“Bastard!” Nell said in disgust, then looked down at her arm. “Yer improvin’,” she said grudgingly.
“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged with a smile.
Nell suddenly grinned back. “Yer all right, you are! If that fat sod gives yer any trouble, like, let us know. Willie might knock me around a bit, wot’s out o’ place, but ’e’d be good fer beatin’ that slimy pig, an’ all.”
“Thank you,” Hester said seriously. “I’ll keep it in mind. Would you like more tea?”
“Yeah! An’ a drop o’ life in it, too.” Nell held out the cup.
“Rather less life this time,” Hester directed as Margaret, hiding a smile, obeyed.
Hester moved her attention to Lizzie, who was looking increasingly anxious as her turn approached. Setting her broken bone was going to be very painful. Anesthetic had been available for more serious operations for several years. It made all sorts of deep incisions possible, such as those needed to remove stones from the bladder, or a diseased appendix. But for injuries like this, and for people unable or unwilling to go to a hospital, there was still no help but a stiff dose of alcohol and such herbs as dulled the awareness of pain.
Hester talked all the time, about anything and nothing—the weather, local peddlers and what they were selling—in order to distract Lizzie’s attention as much as possible. She worked quickly. She was accustomed to the terrible wounds of the battlefield, where there was no anesthetic and not always brandy, except to clean a blade. Speed was the only mercy available. This time there was no broken skin, nothing to see but the crooked angle and the pain in Lizzie’s face. Hester touched the wrist lightly, and heard the gasp, then the retching as the raw ends of bone grated. With one swift, decisive movement, she brought the ends together and held them while Margaret, gritting her teeth, bound the wrist as firmly as she could without stopping the blood to the hand.
Lizzie retched again. Hester handed her the whiskey and hot water, this time with an infusion of herbs added. It was bitter, but the alcohol and the heat would ease her, and in time the herbs would settle her stomach and give her a little sleep.
“Stay here tonight,” Hester said gently, standing up and putting her arm around Lizzie as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “We need to see that bandage stays all right. If your hand swells up a lot we’ll have to loosen it,” she added, slowly guiding her over to the closest bed while Margaret pulled back the covers for her.
Lizzie looked at Hester in horror, her face bloodless.
“The bone will be fine,” Hester assured her. “Just take care not to knock it.” As she spoke, she eased Lizzie onto the bed, bent and took her shoes off, then lifted her legs and feet up until she was lying back against the pillows. Margaret pulled the covers over her.
“Lie there for a bit,” Hester advised. “Then if you want to get into bed properly, I’ll come and give you a nightshirt.”
Lizzie nodded. “Thank you, miss,” she said with profound sincerity. She struggled for a moment to find words to add, and then merely smiled.
Hester went back to where Kitty was sitting, waiting patiently for her turn. She had an interesting face: strong features and a wide, passionate mouth, not pretty in the usual sense, but well proportioned. She had not been on the streets long enough for her skin to be marred, or sallow from poor food and too much alcohol. Hester wondered briefly what domestic tragedies had brought her there.
She looked at her injuries. They were mostly rapidly darkening bruises, as if she had been in a struggle with someone but it had not lasted long enough to do her the damage that Nell and Lizzie had suffered. The deep graze on her breastbone needed cleaning, but no stitches would help. It was not bleeding much, and a little ointment to aid healing would be sufficient. The bruises would hurt for some time to come, but arnica would ease that.
Margaret brought more hot water and clean cloths, and Hester began to work as gently as she could. Kitty barely winced when Hester touched the graze, cleaning away the blood, which was now dried, and exposing the raw, torn edges of the skin. As always, Hester did not ask how it happened. Pimps quite often disciplined their women if they thought they were not working hard enough, or were keeping back too big a part of their earnings. Vicious fights between one woman and another happened now and again, mostly over territory. It was best not to appear inquisitive, and anyway, the knowledge would be of no use to her. All the wounded were treated much the same, however their hurts were incurred.
When Hester had done all she could for Kitty, and given her a cup of strong, sweet tea laced with a very small drop of whiskey, Kitty thanked her and went back out into the night, pulling her shawl tighter around her. They saw her go across the square, head high, and disappear into the black shadow of the prison to the north.
“I dunno.” Nell shook her head. “She shouldn’t be out on the street. In’t fer ’er sort, poor bitch!”
There was nothing useful to say. A hundred different circumstances took women into prostitution, often only to supplement a too-meager income from something else. But it all stemmed from the eternal struggle for money.
Nell looked at her. “You keep a still tongue, don’t yer! Ta, missus. I’ll be seein’ yer again, I ’spec’.” She squinted a little at Hester, regarding her with wry kindness. “If I can ’elp yer sometime . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, shrugging very slightly. Nodding to Margaret, she went out as well, closing the door quietly behind her.
Hester caught Margaret’s eye and saw the flash of humor and pity in her expression. There was no need for words; they had already said all there was to say. They were there to heal, not to preach to women whose lives they only partially understood. At first Margaret had wanted to change things, to speak what she saw as truth, guided by her own beliefs. Gradually she had begun to realize how little she knew of her own hungers, except that to be tied in a convenient marriage where the emotion was no more than a mutual respect and courtesy would be a denial of everything inside her. It might seem comfortable to begin with, but as time passed and she stifled the dreams within her, she would come to feel her husband was her jailer, and then despise herself for her own dishonesty. The choice was hers; no one else was to blame.
She made it, and stepped into the unknown, aware that she was closing doors she might later regret, and which after that could never be opened again. She did not often wonder what she had given away, but there had been long nights with few patients when she and Hester talked frankly, and even touched on the prices of different kinds of loneliness, those that were perceived by others and those that were masked in marriage and family. All choice was risk, but for Margaret, as for Hester, accommodation to half-truths was impossible.
“For his sake, I can’t do that!” Margaret had said with a self-conscious laugh. “Poor man deserves better than that. I’d despise myself for it, and him for letting me.” Then she had gone for a bucket and water to scrub the floor, as she did now, and together they cleared up and put away the unused bandages and ointments, then took turns in snatching a little sleep.
Two other women came in before morning. The first needed two stitches in her leg, which Hester did quickly and efficiently. The second was cold and angry and badly bruised. A mug of hot tea, again mildly laced with brandy and a little tincture of arnica, and she felt ready to return to her room and face the coming day, probably most of it asleep.
Dawn came clear and quite mild, and by eight o’clock Hester was eating toast and drinking a cup of fresh tea when the street door opened and a constable was silhouetted against the sunlight. Without asking, he came in.
“Mrs. Monk?” His tone was heavy and a little sharp. The police hardly ever came to the house. They were not welcome, and had been told so in unmistakable terms. Largely they respected what was done there, and were happy enough, if they wished to speak to any of the women, to wait and do it in some other place. What could have brought him there this morning, and at eight o’clock?
Hester put down her mug and stood. “Yes?” She had seen him several times on the street. “What is it, Constable Hart?”
He closed the door behind him and took off his helmet. In the light his face looked tired, not merely from a sleepless night on duty, but from an indefinable weariness within. Something had bruised him, disturbed him.
“You’ad any women in ’ere last night that were knocked about, cut mebbe, or beat bad?” he asked. He