Renegade (8 page)

“Owwwww!” I screamed, feeling hot searing pain in my palm. I looked down and saw blood running from a puncture wound.

“Oops,” Emily murmured quietly.

I should have been kind, told her that we all make mistakes, but my patience had run thin. Grabbing a cloth to cover the wound, I left the nursery, sharply telling Nurse Josephine on my way out not to leave Emily alone with the infants as she was too much of a hazard to them.

I ascended the stairs to the third floor surgery room where I knew we were well-stocked in bandages. The door was shut but not locked, and when I opened it, I saw one of our patients sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, her back toward me. Simon sat in a chair at her side. He had his long legs crossed in front of him and was writing quickly in a notebook. Laying one finger over his lips, he motioned for me to come in but to remain silent.

As I walked into the room, still clutching my bleeding hand, I saw that the patient—who looked to be near fifty, with deep paunches under her eyes and graying black hair—sat staring at a long crack in the wall. She seemed altogether engulfed in a trance. I watched, fascinated, for a few seconds, almost forgetting my pain, until Simon’s voice broke through the silence.

“We are finished now, Miss Jordan.”

The glazed look in her eyes left quickly, and she just seemed a bit dazed. A nurse from the hallway came in to lead the woman out, and Simon finished writing something in his notebook.

He stood, collecting his notes, and glanced down at my hand. “It appears as if you have a problem, Abbie.”

I had nearly forgotten about the wound.

“What was happening?” I asked, more interested in what I had just seen.

But Simon had already crossed the room and taken the wrapped cloth off of my hand to examine the wound.

“Scissors?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. The bleeding had mostly stopped.

“Nurse Emily?”

I smiled a bit. “Who else? I’m just happy there’s someone here clumsier than myself. I can clean and bandage this … ”

But Simon had already opened a cabinet and taken out a jar of carbolic acid and some cloth bandages. He took my hand in his and began cleaning the wound carefully. His long pale fingers felt cool and soothing, diminishing the stinging of the area as he cleaned it.

“You asked about what I was just doing,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Hypnotherapy, Abbie.” He wrapped and bandaged my palm tightly in what seemed like a single movement, and then threw away the cut pieces of cloth and the bloodied rag.

“Hypnotism?” I remembered the books I had found in his office. I knew only a little about hypnotism, but it seemed like such an odd practice.

Simon must have seen the perplexed look on my face. “It’s actually an extraordinary scientific process that utilizes parts of the brain otherwise dormant while suppressing most other parts of the nervous system. Two years ago, I learned about its use in medical therapy, and then a few weeks ago, I attended a lecture on the matter in Oxford. I am trying … ” He smiled a bit. “Well,
experimenting
with using the treatment on some of our most persistent alcoholics and nymphomaniacs.”

“And does it work?” I asked, my interest piqued.

He shrugged. “I am only just beginning the treatments with two patients. This is a learning process for me too.”

My hand was bandaged, and all the materials had been put away. Simon towered tall above me, considering me with his cool gaze. I wondered if he knew about what had happened between William and me.

There was a long silence between us.

“Abbie, do you need a cup of tea?”

As I drank tea with Simon in his office, I thought again how much I appreciated his steadiness, his calmness. There was something so reliable about him. Although a physician with a medical degree from Oxford, he had recently completed his seminary degree as well. I felt a pang of jealousy and envy—degrees were so easy for men to attain. Whenever we discussed my medical studies, I knew that my options were more limited.

“So, I suppose Oxford is not a possibility for medical school?” I asked wryly, although I already knew the answer.

Simon set down his teacup and drummed his long, graceful fingers. He took a deep breath. “As of now. But London Medical School for Women is quite excellent. I have met Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, a physician and a founder of the institution. She is a good person and an extraordinary physician.”

I had heard of her. Dr. Anderson was a powerful force in the medical world—she had broken down so many barriers. She had even created a hospital for impoverished women, called the New Hospital for Women, which was very similar to Whitechapel Hospital. And yet I could not study medicine at Oxford itself. The institution still refused to grant women degrees.

I swallowed hard. The hot tea burned the back of my throat, but I said nothing.

“There are women finding ways to make the system work to their advantage,” Simon said quietly.

“I know.” Oddly, I felt agitated. Simon could be so caring, but elusive. I wondered how he felt about me now … a few months ago, I had refused his marriage proposal. My conflicted thoughts rose within me and, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Where is William?”

I regretted the question the moment it came out of my mouth.

Simon peered at me for a full three seconds, his ice-blue eyes unreadable. I wondered, in voyeuristic guilt, if he still loved me. Once again, I wondered if he knew of my falling out with William. I felt certain he did. Simon had uncanny discernment. And William was terrible at controlling his emotions.

“William has been hard at work on the second floor this morning,” Simon replied, looking away and drumming his fingers once again on his desk. “We have been overburdened there lately.”

“Oh.” I took another sip of tea, wishing that I had not brought William up. An inexplicable tension, an invisible wall, rose up between Simon and me. Then I felt myself blush, remembering how Simon had walked into the laboratory during my impassioned moment with William.

After a few more moments of silent awkwardness, Simon chuckled. “We have been seeing an old friend here lately.”

