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[Haverhill]

(OOC: This post immediately follows <linkie to be edited in>)

Haverhill was sleeping soundly, dreaming the dreams that only people who imagine themselves to be safe from harm can dream, when he was rather suddenly awakened by a knocking on his door. Sleepily sitting up in bed, he called out softly, “What is it?”
A woman’s voice answered just as discreetly from the other side, “If you please, sir, there’s a woman here askin’ for you.”
Haverhill came more fully awake with this unpleasant news. Please, please don’t let it be Mrs Barrett, he thought, as he shrugged on a dressing-gown and went to open his door. The maid on the other side was clad in shawl and nightgown and carrying a candle. Haverhill asked, “Did she leave a name?”
“Mrs Odde, sir, I believe she said.”

This name was not any more welcome to Haverhill than Mrs Barrett’s name would have been, however. His lips tightening, he said, “Thank you, Lucy, that will be all.” Relieving her of the candle, Haverhill sent her off to bed. He debated whether or not to go and don proper attire for a moment, but decided that Mrs Odde would know just what an ungodly hour this was and would therefore have to understand that at times like this, dressing-gowns were all that could be expected. He went down to meet his night-time guest, no small amount of trepidation in his heart.

Entering the servant’s hall, he took in the frumpy figure by the rear door. Her clothing was obviously a spur-of-the-moment affair, as nothing matched and each button was mated to the hole one down from where it should have been. As a greeting, he observed quietly, “Mrs Odde, it is the middle of the night.”
“I know, sir, and I’m sorry, sir, but it’s very important, sir.” Mrs Odde’s voice was loud and very nearly quavering.
Haverhill frowned. Something had happened, not that it took a genius to deduce. Softly, he admonished her, “Hush, you will wake the house. What is it?”
Mrs Odde’s voice dropped almost below hearing. “It’s Nora, sir.”
Oh, sh*t. He had known she would get hurt some time or other, in her line of work. He had only hoped it might be rather later. “What has happened?” Haverhill asked, expecting to hear that the woman required a doctor, perhaps rather urgently.
Mrs Odde’s said awkwardly, “It’s just that she’s dead, sir. I only thought sir would want to know. I’m sorry for sir’s loss, sir.”

Haverhill was stunned. Oh God! How can this have happened? He felt an undercurrent of loss at the news—Nora was a fine woman, and that her life had ended so prematurely... she had made him feel almost like a father. But she was not his daughter, and he was conscious of it, and the distance allowed him not to be stricken with grief. His chief emotion was compassion for his friend and employer. John had cared for the woman, loved her, even. Haverhill knew the news of her death would surely break him; because Haverhill loved John, Nora’s death would be much harder to bear for the steward than any attachment he himself had to her would warrant.

How was he going to tell John? Nora was dead. How could he possibly tell John?

For a long moment, Haverhill could think of nothing to say to Mrs Odde, because his thoughts were arrested by this question. Then reason came back to him and he chided himself internally. There was no use crying over spilled milk now; he could grieve later. Now, it was important to decide what to do. A policy that had always served him well. Focus. What to do. He began to think analytically. How was he going to break the news to John. Was he obligated to do it? If the matter could be hidden, would it not be kinder to John to allow him to think that Nora was alive, but moved? Perhaps to London, or some northern city.

He could decide later, after the immediacy—well, it would still be immediate, just not quite so much as now—of the situation was settled. With astounding cold-bloodedness, he said, “I see. Thank you for informing me of this circumstance. What was the cause, and where is she now?”
Discomfited by Haverhill’s lack of reaction, Mrs Odde said nervously, “I don’t know, sir, only I came straight here when Shackle told me. She... it’s... she’s at the alley two past the milliner on Grainger-street. I set him to guarding... her.”
Haverhill nodded, gestured for her to wait, and went to his office. Unlocking his desk, he produced from the hidden compartment in one of the drawers a small pouch, which clinked softly. Taking this back to the servant’s hall with him, he withdrew five sovereigns and handed them to Mrs Odde. She took them hesitantly, as he said, “I am much obliged to you, Mrs Odde. You have been most helpful. If you will please keep this to yourself, I am sure that we can do business again in the future.”
Mrs Odde nodded fervently. “You got it, sir. My lips are sealed, mum’s the word.” At Haverhill’s gesture, she left, nodding and backing herself out the door.

No sooner had he locked the door behind her than Haverhill ran back up to his room on silent feet. It was the work of a moment for him to don the now-wrinkled clothes he had worn yesterday, and in a trice he was downstairs again, letting himself out to the stables. Here, he went to the grooms’ quarters and woke up the one person he could absolutely trust to be silent if instructed: the Russian Jew, Ivan Vasiliev, who owed Haverhill both his life and his livelihood, having been saved from deportation at a time when such would have ensured his death upon re-entering Russia.

“Up, man. We’re going.”
Haverhill’s terse words and ungentle shake awoke Vasiliev, and the other man simply sat up and said, “Where to, sir?” He began to pull on his clothes also, not bothering with modesty.
Haverhill, already heading out to the stalls, called softly over his shoulder, “An alley on Grainger-street. Get a horse, quietly.”
Vasiliev frowned, but asked no questions. As John’s coach-man, he knew of only one point of interest about Grainger-street—namely, that it was where his lordship had met that woman that one time—and therefore could make an educated guess as to what tonight’s concern was.
Nothing was said of it, however, as Haverhill got his own horse. A short time later, the two rode slowly out of the stable, keeping the clopping of hooves to a minimum and riding on the grassy verge of the street once there, rather than on the cobblestones. When they were far enough from the Waverley-street house not to be heard, Haverhill began to canter, and Vasiliev followed. They made it to Grainger-street in record time, slowing five blocks from the alley so as not to attract undue attention near it. As they approached the mouth of the black slit between buildings, a man stepped out.
Haverhill reigned in, but then rode forward when he recognised Shackle’s face and the man waved for him to come.
Haverhill dismounted, tossing his reins to Vasiliev, who also dismounted and then stood holding both sets. Shackle came up to the steward and said, “Ah... sir... I didn’t... I mean, she’s not...”
Thinking that Shackle was merely making an inept attempt to comfort him, Haverhill brushed past him, saying, “Never mind that.”

He knelt by Nora. A less jaded person would be horrified at the sight of her battered, near-naked body, but Haverhill had seen, if not worse, at least as bad, before, and had grown somewhat inured to the sight of the results of violence. Instead of staring at her with hopeless shock, he ran a critical eye over her body. The very first thing he noticed was the scabbing on the cut on her face: she had not died immediately. This information caused him to look for other signs, and he placed a hand on her neck. She was still warm. He held his fingers just above her mouth and was rewarded by a faint tickle about five seconds later.

She wasn’t dead.

The relief he felt was indescribable, and suddenly he loved Nora more than anything in the world. He could not even express the surge of hope that coursed through him, although he did his best by telling Shackle in a mild tone, “She’s not dead.”
Shackle misinterpreted the quiet voice and babbled, “I know, I was mistaken, I panicked, please sir, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t do it, you do understand, don’t you? Please sir?”
Haverhill completely ignored him, checking Nora’s injuries. A broken nose, he could see. Blood. Cut, face, not serious. Slash, arm, serious, non-continuous slash, torso, not deep, bruise, bruise, cheek scraped, bruise—too many bruises to even distinguish some. She was a swelling mass of them, the skin split in places from it. There was nothing that said she could not be moved, however. He ran his hands along her body, feeling for breaks. Her neck and back were sound, and though she could have fractures in her limbs or ribs that he couldn’t feel in his quick inspection, it was better to move her to care and risk jarring them than to leave her here a moment longer.

Reaching down, Haverhill straightened Nora’s broken nose with one quick movement. It made a crunching noise, as if he were breaking it again. If she were conscious, it would have been agony for her, but she was not, and the only result was that it began to bleed afresh. Haverhill wondered for a moment if he should have let it be, but the sight of it sitting crookedly on her face had automatically made him want to straighten it. It was a natural human impulse: fix what is broken. Quickly removing his coat, he placed it on the ally floor, uncaring that it would be ruined from the muck surrounding Nora. He shifted her onto it, and then buttoned it around her, not bothering to put her arms in the sleeves. She was not going to be able to use them any time soon, and speed was of the essence.

He picked her up, ignoring Shackle, who was still sporadically offering pleas for understanding, and took her by his horse, where he handed her to Vasiliev to hold while he mounted. Then, when Vasiliev handed her up, he took her and placed her bonelessly flopping body carefully in front of his saddle. She would fall off too easily side-saddle, so he placed one leg on either side. His coat was not long enough, and her legs were bare from mid-thigh down. They would attract too much attention, if someone were to see them; her bare skin was pale and caught the moonlight. Even though it was nearing three thirty in the morning, there was no guarantee that their route home would be completely deserted, and he needed to be as inconspicuous as possible. Glancing at Vasiliev, who was in shirtsleeves and trousers, he thought of the solution.

Turning to Shackle, he said, “Your coat. Now, if you please.”
Shackle began to object, but Vasiliev stepped forward, helpfully saying, “Just gif it here, zat’s right.” He held out an arm, bulging with tensed muscles, and Shackle’s resistance melted away. He took off his coat and handed it over. Haverhill took it from Vasiliev in turn, draping it length-wise over Nora’s legs. It covered all but the feet; it would have to be good enough. Then, mindful of necessity, even with Nora’s body supported with one arm, Haverhill took three sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket, handing them to Shackle. “Your silence, and your peace. Do not think to ask for more.”
This was delivered very calmly, and with so many overtones of hard promise that Shackle paled. “Of course not, sir.” He took the money with a clumsy, trembling hand, and then backed away, down the alley. “I’ll just be going, then, sir. Sorry about the confusion, sir. Pleasant evening, sir, erm, well, you know what I mean...” By this time, he had got almost out of sight in the darkness, and he turned and ran down the alley.

Haverhill had ceased to pay attention at Shackle’s first word. He turned to Vasiliev and instructed him, “Find a doctor. I don’t care who, as long as you know his knowledge is sound. Anyone whom you trust that you can get to come. Promise whatever is needed.”
“Aye, vill break down door, if need,” was all Vasiliev said before he swung up onto his horse and headed off.
Haverhill set off himself, as fast as he dared with Nora in front of him. He saw no one on the way, fortunately, though he could not have guaranteed that no one saw him. Arriving at Waverley-street, he headed around the back, dismounting and leaving the horse unstabled and untied. If it wandered off, so be it. New horses could be bought; it was more important to get Nora inside quickly. He carried her into the house, and to the small spare bedroom on the first floor. It was near the back, the most available one to him; he laid Nora on the bed, and then went to find the house-keeper.

It was not difficult. She was right where she ought to have been at this hour of the night: asleep in bed. He knocked loudly on her door, and then when it was answered a little bit later, told her tersely, “The entire staff, Mrs Jenkins, in the servant’s hall in five minutes. A maid with hot water, brandy, and clean towels on a stand outside the lower spare in two. Now, Mrs Jenkins.”
Mrs Jenkins, a taciturn but very capable woman, made no reply, merely nodding and shutting the door, presumably to throw on a dressing-gown or shawl over her nightgown.
With this matter taken care of, Haverhill turned upstairs to carry out his most difficult task: telling John. The poor man was going to have a heart attack when he saw Nora. Haverhill’s feet stilled. He did not really want to watch John’s face when he saw. He did not want his friend to see Nora that way. And there was no need for it. Haverhill had already taken care of summoning a doctor. What could John do to help? Nothing, and thus there was no reason to wake him up just so he could see Nora, beaten and bleeding and covered in dirt and less desirable substances.

