She stalked over to the hearth and dropped to her knees, her skirt billowing like a puff of smoke. Grabbing the poker, she stirred the banked embers, then dropped the iron bar with a clatter. Leaning forward, she edged the tickets ever closer, breathing hard, barely seeing for the tears skewing her vision.
And lit her career on fire.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“…for I was a shattered wreck—the shadow of a human being.”
With a crick in his neck and a stabbing pain in his lower back, Graham opened his eyes. Barely. Lids at half mast, the world slowly sharpened into focus. A stack of paperwork. A few brown tincture bottles. A forceps that ought to have been put away and a strip of white cotton he’d meant to roll into a bandage. No wonder his body revolted with such gusto. Sleeping with his face mashed against the unforgiving wood of his desk was a recipe for stiff muscles and creaking bones.
Sitting upright, he immediately pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, pushing back a headache. For the past two nights he’d walked the streets until daybreak, trying to figure out what to do about Peckwood. Turn the man in, and in the process, incriminate himself? Throw away his career and all the years of knowledge he’d worked hard to acquire?
He dropped his hand, the movement so swift, it crinkled the banknote in his pocket that Peckwood had forced upon him. Could he morally take the rest of the money he’d been offered to set up his own practice and do all the good he could for the sick and needy? Yet would that not, in a sense, make him no better than Peckwood? Such a gain would be at the expense of others—like Colin and the asylum inmates who could not speak for themselves. Thunder and turf ! Of all the wretched choices to make.
The wall clock began to chime. Three o’clock? He bolted to his feet. How had he managed to sleep for so long? He ought to have called on Mrs. Bap shortly after breakfast…if he’d actually taken breakfast. Even now a terrible growl rumbled in his belly.
But no time for that. He grabbed his medical bag then snatched his hat off a peg near the door on his way out. Thick clouds hung low, not the sort to threaten rain but rather to oppress and dishearten.
He pounded into the stable out back, but the gig was gone. As usual. He’d have to hoof it the nine blocks to Mrs. Bap’s. Sighing, he reset his hat all the tighter and set off.
Even without the sun to heat Redcliffe’s sludgy gutters, the slum managed to waft its own brand of noxious odours as strong as ever. Were he to take that pile of offered money from Peckwood, he’d have enough to see Mrs. Bap and her granddaughter moved into better housing and ease the old woman’s last days.
Raising a fist, he pounded on the flimsy door, rattling the pathetic wood in its frame. “Mrs. Bap? Mr. Lambert here.”
Feet shuffled. Hinges groaned. A breath later, teary blue eyes gazed up into his own. Emma, Mrs. Bap’s granddaughter, slowly shook her head. Before she uttered a word, his gut hardened.
The young woman’s lower lip trembled as she spoke. “She’s gone, sir.”
Shoving past her, he dashed to the old woman’s bedside and dropped to his knees. His medical bag fell from his grip, landing with a dull thud on the hard-packed floor. No matter. He didn’t need to listen to her heart or check for breath to know Emma’s words were true.
Mrs. Bap’s hoary head rested motionless on a burlap pillow. Her grey eyes stared upwards, ever upwards. Chest tight, Graham pulled two coins from his pocket, then gently brushed her lids shut and pressed the cold metal against her grey skin. Deep down, a sob clawed its way up to his throat. Though he knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent her death, still, his heart squeezed. Had he been on time, he might have at least made her final breaths more comfortable.
All the ghosts of his past rose from their graves and pointed accusing fingers at him. He’d failed yet another dear woman. His head drooped.
Oh God, forgive me.
Footsteps scuffled behind him. “Yer not to blame, sir. Granny made sure to tell me so, right before she—”
Emma’s voice broke. So did his heart. Surprising, really, after living through so many deaths. He ought to be used to such loss. But losing a patient never came easy, especially one such as this.
Yet duty called. Now was not a time to grieve but to comfort.
Inhaling until his lungs burned, he gathered his bag. “You’ll have to let the undertaker know posthaste.”
The young woman shook her head. “Got no money for such fancies, sir. Mr. Waldman do say Gran might could be tossed in with their next burial at St. Peter’s.”
“You and I both know your grandmother deserves better than that, so be at peace, Miss Emma.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I will see her buried properly at my own expense.” Pulling back, he retrieved Peckwood’s banknote and the rest of the coins in his pocket. “Until then, use this for whatever you need in making preparations.”
“Thank ye, sir.” Sniffling, the girl dipped a quick curtsey. “Yer a good man.”
Good? Hah. Would a good man entertain for even a minute the taking of a bribe? Clutching his bag, he strode to the door.
“Oh, sir? I nearly forgot.” Emma scurried towards him, pulling a folded paper from her apron pocket.
“Gran wanted ye to have this. Give it to me nigh on a week ago now. Said when she…when she—” A great sniffle ended her words, one that held back a torrent of tears.
“You’re a valiant girl, Miss Emma.” Graham pulled the paper from her fingertips, offering her a small smile. “Just like your grandmother.”
“Thank ye, sir.”