I looked sharply at him, perplexed.

“Inspector Abberline.”

“What? I knew he had a meeting with William … ” I stopped myself awkwardly, lowered my voice. “Is he still trying to find … ?”

It seemed almost foolish to call the Whitechapel murderer by his more well-known name, Jack the Ripper, when Simon and I both knew his true identity.

“No,” Simon replied. “I think everyone believes the Ripper to be either dead or gone—after all, there have been no more murders since the autumn.”

He set down his teacup. “This latest case is slightly more mundane. Apparently there has been a rash of grave robbings.”

I widened my eyes a little, remembering my dream about Highgate Cemetery. About Mariah. But that had nothing to do with grave robbing.

“We try to make sure that all the corpses we receive for study here are attained from reputable suppliers, but, as you know, it is nearly impossible to be absolutely certain. Most, even the stolen ones, are from paupers’ graves—with very little security or attentive family survivors. Two weeks ago, however, one of the bodies we received was the sixteen-year-old son of a Member of Parliament.”

“Uh-oh,” I heard myself murmur.

“Precisely.” Simon chuckled. “I would never have known, but one of our medical students recognized the boy. Apart from the horror of having to return the body, which we had already begun to dissect, to the still-grieving family … ”

I sucked in my breath.

“Yes, it was awful for the boy’s family and a disgrace for the hospital. Abberline has used the incident to interrogate our business practices here.”

“Well, he probably still thinks that the Ripper works here,” I said.

Simon merely smiled. “He might try to corner you.”

“I think I can manage him,” I said quickly, not wanting to remember my past interactions with Abberline, particularly that terrible evening at Scotland Yard when he had tried to blackmail me.

I poured another cup of tea. Swallowed. “Simon … ”

He leaned forward, concerned. “Have you seen him? Max?”

“No. I haven’t.” I paused. I had a sudden desperate urge to tell Simon about Roddy’s death, and how I felt sure it was Max who had saved me, but I could not. I could not discuss that day with anyone—at least not for a long time yet. I then decided it would be best to simply tell Simon what he should know now.

“I had another vision,” I said.

Simon leaned across the desk, attentive.

Quickly, I told him about the vision of the lamia brought on by the painting in the laboratory. While Simon had not yet seen the portrait of my mother as a lamia, I had told both him and William about it and he could understand my comparison.

“It’s quite bizarre,” I said. “The creature was not my mother—Mother had red hair, like mine. And although Gabriel painted the portrait, Christina mentioned once that my mother had given directions for how it was to be done. It’s unlike anything else that Gabriel ever created.” I bit my lip; it was always hard talking about this. “Mother told me nothing about her past with the Conclave. But I’m wondering if there is some sort of message to me, from her, in the painting.”

Simon remained silent. His eyes veiled.

I chuckled a bit. “Of course, this all seems like foolishness. Lamias only exist in stories. The creature in my vision cannot be real.”

Once again, I had all of Simon’s attention, and yet he seemed maddeningly unreadable. So I continued. “And then, last night, I had a vivid nightmare about Mariah. I was in Highgate Cemetery, and she was alive. And someone was behind me.”

I smiled even as I felt a tear prick my eye. “Perhaps, after all the psychic excitement we’ve gone through, I have finally gone batty, but … ”

My voice came out as a croak.

“Something is happening, Simon. I’m fearful. There’s a reason we haven’t seen Max yet. A reason that he hasn’t killed us by now.”

Simon’s light face seemed to shine a bit in the dim office. He started to speak, but at that moment I heard footsteps ascending the stairs, walking quickly past Simon’s office.

William. His office door at the end of the hall closed loudly.

Simon’s lips pressed together tightly; I felt my own face crumple a bit in distress and realized that I couldn’t talk about this anymore.

I looked down at my nearly empty teacup, feeling terribly awkward again. Why couldn’t I control my emotions any better?

“Excuse me.” I stood and left abruptly, descending the stairs and returning to my work in the nursery.

Later that day, I returned to the fourth floor to restock the pharmacy closet. As I put the bottles on the shelves in the darkness, I felt a firm grip on my wrist.

I turned around to meet William’s gaze, and I gasped sharply. He kept the viselike grip, leading me silently to his office. Against my will, I followed, promising myself that at all costs, I would be guarded.

William’s office felt warm and muggy, even though the spring day outside was chilly and sunless.

Pushing me back against the closed door, he pressed his forehead against my own. His skin felt scalding upon my skin. His curls tickled my cheeks.

“I am nearly physically ill,” he murmured.

I trembled, caught up in the spell of his warmth, of having him close to me. I recalled vomiting the previous night. Although I said nothing, I understood our shared malaise.

He put both of his hands on my cheeks.

I wanted to surrender. But I felt too bewildered, confused, angry, sad.

Scared.

I pulled away a little.

“Abbie,” William continued. “I do not understand why something I did before I met you matters so much.”

My bewilderment rose. Although I didn’t listen to her advice most of the time, in this matter, I could not ignore Grandmother’s words.
I could not.
They echoed in my mind, echoed too closely my own heart’s trepidation. I was inexperienced in love relationships. And William could be so … volatile. Good sense dictated that I should pull away. I removed his hands from my face and stepped away.