Haverhill turned towards Helen’s door. He would not wake up John until Nora was at least clean. Best to spare him what he might be spared. Helen, on the other hand, would be needed as a device to preserve decency for Nora when the doctor arrived, and she could help to bathe the woman where Haverhill could not. He knocked on her door, and again a few moments later, drawing a muffled grumbling from inside. She did open it, however, just a bare crack, and peered through. “Haverhill?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are needed urgently downstairs. Nora is here, and she is badly injured.”
“Oh... wha...? I’ll be right down.” Helen shut the door on him, and Haverhill turned and went back downstairs. The brandy, towels, and water were outside the spare bedroom. It occurred to him that new linens would be needed, or perhaps a new bed altogether, once Nora was clean, and made a mental note to have both ready by the time the doctor arrived. He opened the door, picked up the stand-table, and began to carry it into the room.
Just as he did, Helen came sweeping up the hall, strangely majestic in a crimson-embroidered deep gold dressing-gown. “Haverhill! Where is Nora?” she asked.
“Just here, ma’am,” Haverhill replied, standing aside for her.
Helen went through, but stopped so suddenly on the other side that Haverhill nearly ran into her. “She... she... what happened? Is... is she... alive?”
“Yes. I have sent for a doctor. I would ask you to assist him.” Haverhill put the table down beside the head of the bed.
“Of course. What should I do?”
“I think we should wait for the physician. She is in a very bad way. We may do more harm than good.”
Helen nodded assent. “And John?”
“I thought it best to wait until she is tended to. He could not help.”
“You’re right. I would like Mary, though.”
“I’ll ask her to come directly.”
“Thank you.”

Haverhill nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. There were a few matters that needed to be taken care of before the doctor arrived. And afterwards, once things had settled down to the wait for Nora to awaken, there were a few more matters that bore some long thought.

[Michael Quartermaine]

It was some time in the wee hours of the morning; Michael had arrived in late last night after another baby, and he was snugly burrowed into his pillow, rolled up in most of the bedcovers – Michael would have made an abominable bed-partner – and snoring softly. Deep in sleep, there was some sort of hammering noise that was breaking into his dreams. Stirring, he muttered something incoherent, grumbled, and pushed his face down into his pillow. There was a murmur of voices from somewhere, and then a sharp rat-rat on his bedchamber door roused him. Lifting his head, he peered into the gloom and called, “Eh?”

“Mrs Bartleby, sir. There’s someone here for you. I can’t understand him. He keeps saying it’s urgent.” The chirpy voice of Mrs Hepzibah Bartleby, his housekeeper, was at odds with the clearly ungodly hour. What hour was it? There was no sign of grey in the sky outside his window. “What – what time is it?” He had not quite yet collected his thoughts, and tried to buy time with the question to comprehend what she had told him. “About four in the morning, I believe,” she answered. Although he knew she had waited up for him last night, she sounded as though she were operating on a restful night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast. However did that happen?

“Coming,” he said in a foggy voice as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs out of the bed. He sought in the darkness for a moment, for the Lucifer-matches on his bedside table, then decided better of it. Climbing to his feet, he groped blindly for his dressing-gown, drew the grey banyan around him and tied it in the front, and then strode for the door, looking down bleary-eyed at the vision that awaited him. Mrs Bartleby stood on the other side with a candle in her hand. Contrary to her energetic voice, she had clearly been woken up herself; her hair was drooping in curlers around her face, and her coat had clearly been hastily donned over a nightgown. She accompanied Michael down the stairs, holding her candle as high as any vestal virgin ever held a lamp.

Ushering him into the receiving-room, where a heavily muscled man in shirtsleeves was standing, Mrs Bartleby promptly disappeared, most likely to divest herself of the curlers and the nightgown. The muscular man started forward. He was dark, Eastern European, and he seemed jumpy. The set of his shoulders told Michael that he was nervous. “Doktor, you need come now. Please get dress. Is very urgent.”

“What is the matter?” Michael asked, linking his hands behind his back and regarding the man with some curiosity.

“He found a woman. She beaten. Stabbed. Is very bad.”

Michael felt surprise, dulled by fatigue. Although he had thought something had to be seriously wrong, this account of a violent crime was worse than what he expected. “Who found - ” he began to ask, and then thought better of it. Perhaps he should save inquiries for later. “Never mind. I will come immediately. Let me call my assistant.” Hatcher would hardly thank him for rousting him out of his bed at this hour, but Michael would need his hands – and his eyes.

“No. No assistant. Come alone.” Michael felt a surge of unease. This heavily-accented man turned up in the middle of the night with a story of an assaulted woman, and he wanted Michael to come alone? “Where are you taking me?” he asked, with a slight note of caution.

“To ze boss. Haf need for de – de – derision.” The boss was hardly a comforting direction. Derision, also, threw Michael for a moment, before he caught on to what the man might have meant. “Discretion?” hazarded Michael.

“Yes, doktor. Please come now.”

At this point, Michael was not willing to go with the man without a little more information. “What address?” he asked. He almost expected the man to tell him it was none of his business, and to whip out a blindfold, but the fellow disappointed this dramatic thought.

“Waverley-street.”

This information relieved Michael considerably; there was no more respectable place to live in the entire city. However, he did make up his mind to leave a note for Hatcher. Or at least to inform Mrs Bartleby of his whereabouts. If he was about to be drawn into some cloak-and-dagger business he would be well out of his depth. “And your name?” he asked.

“Ivan Vasiliev.” Russian, then. Not that it made any difference. Michael nodded and started up briskly. “I will get dressed and collect my things. Call my groom, please – have him ready my horse.”

He took the stairs two at a time, but was stopped at the landing before his bedchamber door. In fact, Mrs Bartleby had not gone to correct her deshabille, but had in fact brewed a pot of tea. She came forward, and offered him a steaming cup, as well as a candle, which he took gratefully, if carefully, into his room, shut the door, and set both down on the table in the hopes the tea would cool enough to drink before he could pull on his clothing. Shrugging out of his dressing gown, he threw that and his night-shirt across the bed carelessly, earning a disgruntled look from the spaniel that lay spread-eagled in an attitude of absolute repose.

Drawing on a clean shirt, and hopping into trousers, waistcoat, and coat, he paused for a moment in front of the mirror to try to straighten his cravat. Having tied it into some semblance of order, he was as finished as he would be. His hair was rumpled, beyond saving. He tried to drink the tea, burned his tongue as he swallowed it too fast, and ended up with a tingling, scalded mouth.

Michael paused on his way out the door only to collect his black-bag, and found the Eastern European already mounted on his own horse, with the reins of Michael’s town-horse, Pompey, in hand. Swinging himself up into the saddle, Michael set the bag in front of him and clicked his tongue to set the smallish, heavy-set roan cob forward at its quick, steady pace. “Zis way,” Vasiliev told him at the outset, as the Russian fellow trotted forwards to take the lead, and after that they rode in silence.

Waverley-street, at least, had not been an invention, Michael saw to some relief as Pompey and the Russian’s horse turned up the grand avenue, hooves clicking over the cobbles. The Russian drew rein in front of an imposing edifice, and announced, “Is here.”

Michael recognised the house immediately. It was Lord Wothersham’s town-house; he had come previously to set an under-butler’s broken leg. Mystified, he glanced at Vasiliev. What had happened to the unknown woman? What was she doing here in Waverley-Street? And why all the secrecy – why hadn’t a constable been called yet?

The two men left their horses with an ostler, and Vasiliev led Michael not to the front door, but instead around the back of the house to a small servant’s entrance.

[Haverhill]

Haverhill stepped into the servant’s hall to find that Mrs Jenkins had been her usual effective self. Every single one of the household servants was assembled therein. More than one had a guilty look on his or her face, but Haverhill was not interested in his employees’ personal peccadilloes tonight. He was only here to make an announcement, and a threat. Nodding to Mrs Jenkins, who was standing in the front rank of the near-army of servants, Haverhill gently cleared his throat. The susurrations filling the room from whisperers in the back ceased at once. He folded his hands behind his back, and addressed the small crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen. A situation has come about which every one of you would know about by the end of tomorrow in any case. I have decided to forestall speculation with knowledge.” This gave immediate rise to whispers in the back. Haverhill waited with supreme calm until they quieted, and then continued, “We have a guest who has been badly injured and will require much care in the next few weeks, perhaps months. She is of special importance to Lord Wothersham, and should be treated with the same respect as you would accord one of his sisters.”

Haverhill paused at this juncture and looked at the servants to make sure this was taken in. Mrs Jenkins was nodding slightly; she would have figured that out already just by the upset the guest was causing in the normal order. She knew that nothing not of special importance to Lord Wothersham ever intruded onto the smooth functioning of the household, because she knew that Haverhill took care of everything of lesser importance without any interruption in the usual daily progression. The under-butlers and footmen looked bored and tired, the maids interested and tired, and the rest fell somewhere in between. Haverhill supposed that he would have to reinforce the point fairly soon, but he decided to go on for now.

He said, “Some of you will know who she is, and this information will be near-impossible to keep from the rest of you. Therefore, I will tell you candidly that she is a lady of, shall we say, negotiable affections.” He paused again, and this time the whispers were much louder before everyone realised he was watching them like a hawk. A couple of the footmen suddenly looked a great deal less bored, and Haverhill focused on them, just watching them, until they looked down at the floor. He glanced around, and found Mrs Jenkins watching them also. He would have an ally in her, at least. She might not approve of the situation, but she would be damned before she let anything happen to a guest in her house.

His voice laced with iron, Haverhill casually added, “If there is anyone who feels offended by having such in the house, let him speak now.” No one said a word, and Haverhill continued, “Good, I thought no one would be. I have one other thing to say at this time. What I have told you is not to pass beyond this room, not even your family. To ensure that it does not, I will tell you this. If I hear so much as a whisper of this—a breath is all it will take—I will not only personally attend to the whisperer, I will also dismiss every single person in this room. If you choose to let your tongue rattle, you will not only be responsible for your own misfortune, but for the loss of livelihood for each and every one of your co-workers. On this I give you my word.”

Again no one said anything, and this time Haverhill did not bother to look at everyone. He simply stood with a calm, resolute expression on his face, as if this threat were not only perfectly reasonable, but also an absolute and certain consequence of any tongue-wagging. To him, it was both. He would not see this group put John through more hassle over Nora sooner than would come about from John’s own actions, and this was his best shot at guaranteeing it. He would be sorry to see some of the servants go, if he were forced to dismiss them, but at the same time he was perfectly ready to carry through on his promise. There was no point in threatening if you did not have a reputation for following up on them; Haverhill had made sure that one of the first things every new servant knew was that his word was absolute, whether for good or ill. For the psychological benefit of making someone acknowledge his threat verbally, he asked, “I trust I am clear.”

