Thirteen

Grandmother,” I asked as I nonchalantly buttered a roll at breakfast the next morning, “why did you not tell me that my mother associated with the Pre-Raphaelites?”

Her fork clattered to the floor. She stared at me, unbelieving. After summoning Richard to bring her another fork, she flicked her eyes once again at Mother’s portrait above us. Her eyes returned to me, and she said nothing.

Now I felt angered. I deserved the truth.

“Your estrangement from my mother was not only about her elopement with my father, was it?”

Richard returned with the fork.

“Thank you, Richard. Would you shut the door please?”

As soon as Richard left, Grandmother turned to me. I could tell that she was deciding how much to tell me. But then her eyes flashed angrily.

“I knew this would happen. I feared it. But I hoped that Rossetti woman would not know you were Caroline’s daughter, or that she would have the good sense not to bring up Caroline’s brief connections with them.” Her face quivered with rage. “Your mother’s interest in painting became particularly serious when she connected to that Pre-Raphaelite circle. It was a wild phase, one that I am convinced led her to her hasty elopement with that Frenchman, an amateur poet in the group.”

“You mean my father.”

At least, I had thought he was my father.

“Yes.” If her anger toward my mother had softened over the years, I could tell that Grandmother still bitterly hated my father. She was silent for another minute before continuing. Her eyes were glazed with tears.

“Abbie, you have no idea how tolerant I tried to be. I tolerated so much, until … ”

Her voice cracked and she paused.

“Until she eloped,” I said.

“No. Until I heard from a reliable source that she had modeled for a Rossetti painting.”

She had known! Grandmother was no fool; she would know that this implied a love affair between Mother and Gabriel.

“When I heard from my London circle that she had done this, you can imagine my horror and embarrassment. We argued late into the night. Your mother had never been so angry at me. I had never been so angry at her.” Grandmother paused, her thoughts elsewhere. “The next morning, Caroline had run away with Jacque Sharp.”

“Did she ever write to you after that?”

Grandmother said nothing.

“She did,” I said angrily. “She did. But you never wrote back until Sir Edgeworth sent you that note informing you that she was dying. She had disgraced you too much!”

When I saw the way Grandmother’s face contorted into grief, the venom of my words caused me to recoil. She had never looked so vulnerable. She was like a wounded animal.

I might as well have struck her in the face.

“Do you think I’m not paying for that?” she said, so softly I could barely hear her. “I see her every time I look at you.”

“But you still try to force me to live like you.”

“I have given you liberties, Arabella.” Here she wagged her finger at me. “Although I dislike it, I have allowed you to see this William Siddal, to go to the Rossetti house, and to work in that East End hospital, excessively and at strange and even obscene hours. I wish that you might see how difficult all of this is for me, after what I went through with your mother.”

Full tears fell from her eyes at that moment.

She stood up and took a few breaths to regain composure. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, left abruptly, and went upstairs.

It was Saturday, so I was not scheduled to work at the hospital that day.

Simon stopped by briefly in the late afternoon to take tea with me and to examine Jupe. Rain poured outside, pelting against the windows and the guttering. I had still not seen Grandmother since that morning. I felt bitterly angry toward her, but I also felt guilty for hurting her so badly. I had not expected her to cry. If she did not make an appearance at dinner, I would try to talk to her.

After tea, Ellen brought Jupe downstairs to the parlor. Simon cut away most of the bandages and pronounced the dog better, prescribing only plenty of rest.

“Although finding time to rest should not be a problem for Sir Jupe.” He smiled.

I smiled too, weakly. It was difficult to summon humor in that moment.

Simon had so far gracefully tried to ignore my glumness and Lady Westfield’s absence. But now he met my eyes. “Lady Westfield … ” he murmured.

“She is unwell.” I spoke too quickly, and I saw that Simon knew there was more to it.

We briefly discussed some hospital business. My spirits rose a little when he told me that he had weighed Lizzie that morning and that she had put on sufficient weight. He said that her survival was likely and that he did not think the nightly feedings were necessary any longer. Regarding other news, the victim Annie Chapman had been buried the day before. Simon had attended the small funeral and said that both Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Buck were there and were very gracious to her family.

