tried the hot water bottle?”
Helen considered how to put it delicately. “I suspect that I may be ‘in a situation.’”
Lady Berwick’s face went blank. With great care, she set her writing pen back in its holder. “If this concern is a result of your rendezvous with Mr. Winterborne the other night, it is far too soon to tell if there is fruit on the vine.”
Lowering her gaze to the patterned carpet, Helen said carefully, “I understand. However . . . Mr. Winterborne and I had another, much earlier rendezvous.”
“Do you mean to say that you and he . . .”
“Upon our engagement,” Helen admitted.
The countess regarded her with resigned exasperation. “Welshmen,” she exclaimed. “Any one of them could talk his way past a chastity belt. Come into the room, child. This isn’t a subject to be shouted from the threshold.” After Helen had complied, she asked, “Your regular monthly illness has ceased?”
“I believe so.”
After considering the situation, Lady Berwick began to look somewhat pleased. “If you are in the family way, your marriage to Winterborne is practically a fait accompli. I will send for Dr. Hall, who attends my daughter Bettina.”
“Your ladyship is very kind, but I have already sent a note to request an appointment with Dr. Gibson, at her earliest convenience.”
The countess frowned. “Who is he?”
“Dr. Gibson is a woman. I met her on Monday evening at Winterborne’s.”
“No, no, that won’t do. Females are not meant to be doctors—they lack scientific understanding and coolness of nerve. One cannot trust a woman with a matter as important as childbirth.”
“Ma’am,” Helen said, “my sense of modesty would be less offended by a lady doctor’s examination than one performed by a man.”
Huffing indignantly, Lady Berwick lifted a beseeching gaze to the heavens. Returning her gaze to Helen, she said dourly, “Dr. Gibson may attend you here.”
“I’m afraid I must go to her private office, in her residence at King’s Cross.”
The countess’s brows shot upward. “She will not examine you in the privacy of your own home?”
“She keeps all the latest scientific and medical equipment at her office,” Helen said, recalling Rhys’s description of it when he’d told her about Dr. Gibson treating his dislocated shoulder. “Including a special table. And a lamp with a concentrated light reflector.”
“That is very strange indeed,” the countess said darkly. “A male doctor would have the decency to close his eyes during the examination.”
“Dr. Gibson is modern.”
“It would seem so.” Lady Berwick, who harbored deep suspicion of anything modern, frowned. “Very well.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Filled with unutterable relief, Helen fled the room before the countess could change her mind.
AN APPOINTMENT WAS secured for the next afternoon at four. In her growing agitation, Helen had hardly been able to sleep that night. By the time she finally crossed the front threshold of Dr. Gibson’s house, she was exhausted and fraught with nerves.
“I’m here on false pretenses,” she blurted out as Dr. Gibson welcomed her into the narrow, three-level Georgian terrace.
“Are you?” Dr. Gibson asked, seeming unperturbed. “Well, you’re welcome to visit no matter what the reason.”
A plump, round-faced housemaid appeared in the small entrance. “Shall I take your coat, milady?”
“No, I can’t stay long.”
Dr. Gibson regarded Helen with a quizzical smile, her green eyes alert. “Shall we talk for a few minutes in the parlor?”
“Yes.” Helen followed her into a tidy, pleasant room, simply furnished with a settee and two chairs upholstered in blue and white, and two small tables. The only picture on the wall was a painting of geese parading by a country cottage with a rose trellis, a soothing image because it reminded Helen of Hampshire. A mantel clock gave four delicate chimes.
Dr. Gibson took a chair beside Helen’s. In the parchment-colored light from the front window, she appeared disconcertingly young despite her presence of manner. She was as clean and well-scrubbed as a schoolgirl, her maple-brown hair pinned in
a neatly controlled chignon. Her slim form was clad in a severe unadorned dress of forest green that verged upon black.
“If you’re not here as a patient, my lady,” Dr. Gibson said, “what can I do for you?”
“I need help with a private matter. I thought you would be the best person to approach, as the situation is . . . complicated.” Helen paused. “I would prefer this to be kept confidential.”
“You have my word.”
“I want to find out about a child’s welfare. My chaperone, Lady Berwick, has a nephew who sired a child out of wedlock and abandoned his responsibility for her. The little girl is four years old. It seems that five months ago, she was sent to the Stepney orphan asylum in the parish of St. George-in-the East.”
