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“Yes.” Philomena sobbed again. “God forgive me—I could have helped Victoria. Why didn’t she trust me? Why? I loved her so much! I didn’t condemn her—what did I fail to do that she …” Again the tears filled her eyes and she looked at Callandra desperately, as if she could find some answer that somehow, anyhow, would take away the appalling pain that overwhelmed her.
Callandra said the only thing that came into her mind.
“Perhaps she was ashamed because it was Arthur. And you don’t know what he said to her. She may have felt she must defend him from anyone’s knowing, even you—or perhaps you most of all because of the distress it would cause you. One thing I am sure of: she would not wish you to bear the burden of guilt for it now. Has she ever reproached you?”
“No.”
“Then be assured she does not hold you responsible.”
Philomena’s face filled with self-disgust. “Whether she does or not, I am to blame. I am her mother. I should have prevented it in the first place—and when it did happen, I should have helped her.”
“Who would you have gone to?” She made it sound casual, almost unimportant, but her breath rasped in her throat as she waited for the answer.
“Berenice Ross Gilbert,” Philomena replied. “She knows how to obtain safe abortions. She knows of a surgeon who will do it.”
“Berenice Ross Gilbert. I see.” Callandra tried to hide her amazement and almost succeeded; there was only a lift at the end of her words, a half squeak.
“It makes no difference now,” Philomena said immediately. “It is all done. Victoria is ruined—far worse than if she had had the child!”
“Perhaps.” Callandra could not deny it. “You must send Arthur away to university, or military college, or anything to keep him from the house. Your other daughters must be protected. And you had better make sure none of them is—well, if they are, I will find you a surgeon who will perform the operation without charge, and immediately.”
Philomena stared at her. There was nothing else to say. She was numb, wretched, weak with pain and bewilderment.
There was a knock on the door and it opened a crack. The maid put her head around, eyes wide and filled with alarm.
“Bring in the tisane,” Callandra ordered. “Put it down there and then leave Lady Stanhope for a while. There are to be no callers admitted.”
“Yes ma’am. No ma’am.” She obeyed and withdrew.
Callandra remained with Philomena Stanhope for a further half hour, until she was sure she was capable of retaining her composure and beginning to f
ace the dreadful task ahead of her, then she excused herself and left, going outside into the warm dusk to where her carriage still awaited her. She gave the coachman instructions to take her to Fitzroy Street, and Monk’s lodgings.
Hester began immediately upon the same task of finding the link between Sir Herbert and his patients that Monk had done. For her it was far easier. She could deduce from Prudence’s notes which nurses had assisted him, and even though the notes went back to shortly after Prudence’s arrival at the hospital, most of the nurses were still here and not difficult to encounter.
She met one rolling bandages, a second sweeping the floor, a third preparing poultices. The fourth she found carrying two heavy pails of slops.
“Let me help you,” she offered uncharacteristically.
“Why?” the woman said with suspicion. It was not a job people took up voluntarily.
“Because I’d rather carry one for you than have to mop up behind you if you spill it,” Hester said with something less than the truth. The task would not have been hers.
The woman was not going to argue herself out of help with a distasteful job. She passed over the heavier of the two pails immediately.
By now Hester had worked out a plan of action. It was not likely to make her popular, and would almost certainly make working in the Royal Free Hospital impossible once the nurses spoke to each other and realized what she was doing, but she would worry about that after Sir Herbert was convicted. For now her anger overrode all such practical considerations.
“Do you think he did it?” she said casually.
“What?”
“Do you think he did it?” she repeated, walking side by side down the corridor with the pails.
“ ’Oo did wot?” the woman said irritably. “Are you talking about the treasurer groping after Mary Higgins again? ’Oo knows? And ’oo cares? She asked for it anyway—stupid cow!”
“Actually I meant Sir Herbert,” Hester explained. “Do you think he killed Barrymore? The papers say the trial will end soon, then I suppose he’ll be back here. I wonder if he’ll have changed?”
“Not ’im. Snooty sod. It’ll still be ‘Fetch this’—‘Gimme that’—‘Stand ’ere’—‘Stand there’—‘Empty this’—‘Roll up the bandages and pass me the knife.’ ”