Mrs Jenkins said crisply, “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear,” and it seemed to break the silence on the rest of the servants. There was a great deal of shuffling and whispering.
Haverhill ignored it and said to the hall at large, “Good. You may all return to your quarters until morning duties begin. Thank you for your attention.”
The servants stood as if pole-axed for a moment, and then began to filter out when Mrs Jenkins prompted them too. She waited until the last had left, before approaching Haverhill and saying, “Sir?”
“Yes, Mrs Jenkins?”
“Really? A... a prostitute?” She sounded disbelieving, shocked, curious—as if she couldn’t decide what to think of it yet.
Haverhill smiled and told her, “Not any more, I suspect. Not any more.”
He left the room with Mrs Jenkins’s gaze following him. Heading towards the bedroom with Nora in it, he found Mary outside, her face pale. She mustered a shaky smile in greeting, and Haverhill ignored the smell of vomit that filled the hallway. He had requested her presence on her sister’s behalf before going to the servant’s hall and she had responded with gratifying speed. He had left her inside the room, though, and obviously she had not been able to take the full extent of Nora’s injuries quite as calmly as she had been at first.

“The doctor should be here soon,” he assured her, and she nodded without saying anything. After a minute or two, she went back into the room, and Haverhill took the opportunity to remove the rolled-up towel that had been hidden by the sideboard behind her. It squished unpleasantly in his grasp and emitted noxious odours, and he carried it as fast as was seemly to the laundry-room. Then he left to take up station by the back door, where Vasiliev would bring the doctor. He leaned against the wall, falling into a practiced half-doze. There was nothing more he could do at the moment, and he might find himself short of rest in the near future.

He awoke immediately when the door opened, stepping away from the wall just as Vasiliev showed in a portly gentleman. Haverhill did not recognise the man, so he said, “Ah, the doctor. You are?”
“Dr Quartermaine,” replied the gentleman.
“Dr Quartermaine,” said Haverhill in acknowledgement, and then immediately said, “This way, please.” He set off down the hall towards the bedroom, and when the doctor stepped to his side informed him, “She’s been stabbed in the arm, badly.” His voice became more clipped as he listed the rest of her injuries, his mouth flattening to a tight line. “Skin abraded from one cheek—really that whole side of her face. Cut in the other cheek. Cut down the torso, a straight line. Nose broken twice. Very badly beaten. I think she might have some broken ribs, but you would best know. I have already clean towels and new bedding waiting. I have no cleaning solutions except brandy, which I have placed at your disposal. If you need anything, simply tell me, and it will be done.”
At the end of this recital, Quartermaine said, “Mr ...?”
His voice trailed off inquisitively, so Haverhill replied, “Haverhill.”
The doctor smoothly continued, “Mr Haverhill, can you get me some clean water? Clean water, and vinegar. The purest that you have; white wine vinegar if you can get it.”
“Absolutely. Should the water be boiled fresh?”
“Yes.”

Arriving at the door to the bedroom, Haverhill said, “I will bring it in a moment.” There was something he needed to tell the doctor, first. “If you need any assistance, please ask the lord’s sisters. Do not request the servants for help.”
“I see,” said Quartermaine, looking as if he did not see at all, really.
Haverhill opened the door to the room, avoiding looking at Nora. Decency must be preserved, now that it was once again an option. “She is in here,” he said redundantly.
Helen and Mary were both in the room, and stepped forward. Haverhill introduced them briefly to the doctor. “Ladies, this is Dr Quartermaine. Doctor, this is Mrs Hardacre, and this is Miss Doyle. They will assist you if you need anything.” Mary was crying silently, tears dripping down her face, but she nodded. Helen was more composed, her expression set, but her face was pale.

Haverhill bowed his leave, even though already ignored by the two sisters, and left to get the requested supplies.

[Michael Quartermaine]

Michael followed close on Vasiliev’s heels, and found himself in a shadowed corridor; the man shut the door behind Michael with a click, and another shadow peeled itself away from the wall. When the second man stepped forward into the pool of light from Vasiliev’s lantern, Michael saw it was a smallish gentleman, neatly dressed.

“Ah, the doctor. You are?” The man’s calm smile and smooth urbanity of tone seemed strange, after the secretive way that Michael had been woken from his bed and hastened through the streets. It was almost surreal. Though Michael was perfectly able to tell the difference between waking and dreaming, he felt a deep sense of unease with this entire situation. “Dr Quartermaine,” he answered automatically, professional instincts guiding him, and fell compliantly into step next to the trim fellow when he beckoned and announced, “This way, please.” Was he an upper servant? His clothes could have belonged to anything, and Michael had no memory of the man from his last visit to the house.

He began to elabourate. “She’s been stabbed in the arm, badly. Skin abraded from one cheek – really that whole side of her face. Cut in the other cheek. Cut down the torso, a straight line. Nose broken twice. Very badly beaten. I think she might have some broken ribs, but you would best know. I have already clean towels and new bedding waiting. I have no cleaning solutions except brandy, which I have placed at your disposal. If you need anything, simply tell me, and it will be done.” Michael looked sidelong at the man, and saw that he was looking directly ahead, not precisely avoiding Michael’s gaze, but not taking the trouble to meet it either. His description of the woman’s injuries was not what Michael needed to know right now. He would form his own conclusions from his physical examination. What he wanted to know from Haverhill was on different lines. How had this happened? Where did this woman come from?

He did not try to ask yet, however. Instead he inquired for the man’s name. “Mr…?”

“Haverhill,” supplied the man. “Mr Haverhill, can you get me some clean water? Clean water, and vinegar. The purest that you have; white wine vinegar if you can get it.” Michael preferred to use carbolic acid, but it could not hurt to have the vinegar on hand, especially if she was still conscious. It would be less painful for cleaning any superficial injuries. Haverhill’s suggestion of brandy he never even considered.

“Absolutely. Should the water be boiled fresh?”

“Yes.”

“I will bring it in a moment. If you need any assistance, please ask the lord’s sisters. Do not request the servants for help.”

“I see,” answered Michael. In fact, he did not see at all. This entire thing was suspicious, and the veil of secrecy kept over it made him wonder, again, just what he has gotten himself into. Lord Wothersham’s sisters were involved, then? Was the injured woman one of his sisters? What was this man trying to cover up?

“She is in here.” As Haverhill swung the door to the room open, he looked away from the woman lying on the bed within. Michael’s eyes swung from her to Haverhill and back again; he forgot the other man. The metallic smell of blood filled the room, and the woman was not moving. She was covered by a sheet, but her face was purpled with bruises where the blackish tracks of dried blood were not hiding it.

There were two other women in the room as well, whom he had not noticed at first. They had come forward as he entered. “This is Mrs Hardacre, and this is Miss Doyle. They will assist you if you need anything.” He looked upwards in surprise, as Haverhill added, “Ladies, this is Dr Quartermaine.” The man sketched a bow to them all, and vanished from the room; Michael heard the door click behind him.

Miss Doyle was crying; he noticed that, and the determined features of the older woman, even as he saw the strong resemblance between the two. Somewhere in his mind the name Doyle registered, and tripped off recognition. These were the lord’s sisters, then. He put the thought away to the back of his mind, took off his hat to the two without a word and dropped it on a side table near the door. His coat followed it as he threw that aside as well and rolled up his sleeves. Those two were clearly not about to swoon away at the sight of blood, but he had no intention of asking either one for help with the task ahead of him. They were already relegated into the background.

Michael took her wrist, setting the tips of his fingers against the slender blue vessels on the inside; her pulse was beating there against his fingers, steady and strong. There was no irregularity. Assured that she was not about to die on him, he opened the black leather bag and began to set out his tools ready to hand. Metal instruments; forceps, scissors, haemostats, all steel winking in the light. Those would have to be disinfected. A small, dark glass bottle of carbolic acid. That would have to be diluted in the water when Haverhill brought it. One part acid to forty parts water for the wounds; twice that strength for the instruments. Clean lint, soft linen wrappings, and gauze sponges. A tray of curved, sharp-edged needles, and carbolized jars of catgut and silk ligatures. Another dark vial, this one smaller still. Laudanum. She did not need that now, but she would, soon.

Reaching for a walnut box, he flicked the clasp open and drew out his stethoscope; setting each of the ivory pieces in his ears, he pressed the conical end piece to her chest, listening first for the strong rhythm of her heart, then moving it to hear her lungs. Her breathing was also steady, if slow; the normal tidal sound met his ear with the rise and fall of her chest and abdomen.

He lifted away the sheet that someone had placed over her body. He understood why; lying there unconscious, she looked very small and vulnerable. It called to some instinct within him, and he felt a thickness in his throat, a sadness that made him want to cover her again. But instead he placed the stethoscope aside, and turned her head gently to one side with his hands, his fingers palpating through her hair. It was clumped together with congealed blood, a scalp wound that had clotted. The tear was long, and had bled freely, but it was not deep. His hands passed lower, not touching the abrasion on her face. It looked terrible, but it would clean up. A burn, from friction, he thought; only the surface layers of skin were damaged.

His hands were instead feeling for damage to the underlying bones. Though her left eye was swollen completely shut, the orbit was unharmed. Her nose was already set straight. The cut on her other cheek was more serious than the abrasion. It would need stitches – at least five. He was careful not to touch it yet, not until he had washed his own hands with the disinfectant.

The cut in her torso was also deep. It was still oozing blood very slowly. That also would need stitches. One set to close the layers of muscle, and a second to close the skin over it. His hands felt down her sides, passing over the bones. She had broken ribs, several of them. He had expected that, after seeing the bruising on her skin. Those would heal on their own, with time; so long as she did not move about too much. Her lungs were at least intact. But she would have to keep still, or be kept still; any further damage to her chest wall could lead to a lung puncture, and then there would be little that he could do to help.

Turning her gently to see her back, Michael found here another injury. This one was old, however. The raised white lines were welts, the tracks of - lashes? A whip, or a belt? His eyes followed the tracks upwards, to another scar half-hidden by her matted hair. Pushing it up and aside, he saw the design – it was a design. Two circles intertwined. A brand.

Shocked, he let her hair fall over the mark again, his mind reeling. Why would a woman be branded, like a cow or a horse? As if she were someone’s property? He drew his mind away from that, returning to his examination. This was more important. Whatever had happened to her long ago was done, now. Her arms. He felt each one in turn, his fingers pressing and squeezing. Someone else had done this before him; the marks of fingers much more vicious than his own were painted there on her skin. But he felt no movement in the bone, no crepitus underneath his hands. Her arms were not broken. The wound in her arm, a deep stab that shallowed out in a line down her arm, was only in the muscle. That, too, would have to be sutured.

His examination passed lower.

She had been raped. It was not hard for him to see it. The inside of her thighs was covered with blood and seminal fluid, and her vagina was torn and bloody. He noted that in the forefront of his mind, coldly, clinically. He noted it because he would write this down later, in his statement of evidence. He would not write down the surge of anger that flowed through him it.

He heard his pulse rising in his ears, and followed her body down to her feet. Her legs were unharmed, but in her ankle he could feel heat and swelling; he prodded it and moved her foot, up, down, and in a circle, testing the movement of the bones. The unmistakable grinding feeling took away any doubts he might have had. It was fractured, though the break was not complete.