Dr. Gibson frowned. “I know of that area. It’s a perfect bear pit. Certain parts are unsafe even during the day.”
Helen wove her gloved fingers together into a little snarl. “Nevertheless, I have to find out if Charity is there.”
“That’s her name?”
“Charity Wednesday.”
Dr. Gibson’s mouth quirked. “There’s an institutional name if I’ve ever heard one.” Her gaze turned questioning. “Shall I go there on your behalf? I won’t mention your name, of course. If Charity is there, I’ll find out her condition and report it back to you. I’m sure I could make time to go tomorrow or the next day.”
“Thank you, that is very generous of you, but . . . I must go today.” Helen paused. “Even if you cannot.”
“Lady Helen,” Dr. Gibson said quietly, “it’s no place for a gently bred woman. It exists at a level of human misery that would prove very distressing to someone who has led a sheltered life.”
Helen understood that the words were kindly meant, but they stung just the same. She was not delicate or weak-minded—she had already decided that she would muster whatever strength was necessary to do what had to be done. “I’ll manage,” she said. “If a four-year-old child has survived in such a place, I daresay I can endure one visit.”
“Could you not approach Mr. Winterborne? A man with his resources—”
“No, I don’t want him to know about this.”
Struck by Helen’s vehemence, Dr. Gibson regarded her with a speculative gaze. “Why must you be the one to handle this situation? Why would you take such a risk for a child who has only a slight connection to you?”
Helen was silent, afraid to reveal too much.
The other woman waited patiently. “If I am to help you, Lady Helen,” she said after a moment, “you must trust me.”
“My connection to the child is . . . more than slight.”
“I see.” The doctor paused before asking gently, “Is the child in fact yours? I wouldn’t judge you in the least for it, many women make mistakes.”
Helen flushed deeply. She forced herself to look directly at Dr. Gibson. “Charity is my half sister. Her father, Mr. Vance, had an affair with my mother long ago. Seducing and abandoning women is something of a sport to him.”
“Ah,” Dr. Gibson said softly. “So it is with many men. I see the vicious consequences of such sport, if we’re to call it that, whenever I visit the women and children who are suffering in workhouses. To my mind, castration would be the ideal solution.” She gave Helen a measuring glance. Appearing to make a decision, she stood abruptly. “Let’s be off, then.”
Helen blinked. “You’ll go with me? Now?”
“I certainly can’t let you do it alone. It would behoove us to leave at once. Daylight will start to wane at a quarter past six. We’ll have to send your driver and footman home and hire a hansom. It would be foolhardy to take a fine carriage to the place we’re going, and I doubt your footman would allow you to set one foot outside it, once he has a glimpse of the area.”
Helen followed her from the room to the hallway.
“Eliza,” Dr. Gibson called out. The plump housemaid reappeared. “I’m going out for the rest of the afternoon.” The maid helped her into her coat. “Look after my father,” Dr. Gibson continued, “and don’t let him have sweets.” Glancing at Helen, she said in a quick aside, “They play havoc with his digestion.”
“I never do, Dr. Gibson,” the housemaid protested. “We keep hiding ’em, but he sneaks past us and finds ’em anyway.”
Dr. Gibson frowned, putting on her hat and tugging on a pair of gloves. “I expect you to pay closer attention. For goodness’ sake, he’s as subtle as a war elephant when he comes down the stairs.”
“He’s light-footed when he’s after sweets,” the maid said defensively.
Turning to the hall tree, Dr. Gibson pulled out her walking stick by its curved handle, and caught it smartly in midair. “We may have need of this,” she said with the satisfaction of a well-armed woman on a mission. “Onward, my lady.”
Chapter 28
AFTER THE FOOTMAN AND driver were sent back to Ravenel house with the message that the appointment would take longer than expected, Helen and Dr. Gibson went on foot to Pancras Road. As they walked briskly, Dr. Gibson cautioned Helen about how to conduct herself in the East End, especially near the docklands area. “Stay aware of the environment. Take note of people in doorways, between buildings, or beside parked carriages. If anyone approaches you with a question, ignore them, even if it’s a woman or child. Always walk with purpose. Don’t ever look indecisive or lost, especially if you are, and never smile for any reason. If two people are walking toward you, don’t go between them.”