Through the parlor window, I watched carriages slosh through great muddy puddles. Recalling my vision of Chapman’s naked body, I thought of all the surgeons who had been poking, prodding, and cutting at her during the post-mortem examinations.

“I’m glad that she’s finally buried, that she’s at peace now,” I said out loud, still watching the carriages.

“Yes, finally,” Simon said, his voice cool as running water. Although he was reserved at times, Simon’s friendship meant a great deal to me, and his demeanor was always calming even at the worst of times. I felt grateful for him now.

Grandmother did come down to dinner. She asked me about Jupe and wanted to know everything Simon had said about the little dog’s health, but she said nothing about what had happened between us that morning. During dinner, she talked as if everything was normal, and I said nothing about our confrontation. In spite of my anger, which I still felt was justified, I decided it would be best to follow her lead.

That night as I slept, I dreamt of Mother. I was a child again, and we were on an outing near a beach. The sun burned hot on my face, and the ocean roared in the distance. Mother stood on top a large dune, her face shaded by an enormous hat, and she smiled, beckoned for me to come to her. I climbed, but the sand kept slipping out from under my feet and fingers. After grabbing onto roots and snatches of grass, I finally made it to the top of the dune.

“Mother!” I called.

But she had disappeared, and although I scanned the horizon, I could not see her anywhere.

When I awoke, it was the early hours of the morning, and my face was wet with tears.

On a Thursday almost two weeks later, as I stepped out of the carriage to walk up the steps of Whitechapel Hospital, I noticed that the air seemed strangely muggy for a fall day. The sky that morning was bright pink streaked with dark clouds, dark like liver spots on aged skin.

The Times and other newspapers had been trying to maintain public interest in the recent murders; some journalists even claimed to have received letters and bloody souvenirs from the murderer. Furthermore, the papers went so far as to name the killer—Jack the Ripper. But there had been no more murders, and, because of this, I had only vaguely followed these stories. I thought that most were probably sensationalized, trumped up by journalists to sell papers. Even though the Ripper still lingered for many as a public menace, at least at Whitechapel Hospital the general environment in the wards seemed more relaxed.

I had continued to assist Dr. Bartlett in delivery and surgeries, taking in all the information that I could about organs, illnesses, and procedures. That particular morning, I attended a surgery of one of the second floor patients who had been afflicted by upper abdominal pain and fevers. She had been in a carriage accident shortly before coming to us, and William feared that she might have an undiagnosed broken or cracked rib that had possibly poked or punctured an organ, causing pain and infection.

William was the operating physician in this case, and, as in many surgeries, Dr. Bartlett stood nearby, saying very little but making himself available if William needed assistance. He also explained to me what was happening as William went along. Except for two assisting nurses, I was the only other person in the operating room.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” William said, frustrated when the rib proved to be merely cracked from the accident trauma.

I saw Dr. Bartlett watching William carefully from across the patient’s body. “Nothing, William?”

William stared into the woman’s open abdomen. I had watched him in many surgeries, and although skilled, sometimes he became flustered, missing something directly under his nose.

Fever. An infection must be going on. She had been in an accident, had experienced trauma. Upper abdominal pain. My mind ached as I sorted through all the information I could remember about her.

“Spleen,” I said quickly. “Have you checked her spleen? A ruptured spleen from the accident might have brought on bleeding and asplenia.”

Dr. Bartlett caught my eye across the bed and gave a small nod. “Check it, William.”

William probed a bit in the opening. “Ah-ha! Congratulations, Abbie Sharp. There is a small splenic rupture. Not serious, but the rupture might compromise her ability to fight infection, and there is a bit of bleeding. Here it is, Abbie, look. I don’t think we should take the spleen out … ”

William glanced up at Dr. Bartlett, who nodded in confirmation

“Will she be all right?” I asked.

William nodded as he prepared to close the abdominal opening. “If she can beat this infection. Taking out the spleen entirely seems excessive given the small size of the rupture, which is already healing. This bit of bleeding should cease and reabsorb soon, as long as she stays off her feet for a while. The pain should go away at that point, too.”

As William stitched the patient up, I saw Dr. Bartlett’s eyes settle upon me. The look was layered, undecipherable.