Michael turned to the women. Neither had said a word during his examination. “Her condition is stable,” he informed them, in short, clipped speech. The older one – Mrs Hardacre – nodded, and he turned away from them again. There were some basins of water on the table now; along with a jug of what was unmistakably vinegar. Haverhill had to have come in while he was examining the woman. Michael had not even noticed him.

Taking two of the basins, he eyed each one, then poured carbolic acid into each one; in one he tossed his instruments to steep, and with the other he placed several sponges, pouring a little out into one of the shallower basins that Haverhill had brought and washing his hands in that. The sharp smell of the disinfectant rose to overpower the smell of blood and filth. When he had washed, he drew a syringe-full of the weaker mixture.

Each of the wounds had to be irrigated, to clear out the dirt, dried blood, and other matter that had been battered into it. He could only hope it would be enough to stave off infection. The fluid ran reddish-dark at first, on the wound in her abdomen. Taking several of the sponges from the basin where they were soaking, he rubbed at the tissue none so gently, taking away more with each scrub; he flushed it again afterwards. Blood began to well out from underneath his fingers, but not too rapidly; he touched his hand to her pulse again, and found it reassuringly steady. With the wound cleaned, he unrolled the catgut suture, and took one of the curved needles and held it to the light. Squinting one of his own eyes, he aimed the end of the thread at the tiny eye of the needle and jabbed at it.

The wound was not a stab wound, as he had first thought. Now that it was clean, he began to gather an idea of how this had happened. It was long, and straight; the knife had at least made a clean cut. It had been drawn downwards on her torso with a rather precise hand. The knife had bitten deep; it had not broken her abdominal wall, by the grace of God, but the tension on the skin of her body and the beating she had undergone had forced the wound open wider, an ugly, long tear that went all the way into the striated layers of muscle and fascia underneath.

He held the needle clenched in the tip of one of the steel instruments, and a pair of forceps in his other hand, and pushed the needle down and into the muscle. A deft, practiced flick of his hands, a second movement, and then crossing the thread over on itself in a knot and snipping off the ends. One small stitch, just the beginning.

Minutes later, the muscle was closed and he was setting one last stitch in the skin above. He had switched to silk ligature to close up the surface; the catgut inside would be broken down and absorbed by her body as it healed, but these silken stitches he would have to remove eventually. The wound was reduced to a single red line, with a neat row of sutures holding it together. He let out a breath when that was done, and moved on to the gash on her cheek. This one was less serious, but it would probably leave a scar on her face, if she lived through this without developing an infection. And with the filth that her wounds had been marinating in before he cleaned her up, she would be very lucky if she escaped that.

The wounds on her face and arm were closed more quickly. Those were the only three that he needed to suture; the others simply needed disinfecting. Her ankle had not needed to be set, but only to be splinted, to keep it immobilized when she woke. Then, however, when that was done, her entire body needed to be cleaned.

Michael poured the vinegar from the jug into another of the basins of water, and took rags from the neat pile of clean linen that Haverhill had also provided. With this, he washed her body meticulously. Her hair, as well, he cleaned of the matted grime and worked out the worst of the tangles with his fingers; he had trimmed the hair around the wound in her scalp very close, but left the rest of it long to disguise it. Somehow, to cut away all her hair seemed like further indignity, and he did not need to.

The last thing that needed to be done was perhaps one of the most vital. But he had not wanted to do it; had not wanted to look at this damage again. So he had put it off until the last. Nevertheless, he drew another large syringe-full of the carbolic acid solution, and fixed a length of rubber tubing to the end. Her body needed to be cleaned out thoroughly, after what had happened to her. The disinfectant flushed away the blood and other fluids quickly enough, but he douched her three times before it seemed clean enough to him.

He lifted her, carefully, when all this was done, and set her on the second bed in the room, where the linen was clean. Rolling up the dirty sheets from the first one, he threw them in a heap on the floor and kicked them as far away from him as he could with a sideways sweep of his foot. He arranged her hair, as gently as if he were tucking a child in to sleep, and drew another sheet over her body to give her a little decency.

Letting out a long breath, he bent his head over her, sinking his forehead against both his hands. It was not the first time he had seen something like this, but Michael had never grown hardened against it. His anger had calmed, but only into a colder, more distilled feeling. This woman had been savagely attacked, and the men who had come to call him were trying as hard as they could to cover it up.

He turned after a moment, to wash his hands in the shallow basin again. The other two women, the lord’s sisters, were still watching him. He did not think that they had moved at all. The younger one’s tears had dried, but her eyes were still rimmed with red, and the tracks were visible on her face. The older one was unreadable.

Did they know what had happened? They knew the woman. There was clearly some connection between her and the two of them – but what connection? Were they protecting the secret as well as the Russian man and Haverhill?

“Who is this woman? How did she come here? I think I am owed an explanation,” Michael asked bluntly. He was no detective, but he wanted to know as much as he could. Before he went to speak to a constable.

Miss Doyle’s face closed off tightly, her eyes narrowed at him. “I owe you nothing, except whatever you might choose to ask in remuneration for your time and services.” Mrs Hardacre put her hand on her younger sister’s arm, and added in a milder tone, “I am afraid I can tell you nothing. I was unaware that she was here until shortly before you arrived. I can, however, make an educated guess, as I am sure you are also capable of making, as to the reason for her condition. She was brought here to recover.”

To recover, Michael wondered, or to hide her? He looked to the side at her again, and then back at the two women. They hadn’t attacked her…and they cared about what happened to her. That was obvious. But did they care for her sake, or were they protecting someone else? “Do you know who she is?” he asked. “Her name…Where her family is?”

“It’s Nora,” answered Mrs Hardacre. The crease in Michael’s forehead furrowed deeper. “Do you know any more than that? Has no one told you where she was found?”

“I have not been told anything. I do not know.”

There was a chair near the bed; he stepped backwards and sat down into it, his spine slumping. He was sure that neither of the women would tell him anything more; the expression in Mrs Hardacre’s face made that certain. He was also sure that they knew more than they were telling him.

“She will need to be watched until she wakes, and then given a draught.” Studying Nora for a moment, he was quiet, wondering. It would have been easier just to make her disappear before now. Surely no one would go to the trouble of calling him to examine and treat her if they intended foul play. But how safe would she really be on her own? The air of mystery that had been drawn around this made him suspicious of the entire household. Perhaps whoever was responsible for this did not have the stomach to kill her outright, but would coerce her into silence.

“I will stay with her,” he added. “How long has it been already?”

Mrs Hardacre answered, “I would like to tell you, but I do not know. I was woken about an hour ago.”

Mary spoke again, finally, but not to Michael. “Do you think…Helen, should we wake John?”

“Yes, I…I think so. Doctor? Will it be all right?”

“Wake whom?” Michael said, blinking upwards.

“Lord Wothersham,” explained Mrs Hardacre.

“Oh.” Michael’s eyebrows beetled downwards, and he looked to Nora again before returning his attention to Mrs Hardacre. “Is he upon terms of intimacy with…Nora?” he asked, calmly. Wothersham was the master of the house. His sisters were tending to the injured woman. What was his connection to Nora?
“He is fond of her, I believe,” answered Mrs Hardacre, in a strictly noncommittal voice that echoed his studied calm.

“It would be better that he see her now, then, rather than excite her when she awakens. She must be kept calm.” And safe. He gave it as his professional advice.

“All right.” She turned to leave, along with her sister, only pausing in the doorway to add, “You have my deepest gratitude for coming, doctor.” Michael made a dismissive gesture, but stopped midway and half rose from his chair, lifting his hand to call her back. “Wait,” he said, quickly. “Mrs Hardacre, will you stay a moment?”

She returned without her sister, stopping just inside the door. What he intended to ask her was completely inappropriate to mention in front of Miss Doyle, who was unmarried. However, he felt more comfortable discussing it with Mrs Hardacre.

“Are you aware of the nature of the assault made upon Nora?” he asked. Her face instantly went flat and devoid of expression.

“I think I am,” she answered, shortly.

He knew he had stepped farther with his questioning than she was willing to allow him to go, but he pressed further. “Then I ask you again, with that in mind, if there is anything else you can tell me. And if you intend to contact the law shortly. There are…other considerations with a crime of this kind. I understand the need for discretion when such a matter is brought into your house. However, if the man who attacked her can be found and brought to justice, and I can make a medical examination of him, it may guide my treatment of her condition.”

He hadn’t said that quite the way he meant to. Michael had never been eloquent, and he was on dangerous ground here. But he hoped – maybe – to push her out of her desire for secrecy, into a sense of what was right. He kept any accusation out of his words, the best that he could, but he meant every part of them, and he hoped she would catch that honesty.

“Doctor, I would furnish you with any information relevant to the proper treatment of this woman that I possessed. However, this matter is not in my care. It is at my brother’s discretion that any actions will be taken. You will need to speak with him.” There was a sound somewhere in the house above them, a crashing noise, and then a heavy thumping. “I expect he will be here shortly,” added Mrs Hardacre.

[Haverhill]

Haverhill collected the items Dr Quartermaine requested without incident, delivered them to Nora’s room, and then stood waiting outside. It was some time before Helen and Mary came out: the doctor called Helen back, and Haverhill was left alone in the corridor with Mary. She immediately asked him to wake John, and Haverhill understood in her pleading glance that she was hesitant to go and do it herself. He assured her that it would be no trouble and left, heading upstairs.

Truth be told, he had lied to Mary. It would be very troublesome to Haverhill to inform John of Nora’s arrival at the house. It would be Haverhill that delivered the news of her condition, it would be Haverhill that saw the first panic of the man for his unacknowledged beloved, and it would be Haverhill who was then responsible for ensuring that some modicum of rational thought remained in John’s head. It would be a great deal of trouble, indeed.

But mostly, it was troubling to Haverhill for his own, personal reasons. He could not ignore his own situation any longer: he knew very well that now that Nora was within John’s reach, now that she was his responsibility and he had what he would consider a good excuse to give her every attention, John would never give her up. She would become, at the very least, his mistress, and possibly something more—certainly she would be more if his sisters had anything to say about it. The man loved Nora with his mind, body, and soul. Everything he said about her screamed it, every expression when he was thinking about her. Everything would become peripheral to Nora, with her in the house; with his utter unity of purpose and his singular ability to ignore obstacles in his path, John was sure to keep it that way until he either achieved what he desired or was completely ruined.

Haverhill envied Nora’s place in John’s heart; he would have done unspeakable things in a heartbeat if it would have assured him of that place. For two years he had persuaded himself it was nothing, and when he had finally acknowledged it to himself, he had kept silent about it a further four years. It was an abomination unto the eyes of the Lord, the Church taught, that a man would love, or even wish to love, another man; to tell John was risky—although Haverhill suspected that while it might discomfit the man, his employer would not sell him out to the authorities. But it was precisely that thought that stilled his tongue for six years.

It would discomfit John.

John never looked at him that way, never looked at any man that way. John regarded Haverhill as a friend: a very good friend, but a friend nonetheless. Haverhill had never, not once, done anything that might reveal that he felt more than he ought for his employer, and the baron had certainly never given the slightest hint that he had ever even thought of such a thing. Haverhill had persuaded himself there might be some small hope, since John also never looked at any woman differently, either—but that hope had been smashed to pieces on the rocks beneath the beacon of John’s obvious and total love for Nora. Even the news of his impending marriage to Miss Alexander had not daunted Haverhill’s faint hope: rather it had strengthened it. A man trapped in a marriage to a girl he did not find attractive and did not even like and who felt the same towards him... well, such a man might turn other places for comfort, might he not? It could have happened, theoretically.