They reached a wide street, and stopped near a corner. “One can always find a hansom on the main thoroughfares,” Dr. Gibson continued. “Here’s one now.” She thrust her hand into the air. “They’re always running express, so take care not to be mown down as they approach the curbstone. Once he stops, we’ll have to seat ourselves and be quick about it. Hansom horses tend to start and jerk, so mind you don’t fall from the footboard while climbing in.”
Helen nodded tensely, her heart thumping as the two-wheeled vehicle came to a violent halt in front of them. Dr. Gibson ascended first after the folding door opened, ducking beneath the trailing reins.
Grimly determined, Helen climbed up after her, gripping the oval splashguard over the wheel for leverage. The narrow footboard was slippery with mud. To make matters worse, the weight and bulk of her bustle threatened to drag her backward. Somehow she managed to keep her balance, and lunged awkwardly into the cab.
“Well done,” Dr. Gibson said. She stopped Helen from reaching for the door. “The driver will close it with a lever.” She called out their destination to the driver through a trapdoor in the roof, after using her cane to poke at a newspaper that had fallen across the opening. The door swung shut, the vehicle jerked forward, and they proceeded along the street with rapidly increasing velocity.
Whereas ordinary people rode in hansoms all the time, young women of Helen’s rank never did. The ride itself was terrifying but exhilarating. She could hardly believe it was happening. The hansom cab hurtled along at a breakneck pace, threading the mass of carriages, carts, omnibuses, and animals that crowded the thoroughfare, lurching and jolting, missing lampposts and parked vehicles and slow-footed pedestrians by inches.
“When it’s time to hop out,” Dr. Gibson said to Helen, “I’ll pay the driver through the hole in the roof, and he’ll open the door with the lever. Take care not to let the overhanging reins knock off your hat as you jump to the ground.”
The hansom jolted to a rough stop. Dr. Gibson handed up the payment and nudged Helen’s side with her elbow as the door opened. Galvanized into action, Helen clambered out and stepped on the footboard. She had to wrench her hips to pull her bustle free of the carriage. With more luck than skill, she leapt to the street without falling on her face or losing her hat. The bustle gave an extra bounce as she landed, causing her to totter forward. Immediately afterward, Dr. Gibson descended to the ground with athletic grace.
“You make it look so easy,” Helen said.
“Practice,” Dr. Gibson repl
ied, adjusting the angle of her hat. “Also, no bustle. Now, remember the rules.” They began to walk.
Their surroundings were vastly different from any part of London Helen had seen before. Even the sky looked different, the color and texture of old kitchen rags. There were only a handful of shops, all of them with blackened windows and dilapidated signs. Rows of common lodging-houses, intended to provide shelter for the destitute, appeared unfit for habitation. People crowded the street, arguing, cursing, drinking, fighting. Others sat on steps or curbstones, or occupied doorways with ghostlike lassitude, their faces sunken-eyed and unnaturally pale.
As polluted as the main road was, layered with filth and wheel-flattened objects, it didn’t compare with the alleys that branched from it, where the ground glimmered with dark streams and standing pools of putrid liquid. Catching a glimpse of a dead animal carcass, and a doorless privy, Helen stiffened against a shudder that ran down her spine. People lived in this place. Ate, drank, work, slept here. How did they survive? She stayed close to Dr. Gibson, who appeared coolly unaffected by the squalor around them.
A remarkable stench hung everywhere, impossible to avoid. Every few yards the floating miasma, dark, organic, and rotting, reshaped into a new, even more revolting version of itself. As they passed a particularly foul alley, a pervasive reek seemed to go directly from her nose to her stomach. Her insides roiled.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Dr. Gibson said, quickening her stride. “It will pass.”
Thankfully the nausea retreated, although Helen’s head swam faintly as if she’d been poisoned, and her mouth tasted like pencil lead. They turned a corner and confronted a large brick building with tall iron gates and spiked fencing all around.
“That’s the orphanage,” Dr. Gibson said.
“It looks like a prison.”
“I’ve seen worse. At least the grounds are reasonably clean.”
They walked down the street to a set of tall iron gates that had been left ajar, and passed through to the entrance. Dr. Gibson reached up to tug firmly at a bell pull. They heard it ring from somewhere inside.