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A little before midnight Jessop called again, pressing for higher rent. He stood in the middle of the floor with his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his red brocade waistcoat, trying to add restrictions and generally making a nuisance of himself. The few women who were hurt or ill had already complained of his presence, and would do so again if he kept on coming. He made them wary; he represented authority, no matter how distantly. Hester pointed that out to him and asked him to leave. He smiled with satisfaction and remained the longer, until Bessie lost her temper and filled the bucket with hot water, lye, and vinegar. She started to scrub the floor, splashing the bucket’s contents all over his boots deliberately, and he left in umbrage. Bessie then made a very slapdash effort at cleaning a couple of yards of the floor, then threw the good water away. She and Hester curled up on two of the empty beds and slept on and off, undisturbed by patients for most of the night, only getting up twice to help Alice.
“I put a weapon into his hand, didn’t I!” Margaret said with chagrin when Hester told her about Jessop’s visit early on the following morning when she arrived just after nine o’clock, and Bessie had gone for some shopping.
Margaret was too honest for Hester to patronize her with an excuse. Today of all days she felt a burning need for candor.
“I’m afraid so,” she agreed, but with a rueful smile to rob it of offense. They were busy seeing what bandages could be saved from those used and washed. They were not in a position to afford any unnecessary supplies. “But I don’t think it will make any difference in a while. We’ll have to find a new place as soon as we can. He’ll put us out at the first opportunity. He was always going to do that.”
Margaret did not reply. Her fingers moved nimbly over the rolls of cloth, sorting some out and throwing them away, keeping the others. “What are we going to do about the usurer and the women who are being beaten?” she said at last.
Hester had been thinking about just that since she had first learned the truth from Alice, and had come to the conclusion that by themselves there was nothing they could do that did not risk making the situation worse. The usury was not a crime that the law could reach in the ordinary way. She had toyed with other ideas, but never formed any coherent plan they might be capable of carrying out.
This morning she felt even more helpless in the face of pain, because her own happiness was dimmed, her confidence in herself shadowed by the fact that Monk had placed a distance between them. Something hurt him, and he was not able to share it with her.
“We need help,” she said aloud. Already her mind was made up. “Someone who knows the law far better than we do.”
“Mr. Monk?” Margaret said quickly.
“No, I meant a lawyer.” Hester refused to allow herself to be hurt by the thought that it was not Monk she would turn to. “Someone who knows about usury, and that kind of thing,” she answered. “I think we should go as soon as legal offices will be open. Bessie will be back by then, and it is not very likely anyone will come in during the morning who can’t wait for us to return.”
“But who could we find who would be interested in cases like Fanny or Alice?” Margaret asked. “And we have no spare money to pay with. Everything is already committed to rent and supplies.” She said that firmly, just in case Hester should be inclined to be impractical and forget their priorities.
“I know at least where to begin,” Hester replied soberly. “I won’t spend our supply money, I promise.” She did not yet want to tell Margaret that she was planning to see Sir Oliver Rathbone. He had been on the verge of asking Hester to marry him once. He had hesitated, and then not spoken the words. Perhaps he had seen in her face that she was not yet ready to make such a decision, or even that she would never love anyone else with the fierceness or the magic with which she loved Monk. She could not help that, whether Monk ever returned her feeling or not, and at that time she had not known. It was only after that that she had discovered Monk did return her feelings, passionately and profoundly, and he had accepted that to deny his own emotions would be to deny all the best in himself, as well as the most vulnerable.
They were friends, all three of them, in a fashion. Rathbone still felt a deep affection for her. She knew that, and Monk had to be aware of it also. But they were allies in a cause which overrode personal wounds and losses. Rathbone had never turned down a case he believed in, however difficult or against whatever odds, and certainly not because it was brought to him by Monk.
She and Margaret would go to Vere Street and tell Oliver all that they knew. At least it would be a burden shared. Suddenly she knew how good it would feel to see him, to be aware of the warmth of his regard for her, and his trust.
Actually, it was after eleven o’clock before Hester and Margaret were ushered into Rathbone’s office with its beautiful leather inlaid desk and cabinets full of books, and the long windows overlooking the street.
Rathbone came forward toward Hester, smiling broadly. He was not much more than average height. His charm lay in the intelligence in his face, in his wry, delicate humor and the supreme confidence of his bearing. He was a gentleman, and he had the ease of privilege and education.
“Hester, what a pleasure to see you, even if it has to be a problem that brings you here,” he said sincerely. “Who is wrongly accused of what? I imagine it is murder? It usually is, with you.”
“Not yet,” she replied, warmth engulfing her just to hear the gentleness in his voice. She turned to introduce Margaret, and as he turned also she saw a sudden interest spark in his dark eyes, as if already he recognized her, or something in her that he was happy to see. “This is Miss Margaret Ballinger,” she said quickly. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”
Margaret drew in her breath to reply, a very faint flush in her cheeks.
“We have met already,” Rathbone said before Margaret could speak. “At a ball, I forget where, but we danced. It was just before that miserable business with the architect. It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Ballinger.” The expression in his face suggested that he was speaking honestly, not simply as a matter of good manners.
Margaret took a deep breath, just a trifle shakily. “Thank you for seeing us with no notice at all, Sir Oliver. It is very gracious of you.”
“Hester always brings me the most fascinating problems,” he demurred, inviting them with a gesture to sit down, and when they had done so, taking the seat behind the desk himself. “You said no one has been murdered yet. Should I deduce from that that you expect someone will be?” There was no mockery in his tone; it was light, but perfectly serious.
“Two people have been very badly injured, and more will be,” Hester said a fraction more quickly than she had meant to. She was aware that Rathbone was at least as conscious of Margaret as he was of her. She realized with a yawning hollow inside her how much of his life lay beyond her knowledge. The material facts of it did not matter, it was the wealth of people he knew, the emotions, the laughter and hurt, the dreams that were the man inside.
He was waiting for her to continue.
“Miss Ballinger and I have rented a house in Coldbath Square in which to offer medical treatment to women of the street who are injured or ill,” she said, ignoring the look in his eyes, the strange mixture of tenderness, admiration, and horror. “Lately at least two women have come in very seriously beaten,” she went on. “One of them has said that she used to be a governess, then married, and her husband led her into debt. She borrowed money, and then could not repay it.” She was speaking too quickly. Deliberately, she slowed herself. “The usurer offered her a position as a prostitute, catering to men who like to humiliate and abuse women who were once respectable.” She saw the disgust in his face. If he could have listened to her and felt nothing she would have despised him for it.
Rathbone glanced at Margaret, saw the anger in her, and something in him softened even further.
“Go on,” he said, turning back to Hester.
“I daresay you are aware that a Mr. Nolan Baltimore was murdered in Leather Lane just over a week ago?” she asked.
He nodded. “I am.”
“Since then the police have patrolled the area with more men than usual, with the result that there is far less trade possible for such women. They are earning little or no money, and cannot pay the usurer. They are being beaten for their delinquency in their debts.” Memory of the two women momentarily obliterated any sense of her own loneliness. She leaned forward earnestly. “Please, Oliver, there must be something we can do to stop it. They are far too terrified and ashamed to fight back for themselves.” She watched him struggle for something to say to let her down gently. She was asking too much. She would have liked to withdraw, be reasonable, but the reality of their pain burned too hotly inside her.