But with Nora here, now, available to John and not unsympathetic towards him by any means—now, there was no hope. There was nothing that Haverhill could do to make John love him even a tenth—a hundredth—as much as he loved Nora. He had utterly and completely lost any chance of it, forever. He would be obliged to keep his mouth shut for the rest of his days, to grow old along with John but separate from him, to share his concerns and cares and love him silently, without ever touching him, without any chance of being touched; without anyone even to talk to about it.

And he was the one who was asked to go and inform John of Nora’s arrival. It fell to him to deliver the very news that sealed the door of possibility shut in his face. Perhaps he had been right in telling Mary that it was no trouble after all: it wasn’t a trouble, it was a calamity, a catastrophe, the end of the world.

It was in this frame of mind that Haverhill swiftly and silently went up to John’s bedchamber and slipped inside: it was no good knocking on the door. Past experience had taught Haverhill that it would take enough pounding to wake everyone on the block before John would stir from noise alone. He approached the master bed—here was where he imagined himself, when he let himself imagine. And here was John, just as in those fantasies, except more hard-faced: his master was naked beneath the blankets, as was his habit to sleep. The outline of his long muscular legs created a tightening in Haverhill’s belly: the blankets had slipped to John’s waist, revealing his pale but not unattractive arms and chest. In the dark, Haverhill stood over his employer’s supine form, wishing he could press himself into those arms, that John would hold him and tell him that he loved him.

Haverhill laid his hand against John’s face, the way he had always wished to, and had never dared before now. John could wake from the touch, and see who it was and how Haverhill looked at him, and perhaps Haverhill might lose his job from it. It seemed like a tiny price to pay to at least have touched John once, before the baron was lost to him. From now on, it would be Nora where Haverhill was, Nora who touched his face and smoothed away the worry lines at the corners of his eyes. Nora who bent down and touched her lips to his, like so. Nora who felt the roughness of a night’s stubble on his cheeks with her hands, Nora who touched the contrasting smoothness of his mouth, Nora who kissed him gently but with all the love in her. But just now, in this moment, it was Haverhill and he could pretend it would always be him.

Then Haverhill felt John’s lips move beneath his own, and his fantasy was rudely interrupted as John murmured sleepily, “Nora...,” and then turned over on his side.

For the first time in too many years to count, Haverhill’s stiff upper lip failed him, quivering with distress. He stood back up. He had come up here to wake John, knowing that in doing so he was giving him up. He had already decided, before he came in the door, that he would do everything in his power to make John happy, including facilitating the relationship between the baron and Nora. He would watch and help as he could, and he would hope that in John’s happiness he could find a small measure of his own, even if it was not a shared happiness.

That did not make it any easier to hear the soft, caressing sigh in John’s voice as he spoke Nora’s name, it didn’t make it any easier to feel him turning away—it was a reflexive motion of sleep, but it felt like a knife stabbing into Haverhill’s heart, like John was rejecting him personally. He couldn’t breathe for a moment: surely his heart was breaking. This must be what women felt when men left them for other women. This was what Marianne Dashwood felt when she saw Willoughby across the ballroom. This was what Heathcliff felt, listening to Catherine. This was what Mrs Barrett felt every time he rejected her.

Haverhill’s forthcoming empty life loomed before him—and then passed in the blink of an eye. Depression settled heavily on his shoulders, almost a palpable cloak. There was nothing now, except the crushing loss, and duty. It was his duty to wake the master of the house, and inform him of his guest. He moved his hand down from John’s face, to the man’s shoulder—firm, strong, and would God Haverhill could rest his head there—and shook him. “My lord.”
“Hhhh? Haverhill?” John’s sleepy voice answered, and his eyes half-lidded. What Haverhill would have given to see him waking like this, beside him in bed after a night of love and lust...
It was not to be. Pushing the thought out of his head, Haverhill said calmly, “My lord, Nora is here.”
At once, John came awake. “What? Here?”
“Yes, my lord. She is gravely injured and—”

That was as far as he got before John thrashed back the covers and flung himself out of bed, past Haverhill and towards the door. He seemed completely unaware that all of him was now exposed to the world, and that he was heading down to where everyone would see his dangly bits. Haverhill had but one way to stop him, and so he employed it. He reached out, his hands closing around John’s arm, and pulled with all his might. With an undignified shout, John pitched off-balance and fell into his dresser. It broke under his weigh, two of the small, stubby legs cracking off and sending it crashing onto the floor, the small top drawers falling out. John stared dazedly up at Haverhill, who discretely avoided looking at his employer’s body—at least, avoid looking at it after his first covetous glance.

“What?” asked John stupidly.
“My lord, you are not suitable to appear in front of Nora,” Haverhill informed him, neglecting to mention that Nora would not possibly be able to have any opinion on the subject whatsoever at this time.
“Oh,” said John, colouring; he heaved himself off the wreckage of his dresser and to his feet.
“Here, my lord.” Haverhill extended a shirt and a set of trousers that he pulled from the confusion of fallen clothing beside the ruined dresser.
John reached for them, saying, “Nora?”
“Badly injured, my lord. Attacked.”
“But... is...”
“She will live, my lord. Best you see for yourself.”

John yanked on the clothes that Haverhill held out to him without a word. He was still hauling the shirt over his head when Haverhill stepped aside wordlessly, letting him charge downstairs and out of reach forever.

[John Doyle]

John woke to Haverhill shaking his shoulder. Faintly embarrassed to have someone in the room with him just after he had been dreaming, yet again, of kissing Nora—not that Haverhill could have any possible way of knowing that, of course—he mumbled sleepily, “Hhhh? Haverhill?”
Of all the possible things that his steward could have said, he picked the last one John would have thought of. “My lord, Nora is here.”
What? Nora? Why? In his house? How did she get here? What time was it? “What? Here?”
“Yes, my lord. She is gravely injured and—”

John kicked his feet to get rid of the blankets that suddenly felt as constricting as mummy wrappings. Nora was here, gravely injured. He had to find her, he had to help her. There must be something he could do. There was the door: she would be downstairs. He lunged for it, but for some reason it swung away from him and he ended up headed full tilt for the dresser. He let out an involuntary shout of surprise, turning his shoulder to hit instead of his chest at the last second. He felt it break as he bounced off onto the floor. A drawer fell out onto his head, and his vision sparkled for a second. Looking up, he saw Haverhill standing over him: it was Haverhill who had slung him into the dresser, he realised. Why would he do that? “What?” said John, confused.

“My lord, you are not suitable to appear in front of Miss Nora.”
Why not? John looked at himself. He was naked. “Oh.”
He pushed himself off the ground, fighting the childish impulse to cover himself with his hands. Haverhill, fortunately, took the situation with his usual calm, and simply reached down to pick up some clothes. He handed them to John. “Here, my lord.”
John took them, but his mind was not on his state of undress anymore. “Miss Nora?”
“Badly injured, my lord. Attacked.” How could he say it so calmly?
John struggled into his trousers, correcting his feet when they both tried to go down the same leg. Attacked? But... she was alive? She had to be alive. It wasn’t possible for her not to be. It just wasn’t possible. “But... is...”
Haverhill said, “She will live, my lord. Best you see for yourself.”

Yes, at once. Why was Haverhill still in the way? But just as John thought it, his steward moved, and, pulling his shirt on and completely forgetting to tuck it in, John charged out. Then he realised he had no idea where he was going, but Haverhill’s voice came from behind him: “She’s downstairs.” Not breaking stride, John ran for the stairs, leaping down them five at a time. He had too many stairs; the house was too tall. He lost his footing at the bottom and grabbed for the banister. It twisted and bent under his weight, but he didn’t even notice. He had to get to Nora. She would need his help. He had to be able to help, somehow. Or if he couldn’t he could make someone else help her; money could be applied to see to it, or threats, or he would even beg if he must. She would have the best doctors.

Downstairs, Haverhill had said. Where downstairs? She must be in the back bedrooms: his house was far too big. It was taking forever to find her. Bursting through the corridors towards the back ground-floor bedrooms, he rounded a corner and spotted Mary standing in front of one, and immediately ran towards her. Nora must be in that one. It was the only reason Mary would be up at this time. He would have to thank his sister for attending Nora later, but just now, he wasn’t stopping. Mary might have tried to say something to him as he dashed past her and flung open the door, but he didn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything except the sound of his heart, loud in his ears.

Nora was lying on the bed, and it looked like she ought to be dead. Her face was flayed on one side, raw meat, like something that might be sold at a butcher’s. The other side was festooned with small threads, and the rest of her was covered with a sheet, one pale arm out and curving to rest on her stomach. She looked very dead.

John did not even see that there were other people in the room, and only Haverhill’s assurance that she was alive prevented him from fainting. The room blurred, but despite it three steps took him to Nora’s side. He stood beside her, his hands working. There was nothing he could do to help her. He could see already that she had been attended to, that some doctor had been here—there were stitches in her face. His hands rose of their own accord, hovering near her face, wanting to touch her, to cradle her; yet he was afraid he would make it worse.

His legs couldn’t bear his weight anymore. They dropped out from under him, and he collapsed on his knees beside the bed. He took her hand from where it rested, cradling it gently between his; he began to rock back and forth ever so slightly—voluntary movement was beyond him at the moment, but the reflex was an old one, a childhood habit supposedly grown out of. Nora’s shape blurred out of recognition, and his face was wet, but he knew that she was there. He could see her in his mind’s eye, feel her fragile hand in his own. He began to keen, a high whistling noise in the back of his throat; it was not a sound that should ever come from a human being.

“Miss Nora.” She didn’t wake up when he called. Why didn’t she wake up? “Miss Nora, Miss Nora.” The world was close, and small, and too hot. There was nothing important, nothing at all except Nora. She must wake up. "Miss Nora."

[Michael Quartermaine]

Both Helen and Michael turned as the door flew open with a crash; a man with a face like death walking took three ground-eating strides to stand beside the bed. He looked down at Nora, his eyes too-bright in his face, and reached out towards her as if he wanted to touch her. Michael took one step towards him, to pull him away from the woman if he tried to touch her, but he did not. The other man simply touched the air near her face, and then fell to his knees beside her.

His face looked lost and hopeless, like a small child. As vulnerable as the unconscious woman, in a different way. It took Michael a moment to realise who he must be. It was Lord Wothersham. Michael had seen him before, though he had never met the man. But he was unrecognizable in this state. If Michael had not already known, he would not have been able to guess at it. The hard planes and angles of the man’s face – proud, Michael had thought him, before, and severe – were gone, melted away. He clung to Nora’s hand as if he were drowning, and swayed back and forth; tears slid down his face, and he made a high-pitched whining noise like an animal in pain.

Seeing the other man’s grief, Michael felt guilty and uncomfortable: guilty, for having thought this man must have been the one to have attacked her. That suspicion was gone now. There could be no doubt that this man would never have had it in him to hurt Nora. When he called her name, he sounded as lost as he looked. Michael felt uncomfortable as well, as though he should not have been watching this. The raw emotion was a private thing – seeing someone this naked in grief was an intimacy he did not want to have with a stranger.

He felt sorry for the other man as well, but he could not offer any comfort. Wothersham did not even know that Michael was there. He was oblivious to all of them – and, Michael realised, soon he might be oblivious to more than that. Syncope was imminent: the blood had drained from Lord Wothersham’s face, leaving him dead white, and he was sweating. Michael reached into his black bag again, and drew out a small glass bottle of sal volatile; uncapping it, he passed it under the man’s nose, the sharp, pungent smell meant to bring him back to his senses. It seemed to help, a little, but all Wothersham did was to startle and look up at Michael, his face streaming with tears, and say in a pleading tone, “Miss Nora?”

Without any idea as to what to do with this, Michael stood there still for a moment, and then he reached down one hand and took John by both shoulders, giving him a shake. At first it was tentative, then more vigorous. “Come, man,” he said, somewhat roughly, but warm. He felt Wothersham go slack underneath his hands, like a ragdoll. Michael stopped; he was the only thing keeping Wothersham upright now, as the man’s head fell forwards, his body shuddering with uneven, ragged sobbing.

He looked to the older sister, Mrs Hardacre; her eyes were wide and frightened. There seemed to be no help from that quarter. Michael hooked his hands underneath Wothersham’s arms, and tried to pull him upright and towards the chair near the bed. Through his tears, the other man made a balking noise, the sound of a toddler refusing to go, and clung to Nora’s hand with a gentle grip but one that would nonetheless not be broken easily. As Michael was trying to pry his fingers away with one hand while he supported the man with the other, the door creaked open again, and he heard a fresh burst of crying from the entrance to the room. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that it was Miss Doyle again.

"John, she is alive. She will be well--the doctor came in time." It was Mrs Hardacre’s voice; she had appeared on Wothersham’s other side, and she took his shoulders as well as Michael. With his free hand, Michael hooked the chair that he had been hoping to get Wothersham into, and dragged it with a creaking sound until it was right next to the bed. He tried once again to lift the man, to get him into the chair, and Wothersham looked at Michael for the first time. There was a vacant, dazed look in his eyes.

"Who are you?" Wothersham asked hoarsely.

"He's the doctor, John. Sit in the chair, it'll keep Nora more comfortable if you don't pull her arm out at that angle." Mrs Hardacre answered for him, and immediately Wothersham tried to lurch to his feet; his legs would not hold him, though, and he could not get into the chair. Michael caught him under the arms again before Wothersham could fall, and between the two of them, Mrs Hardacre and Michael manhandled Wothersham into the chair.

He looked around when the task was done, to find Haverhill discreetly steering Miss Doyle out of the door. Michael was beginning to understand that he ought to leave, as well: the woman was very clearly as safe as houses here. He coughed, quietly, and caught Mrs Hardacre’s eye, beckoning her to him a little ways away from Wothersham and Nora. In a low voice, he told her, “Nora must have a nurse to watch her.”

“Do you know one that…” She cleared her throat slightly and started again. “I’m sure you can see how things are. Between my brother and Nora.” Mrs Hardacre coughed again. “My brother…doesn’t see yet. Is not open. You understand. A discreet nurse?”

Michael nodded. “I understand.” He did not, in fact, understand all of that. What was it that Wothersham didn’t see? It seemed he wasn’t seeing anything properly at all, right now, but – oh. As understanding dawned with a little more careful consideration, Michael added, “There are a few, but I don’t know a hand steadier or a head more settled than Mrs James Beattie. She is a midwife. You can find her in Third Street, above the Badger.”

"Thank you. I will be sure to take your recommendation. I appreciate your understanding."

"The most important thing is that she take the draught of laudanum that I have left for her, as soon as she awakens. I want to keep her still and calm for a little while longer. May I rely upon you to administer it?" Michael gestured to the small, brown glass vial that he had set out. He would measure it precisely before he left. It was important that she should not get too much. In fact, he would rather have not used it at all, but she would be in such pain when she awoke that she would be unable to rest without it. A few hours of quiet peace and freedom from pain might make all the difference. Her ribs especially had to be kept from movement.

There was, of course, a tradeoff: it would slow her healing, and increase her chance of infection. For some reason, laudanum seemed to dull the body’s defenses. He couldn’t keep her on it for too long – it was better if this was the only draught given to her.

"When do you think she would wake? My brother is useless for such things, and I am not much better. I can try, but... I will send Haverhill for a nurse first thing." Mrs Hardacre sounded nervous.

"I believe it will be some hours yet.” Michael regarded her closely, wondering if perhaps he would have chosen better to discuss this with the steward. He had taken Mrs Hardacre for a woman of strong mind and stomach, but if she was quailing at giving the draught, he might have misjudged her.

Looking relieved, she added, "All right. I will have to hope that Haverhill finds Mrs Beattie before then."

"If you would prefer, I can remain,” he began, but she stopped him with a gesture.

"You need what remaining sleep you can get, and I would not want to keep you from your other patients just because I am afraid to give a dose of laudanum."

Why should she be afraid? “I will leave it to you, then. But it will not be so difficult. I do not think she will be able to fight it, and I will leave a funnel so that you can be sure that she takes it. There will be only one dose to give.”

“All right. Thank you, Dr Quartermaine.”

He nodded and turned back to the table, withdrew a graduated cylinder from his bag and measured out three-quarters of a drachm from the laudanum into a glass. Placing the metal funnel next to it, he looked towards the window, where grey was beginning to show in the crack of the curtains. It was past time that he was going. In an hour, his rounds would begin. Taking his instruments from the carbolic acid solution and replacing them in their cases, he swept the rest of his materials back into his bag. Michael left only the dose and the funnel out.

“Good-morning, Mrs Hardacre,” he said as he opened the door to leave. “I will look in again this evening to see how she does - and if her condition worsens, I will come as soon as I can.”

[Haverhill]

It was bright and early in the morning, about six o'clock, and things had settled down in the house on Waverley-Street—or at least, had settled down as much as they were going to. The servants were up and about, carying out their normal duties. The lives of the household staff moved on apace: Nora's entry had created a momentary stir, but the ripples of her arrival were now fading away under the press of mundane work.

Haverhill was pressed by a series of urgent tasks, however; none of them mundane. He was already riding in a hansom-cab for Third-Street, destined for the Badger and Mrs James Beattie, the midwife whom Dr Quartermaine had recommended. After speaking to Mrs Beattie, and engaging her services, he would need to visit everywhere that John was supposed to have been today, and make excuses for him. His lordship was indisposed was the vague reason Haverhill would give: the truth could not be told, not when the truth was that Lord Wothersham was sitting vigil over a prostitute and looking like a child who'd just watched as his dog was shot. Then he would need to make sure that everything Mrs Beattie required was obtained—fortunately, Mrs Jenkins would see to furnishing the room for the nurse—and afterward he would need see if he couldn't persuade John to eat something and perhaps let go of Nora. The man had been holding her hand since he first saw her.

The cab arrived at the Badger, and Haverhill got out. He had already paid the cabbie to wait and take him and Mrs Beattie back, and so he went around the side to the stairs leading to the upper floors of the building without speaking to the man. His light tread made hardly a sound despite the aged and weathered wood of the stairs, and he knocked lightly on the door. No one answered. He knocked again, louder, and when still no one answered, he fairly pounded on it. No one came. He went back down to the street, and around the other side to climb a different set of stairs. When he knocked on this one, a voice shouted from inside, "A moment!"
Haverhill stopped knocking, and a surprisingly accurate moment later he heard the door-bolt shoot back and the door was opened. "'ello there! Wot kin I do for yeh?" a cheerfully rotund woman asked.
"I apologise for the early hour, madame," Haverhill replied. "I am looking for Mrs James Beattie on matter of some importance."
"Oh, that's all right, love. It don't signify, I was up any'ow," the red-cheeked woman said. "But I'm afraid yeh'll be disappointed. Mrs Beattie's in the south country, out Farthing way, an' she'll not be back for three days. Her sister's first! Ain't it a thing?"
Haverhill smiled widely, as if this were the best news that he had heard all day instead of the start of a search for some other nurse that could be trusted. "Indeed! I am sorry to have missed her, but I am most happy for her. She must be pleased to be an aunt." The fat woman's face crinkled into one huge, good-natured smile, and she set herself in an attitude that told Haverhill that she would talk his ears off if he gave her the chance. He forestalled it by saying, briefly but warmly, "Thank you for telling me. Good day."

With a courteous bow, he turned away and went down the stairs. The woman's voice floated down after him, "Good day, love!" He walked back to the waiting cab, pausing before getting in. What to do now? A nurse was the first priority, but where to find one that was reliably close-mouthed? He directed the cabbie to the court-house. He might as well make an efficient use of time while he thought about it. The hansom started up, and Haverhill ignored the rattling of the cobblestones under the wheels. What to do, what to do. He had a rather extensive knowledge of Lindebo, but found he was sorely lacking in acquaintance with discreet nurses. He had never expected an injured whore to be staying at the town-house and thus had not made any preparations for the event.

Although, if he had not been jealous and had thought about it more, he realised, he might have seen it coming. He had known Nora would be injured sooner or later: it happened to every postitute. That was why he had set Shackle to watching her. He had just not expected it to be quite as bad as this and to send a doctor to Nora's place, instead of taking her to Waverley-Street. But it was not such a leap of imagination to think of John hearing about it and persuading Nora to rest and recover in Waverley-Street, and supplying a nurse for her even if her injuries had been minor. But there was no use in self-recrimination, and Haverhill would just have to find someone. Who would be familiar with the nurses in or near Lindebo? He ran through the list of people he employed on John's behalf: no one with the exception of Mrs Jenkins would possibly have even a nodding acquaintance with a nurse of the type that Haverhill needed, and Mrs Jenkins was unmarried and never ill, so it was unlikely with her as well.

The hansom arrived at the court-house before Haverhill had thought of anyone, and he went inside, left notice of John's forthcoming absence, and returned to the hansom before it struck him. Margaret Cadding! Er, Mrs Arthur—no, Henry—Barrett, that was; it was difficult to keep track of which husband she was on, and besides, he always thought of her as a Cadding, since she never defined her life by her husbands. She would have needed a nurse for each of her many ailing husbands, and the last one had not lived far from Lindebo. Cadding would naturally gravitate towards a nurse with a tight mouth, just because of her background, and also an honest one, so that everyone would be able to trust the nurse as a reliable witness that Cadding had not killed her husbands—it was the natural suspicion when men seemed to die within two years of marrying you.

He poked his head out of the hansom and ordered the cabbie to head for a carriage-yard. The hansom would not take him out of the city: he would be required to hire a carriage, since he would not take one of his lordship's nice, new carriages with the very clear coat of arms emblazoned on the side. It might take him as much as an hour and a half to get to Cadding's, but fortunately his unique relationship with Margaret would ensure that she both listened to him and helped him. She might require something of him in return—they were both who they were, after all, and favours were remembered and kept in mental ledgers—but she would help him. He suddenly realised how glad he was to have an ally with the same background and knowledge and general view of life as himself: just to know that a friend like Cadding was near Lindebo was an immense comfort during this time.

He arrived at Cadding's at half past ten. It had taken much longer than anticipated to hire a carriage, and the driver was not as fast as he would like. That Margaret had chosen a quiet, out of the way country home did not help—the driver had actually gotten lost had had to stop for directions twice. As a result, Haverhill was in a bottled up bad mood when he arrived, and when the maid answered the door, he barely managed to keep from snapping at her as he sent her to tell Mrs Barrett of his arrival. He did not send his name or a card, but he knew that Margaret would know it was him anyway. She arrived only a minute later, nearly running into the room, and as soon as the maid shut the door behind her, she threw herself into his arms.

Haverhill smiled cynically as he allowed it, clasping his arms about her. She normally would not be so physical, appreciating his need for reserve in their relationship, but she had abandoned reserve today. She was counting on him not cutting short the visit. There was only one reason why he would not, and she must have deduce it. She knew he was here for help. She always had been a sharp cookie, he thought—fondly, despite the blatant advantage she was taking of her upper hand. It was hard to hold it against her.

Margaret closed her eyes and leaned herself against his chest, and he obliged her just a little, tightening his arms around her. She sighed just a little, and a moment later opened her eyes and stepped away, her gaze sharp and observant. "It's good to see you, Haverhill. What do you need?"
He smiled. Sharp, and to the point as always. "A nurse."
Cadding's lips curved. "I presume one to fit circumstances of a less than desirable nature?"
"You could say that."
"Hmm. I shan't ask, but perhaps sometime you will tell me." Margaret tapped her lips thoughtfully. "Usually out of town nurses are best, you know, but if you need one in a hurry, which I presume you do, I can confidently recommend Henry's nurse."
She paused, and Haverhill knew that she was waiting for him to ask so that she could name her price for the information. "Who is she, and where can I find her?"
"You are in a hurry, are you not? And you'll leave as soon as you know?"
"Yes. It is an urgent matter."
Margaret sighed. "Will you visit me again?"
Haverhill blinked. Was that all she was going to ask? He would have done it anyway, although admittedly he might have dragged his feet about it, given her particular attachment to him. "Yes, of course."
Margaret smiled. "Of course. It might be six months or a year, but yes, of course."
Haverhill laughed, slightly surprised that he could given the dark mood he had been in this morning. "You know me well."
Cadding grinned. "I do. You also know me well. A kiss, Haverhill."

He eyed her for a moment, but the decision was already made. He would pay the price. He stepped forward, his hands about her waist and his lips going to hers. He knew how to kiss; since he would never do this again, he might as well perform to the best of his ability. After a time, he let her go, and she stepped away breathing raggedly. "Mrs Victor Lindley. She lives in West Ealham."
"Thank you." His own breath untroubled, Haverhill took her hand and bowed over it, kissing her fingers gently.
"Good luck, Haverhill. Visit me sometime."
He smiled and opened the door leading back to the vestibule. "I will. Before six months."
"See that you do," Margaret said, not moving to follow him. "Good day."
"Good day."

He left in a slightly better mood than he arrived, despite Cadding's price, and directed the driver to West Ealham. The village was on the opposide side of Lindebo from Margaret's house, and it would take at least four hours to get there, but there was no point in delaying. He could eat when he got back to the town-house.

[Nora]

(OOC: Nelly is an NPC belonging to Nora's account.)


The Johnson's family kitchen was bustling with life, and noisy with the clattering of various kinds of utensils. Despite the racket, an old lady was dozing in a rocking chair by the hearth. On the table by the window was a crate of berries as well as several large bowls. This was where Nelly Lynley was seated, and opposite from her was her niece's eldest daughter, Beth. They were coring strawberries.

By the kitchen counter was Lily Johnson herself, together with two maids and the housekeeper. On the floor by the woman's feet was a toddler – a fair-haired boy with cornflower-blue eyes – studiously, yet rather noisily, examining the functions of a rotary whisk.
"What does the letter say?" Beth asked her mother, who was leaning on the counter with a piece of parchment in her hands, smiling.
"Well, he says I am to give all my children a bowl of berries tonight before they sleep, and give them each a kiss from him."
Beth giggled happily, the thought of her uncle – or possibly the strawberries – evidently appealing to her very much.
"He spoils them rotten, that brother of yours," Nelly remarked. "It is as if he does not believe you can do it properly for yourself. - On which point I heartily disagree with him."
"Hear, hear," agreed the housekeeper, Mrs Henderson.
"I am not spoiled!" Beth protested.
"He wishes that I pass the letter on to you, aunt Nelly," Lily continued, "so that you can read it for yourself. His wife and sister have finally spoken to him about their past, and he is very happy." She looked almost triumphant as she said this, which slightly annoyed Nelly.
"I look forward to hearing what they have said," she simply responded.
"Oh, he does not reveal very much about that here, only in parts. But I am sure he will tell us about it when we see him." Nelly nodded, but her niece had spotted the skeptical look on her face. Now it was Lily who seemed annoyed. "She is a good woman, Nelly!"
"So I've heard," Nelly kept coring strawberries unaffected. "Several times. How is it that you can be so sure of this, I wonder?"
"She makes Christopher happy! He has told us this himself, so it must be true!"
"I have no reason to think otherwise," Nelly replied calmly.
"Then why are you so intent on not trusting her?"
"Because I have no reason to do that, either. She has kept secrets for this long; she might very well still be keeping them. It does not speak to her advantage that it took her six years to open up to him."
"She would not wait this long and then be false!" Lily exclaimed, exasperated. She had always had a temper, ever since she was a little girl. It could be troublesome at times, but Nelly loved her niece dearly and was a very tolerant woman, always patient with her loved ones. She and her niece had very few things in common. They were both rather skinny and had high cheekbones, but there ended their similarities in appearance. Despite her thin figure, hard physical labour had given Nelly strength and muscles that Lily's petite form did not display a hint of. Nelly's hair was light – now almost completely white due to age – and Lily's was a dark brown colour with shades of crimson. Her skin, however, was pale while Nelly's was – if not tanned – then at least tinted. Where Lily was fiery and vivacious, Nelly was a calm and composed person by nature. Nelly liked her niece's energetic manner. There was always life around her. Right now, however, she thought she was rather overdoing it. "If her plan was to lie to him she might as well have done so from the beginning!" argued Lily.
"Which she did," Nelly pointed out. Lily let out a frustrated huff to which Nelly only replied by raising her eyebrows. The younger woman seemed to realize that she was acting a tad too emotional in front of the staff.
"Very well. We will not agree and we should not be discussing it here." She now turned to the servants, an index finger raised, "Whenever Mrs Kendall and Miss Sutcliffe come to visit, they are to be received in this household as family, regardless of my aunt's opinions."
"I have never had anything but high regard for Mrs Kendall, ma'm," mrs Henderson assured her. The maids simply curtsied.
"Me neither," said Beth. "I like her. And Anna. They are nice."
"Yes, they are." That very firm affirmation from Lily concluded the discussion.

"The Fairlough sisters are approaching," Nelly observed, casting a glance out the window. "So if your husband is alert, I suspect we can expect him at any moment." Martin Johnson was not particularly fond of the Fairlough-girls, and he usually escaped the shop to fetch his wife whenever he realized that they would be his next customers. The Johnson family had run the local general store for generations. Martin's parents were now aging and had left the daily handling of the shop to their son and his wife. Lily removed her apron. The little boy by her feet looked up as he discovered that his mother was on the move. The whisk was left on the floor as he – helped by his hands in the very charming fashion that only toddlers can manage – raised his behind upwards and then staggered to his feet. He began waddling after his mother as she had already reached the wall across the room to hang her apron. She turned around, however, now headed for the door, and when the boy attempted to do the same, he lost his balance and fell back down on his bum.

The door opened.
"Lily, could you...?" Martin Johnson, a tall man with a rather rugged, yet mild appearance, was now in the doorway, making an indefinite motion with his hand. "The misses Fairlough are here. I am sure you can help them much better than I." Lily merely smiled at her husband and glided past him out the door. An alarmed, strangled noise came from the small boy on the floor. His father bent down and picked him up. "Strawberries, eh?" With the child on one arm and the other one theatrically thrown to his side, he recited: "Doubtless, God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did!"
"Christopher sent us them!" Beth chirped.
"I know. That was good of him."
"Yes! We will make jam! And cream! And sauce for puddings! And..." She looked to Nelly for assistance.
"And strawberry shortcake," Nelly helped her out.
"Yes!"
"Mmmm," her father licked his lips. "That sounds..." he trailed off, his attention caught by something he saw in the window behind them. Beth and Nelly both turned to follow his gaze.
"Who's that?" Beth wanted to know. The two adults both wondered the same thing. The driver and passenger were both too far away to be easily recognized, but the vehicle was not familiar either.
"It looks like a hired carriage?" Nelly was puzzled. There were not many who drove such carriages around here. "From Lindebo?" she wondered. This caused Beth to sit up on her knees on her chair to get a better view. Mrs Henderson also came to the window.
"That is a hired carriage," she confirmed. "An urgent message of some sort?" she looked worried.
"...Or for you, Nelly?" Martin suggested. Nelly shrugged, but stood up, and Beth jumped to the floor as well, calling out a protest: "No! You don't get to go away again!" Nelly smiled mildly at the girl on her way to the wash basin.
"Calm yourself, girl; for all we know it's simply a traveller." The four of them – or rather five, for the toddler was still on his father's arm – filed out of the kitchen, leaving the maids and the sleeping Mrs Johnson senior behind, and making their way towards the front of the house. In the courtyard they found that Lily and the misses Fairlough must have spotted the stranger as well; they were already outside the shop, curiously squinting in the direction of the approaching carriage.

As soon as it had stopped, the driver pulled his lever, the doors were released and a man alighted. He was short, but not stubby. He in fact looked surprisingly distinguished for a small man. Yet he looked tired, Nelly thought.
"Good afternoon." he greeted them genially.
"The same to you," Martin politely responded, handing his son over to Nelly and walking over to the stranger. "And welcome to Johnson's general store. I am Martin Johnson. How may I help you?" The man took Martin's outstreched hand and shook it. He introduced himself and then stated his purpose. "I am looking for a Mrs Victor Lynley?"
Beth let out a small peep. Nelly passed the child on to Mrs Henderson and took the necessary steps to bring her appropriately close to the man.
"I am Petronella Lynley," she said.
"Nice to meet you. You have been in the employ of a Mr and Mrs Barret, I believe?"
"I have, yes."
"Mrs Barret has recommended you highly," he told her. Nelly smiled and gave an involuntary little nod of her head.
"I am glad to hear it."
"Is there someplace we could talk in private?" the man inquired.
"Of course. Follow me, if you please." she said, indicating that she was about to move towards the house. He followed. Beth pulled helplesslly at her skirt as she went by, but her father put a hand on her shoulder and firmly steered her towards her mother, to whom she ran, burying her face in her blouse and starting to sob. "I am sorry for the crowd," Nelly apologized smilingly as they entered the foyer. "We are a curious bunch here, evidently."

She lead him to a drawing-room, where he informed her that her former employer had described her as a good and discreet nurse and that he would like to hire her, which, of course, Nelly had already deduced. It was a job that demanded ultimate gentleness and discretion, he warned her. He was very firm on this point. Nelly always kept her work confidential, so that would not be a problem, and of this she assured him. She was always gentle also; was that not a requirement that came with the profession? It was clear that this must be some sort of delicate situation. Nelly's curiousity had been awakened. His orientation on the patient and their needs was very limited. It was a woman, and she was severely injured. How she had been injured, he did not say, and Nelly, sensing his unwillingness to divulge information, did not ask. He did, however, inform her that her real employer would not be him. She would be working for the Baron Wothersham. Nelly had heard quite a bit about the man. Evidently he was quite a character. Or rather: There seemed to be a lack of character about him. Most people seemed to find him callous and distant. Her nephew had met him a few times and described him as pompous and arrogant.

She agreed to take the job. Of course she did. Nelly liked her situation, living with the Johnsons, but she needed the occasional break. She needed variation, challenges. She enjoyed her work; she enjoyed meeting new people, experiencing new things, and of course the gratifying feeling of earning her own keep. And she liked to feel useful; that she was doing something meaningful and being an asset to society, not only to her relatives. Besides, a trip to Lindebo would take her closer to her nephew. She had been longing to see him for quite some time.

Nelly had a suitcase packed and ready for these kinds of occasions. There was not much she needed to do after having signed the contract and changed into her uniform, except to pick up a few extra personal items and necessities. Then there were the goodbyes. Martin patted her shoulder and bid her good luck with his singular warm little smile. The four children each hugged her, Beth still crying. Lily practically flung herself around her neck and held her tight for a long time. "Don't stay away for ages," she implored her. "Come back soon to us. And..." She produced Christopher's letter from her dress and put it in Nelly's hand. "Tell him how much we all love him. Hug him from me, and thank him. And please do not be too hard on him – or her?" Nelly smiled and nodded in return, putting the letter away and letting a hand glide over her niece's hair.
"I shall do my best," she promised. "On all accounts." A peck on the cheek later, Nelly was stepping into the hansom cab helped by Haverhill. The Johnsons waved after the carriage far longer than was strictly necessary, since Nelly could no longer see them with her back turned.

Haverhill seemed a pleasant man. He had an agreeable demeanor; mild-mannered and amiable. The two of them spent most of the trip in cordial conversation. After a while, however, a natural silence fell, and the landscape outside passed Nelly by without her taking notice, as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

The house, when they finally arrived, was greatly impressive to Nelly. Her expression most likely revealed this to the surroundings, but she said nothing, as the only words she could really think of saying were: "Oh dear!" She had worked for upper class people before, a few times. Never for someone titled. Never for a baron. This house was so... stately! Nelly suddenly felt very small and insufficient. Until she reminded herself of her values; that money, station and power really should not influence a person's worth. Whoever this woman was, and to whomever she was a ward, it did not matter. Nelly had been called upon because she was adept at what she did. She could do it regardless of her patient's rank and wealth.

[John Doyle]

Haverhill ushered Mrs Lynley into the house, his face a pleasant mask that revealed nothing of what he thought of her reaction to the house she would be staying in for the next few weeks of her life. Mrs Hardacre, her green afternoon dress of the latest fashion from London, met both of them just outside the vestibule, and Haverhill introduced them. "Mrs Hardacre, this is Mrs Lynley. Mrs Lynley, this is Mrs Hardacre."
Helen greeted the nurse, "How do you do?" It was apparant, however, where her real interest was when she asked Haverhill, "Have you got everything settled?"
Haverhill said, "The contract is signed. I must take care of some business for Lord Wothersham. Will you excuse me?"
Helen flapped a dismissive hand at him, and he bowed and left. She fixed her attention on Mrs Lynley, scrutinizing the nurse. All she lacked for the exact impression of jeweller searching for flaws was a loupe at her eye. This was the woman hired to take care of Nora. Was she worthy of the position? She would be responsible for the health and well-being of the woman nearest to John's heart at the moment—and at all foreseeable future moments, for that matter—and it was imperative not to trust such an important thing to someone insufficient. Helen trusted Haverhill's judgement in the matter, but it could also be that he had to find someone today and he had been forced to settle for what was available. She said curtly, "If you will follow me."

It was not a request, but Mrs Lynley nodded anyway, and followed when Helen started towards the back of the house. Helen immediately began to quiz the nurse on her experience, and was answered swiftly and concisely. Mrs Lynley's sister had fallen ill, so she had nursed her sister and had been a mother to her sister's children in all but name. Then Mrs Lynley had married herself, but her husband had also fallen ill and she had nursed him. He had passed on, and she had become a nurse, feeling it an appropriate choice of profession. She had nursed soldiers, and other more well-to-do patients, such as Mr Henry Barrett. Helen did not think it a particularly good omen that so many of Mrs Lynley's patients had died, but most of them had been suffering from wasting or incurable illnesses, or had been old. Nora was neither.

Helen watched Mrs Lynley with the same inspecting gaze all throughout the semi-interrogation. There was a small silence at the end, as they both walked the last few feet to the back bedroom door, but when they reached it, Helen gave a small approving nod. Mrs Lynley would be a suitable nurse for Nora. From nursing soldiers she would be used to the rougher side of life that Nora came from, and she did not seem to consider herself too good. Perhaps she would not think she was above nursing a whore. And if she did, well, she had signed a contract, and she could be gotten rid of as soon as Nora was enough recovered for Helen to nurse the woman herself. She opened the door to the bedroom serving as a sickroom.

Unfortunately, John was still sitting in the chair next to Nora's bed, holding her hand. He hadn't let go in all the hours since he had first taken it, although now one hand cupped hers in support and the other rested lightly on top, his fingers on her pulse, instead of both clutching it like the last hope of a dying man. He was quite the sight, his chin unshaven and growing a good crop of stubble, clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers still. Helen had been unable to persuade him to leave even just for the short length of time it would take to clean up. He had been adamant, refusing to go. What if Nora woke up, he said. He needed to be there. She would be hurting, and very likely confused. She might be afraid she would be attacked again. He had to be there to tell her that he would keep her safe. Helen had finally given up, but now that she had to show the nurse into the room, he seemed much more disreputable than before and she wished she hadn't. What would Mrs Lynley think?

But all she said was, "This is your patient, Nora."

***

John belatedly looked up when he heard his sister's voice. What had she said? There was a strange woman in the doorway, nodding, and John, irritated at her inexplicable intrusion into Nora's bedroom, demanded, "Who are you?"
The strange woman stepped inside and John almost ordered her out. What right did she have to be here, where Nora was prone in bed, vulnerable and small? But Helen shut the door behind the woman, so John surmised that she was supposed to be here. She answered him, "I am Mrs Lynley, sir."
The lack of his proper title didn't even register. Mrs Lynley? Who the devil was she? It meant nothing to him. He scowled. "What are you doing here?"
"I have been employed as her nurse," said Mrs Lynley.
"Oh." That was different then. Who had sent her here? He hoped it was Haverhill, and not whoever the doctor last night had been. There would be no trusting anyone not picked by Haverhill. "By who?"
"By Lord Wothersham," said the nurse.
John blinked. "I employed you?" He supposed it could have happened. He didn't really remember the last few hours very clearly, except that they had been filled with worry. Hadn't he been sitting by Nora, though?
Mrs Lynley, however, was obviously startled at his question, and exclaimed, "Oh! My lord!" She dropped a curtsey. "I didn't realise..." She trailed off, then continued, "Your steward, Mr Haverhill, contacted me."
John looked at her for a while, but really, if Haverhill had picked her out, then she was acceptable. He trusted Haverhill implicitly. Without thinking about how rude it might sound, he told her, "I trust Haverhill's judgement." He turned away, his eyes already back on Nora. "Have you ever nursed anyone..." He swallowed. Had there ever been someone as badly injured as this that lived to be nursed? Nora looked terrible, even after the doctor's attentions. John wanted so much to cradle her in his arms, as if that would somehow make her well again. It was only through force of will and constant reminders to himself that moving her would make it worse that he did not do it. He swallowed again. "Nursed anyone like this?"
Mrs Lynley stepped closer. "I have, yes." She looked sad for a minute, before a natural sternness took over her face. "But never a woman."
Of course never a woman. What kind of animal could do this to any woman, let alone Nora? When he found out who was responsible for this atrocity... John did not like to think what he might be capable of. It was a bit frightening, what he could feel for and because of Nora. But there would be an end to this sort of thing, that was for sure. Unaware of the hardening in his face as he thought about the retribution that would be meted out, John said, "If you need to do anything, go ahead."
The nurse leaned down to inspect Nora's face, and said, "There is not much I can do until she wakes up. It shouldn't be too long."
John sat bolt upright. "She'll wake up soon? Will she be able to talk? Will she understand me? It must hurt, you'll give her the laudanum right away." The last was a command, not a question.
Mrs Lynley took the outburst of questions with impreturbable aplomb. "I will give her the laudanum, yes. She will be in a lot of pain. She won't be very responsive."
John hesitated for a moment, but then asked, "But, if I tell her I'm sorry and that I'll take care of her, she will understand me?"
Mrs Lynley paused also, then said, "It is never easy to know, with these things. But familiar voices usually do help."
John looked up at her, and just as he did, a memory of what Nora had once said whispered through his ears. Oh, this is so pretty. And it smells like... something safe. She had been talking about Mr Kendall's library, about his books. Would that help her? To have a safe smell surrounding her when she woke up? He asked, "What about familiar things? Or things she likes?"
Mrs Lynley said, "I usually tell people that it's worth an attempt."
Assured of the answer being affirmative, he asked, "Would you get Haverhill for me?"

Mrs Lynley nodded and said, "Certainly," leaving the room to do as he requested. Once she was gone, John returned his complete attention to Nora. She looked peaceful now, sleeping—except for the swelling distorting her eyes, and the raw flesh on one side of her face, and the spiderleg stiches on the other. But at least she didn't look like she was in pain at the moment. He knew that would change as soon as she woke up—it would be agony, the swelling the worst pain of all. He felt guilty for wanting her to wake so badly, but at the same time, he wanted her to wake so that he would know that she was going to wake. He didn't want this to be like Kevin, he didn't want to sit by her and watch her sleep and slip off into death and never even get to say goodbye. Oh God, if she died, what would he do?

The door opened again suddenly, and he was yanked out of his morbid contemplation. Mrs Lynley re-entered the room, and Haverhill followed her. The sight of his composed, familiar face was calming; he was a steady rock in a swiftly tilting world. Haverhill asked, "Yes, my lord?"
"I would like some of my books moved in here," John told him.
Haverhill gave no sign that this was in any way unusual. He only said, "Certainly, my lord. Is there any preference as to which books?"
"No..." Then John thought about it. New books really didn't have any particular smell, unless they were badly made or kept. He changed his mind. The old ones would be best. "My oldest ones, perhaps."
Haverhill bowed. "Yes, my lord." He left, shutting the door behind him, and John turned back to Nora.
Maybe it would help. He hoped. He explained to Mrs Lynley absently, "She likes books. She thinks they smell safe."
Mrs Lynley only nodded, and John pressed Nora's hand. She had to wake up.

Mrs Lynley faded into the background, and it was half hour or more before he remembered she was there. When he turned to look, she was still standing, and he wondered why before he thought back and found he had never invited her to sit. "Sit," he commanded her, abruptly annoyed with her hovering behind him. She gave him a look of glacial calm and very deliberately drew a chair up to the bed and sat down. He felt a bit churlish, but all thought of the nurse receded to unimportance when he turned back to Nora. He wished she would wake up.