Page 25

She was at once disappointed, embarrassed, and angry.

The pendulum had swung again, and this time, she thought, it had swung too far.

Every time his mercurial moods made him turn from her, it hurt a little more.

But now they had been intimate—truly intimate.

His finger had been inside her. When he ignored her now, it was crushing, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

No more.

There would be no next time. Even as she articulated the thought, she was aware it wasn’t the first time she’d made the declaration. But this time, she meant it. This time, she’d shield herself—heart, body, and mind—from whatever strange things Alistair Crawford did to them.

Violet alighted from Esmee’s carriage in front of Nowhere, and the door opened without her having to knock. Esmee again stood at its entrance.

“I hope you’re ready,” she said. “We’ve a crowd.”

Violet swallowed back the nervousness that had been making itself known in her belly and held her head high.

“I’m ready.”

She followed Esmee down the long, dark corridor and into the bar that was packed wall to wall with those in need of medical attention.

Violet stared for just a moment, gathering her wits. The patients were all crowded together, those who might be carrying spreadable diseases like diphtheria and influenza side by side with those who needed their bones set or cuts sewn.

“Oh, no,” Violet whispered.

“Is it too many?” Esmee asked. “I didn’t realize so many would come.”

“No,” Violet said. “But we’ll need help. And organization. Send a note to anyone you can think of with a degree of common sense and a pair of capable hands and get them down here right away. As soon as possible, Esmee.”

Then Violet put her head down and began to work. She cataloged each patient by age, degree of malady, and pain encountered, and she cordoned off those she suspected to be contagious in different rooms.

She began with the most serious cases, setting bones and sewing stitches, and then moved on to the new mothers, telling them they must eat to keep up their strength and should not give all available food to their husband and children.

“For what,” she asked, “would their family do without them?”

“And what,” a voice asked, startling her out of her concentration, “do you plan to eat?”

Violet looked up, although she knew who it was already. Her body could always sense Alistair’s presence. He was standing in front of her, slipping a hot buttered roll into her hand.

“I apologize for being late,” he said. “I stopped for refreshments.”

“Thank you. But you aren’t late. Esmee would barely have had time to reach you.”

“I didn’t come because Esmee called.” Alistair stepped closer to her. “I came for you. I’ve been planning on it all week.”

The words were warm and whispered and lit up the vertebrae in Violet’s spine.

“Why?” she asked, eating her roll quickly.

She needed to get back to work—the patients had not stopped coming since they’d opened the doors that morning to an already massive crowd.

But she couldn’t bring herself to leave until she knew why he’d ignored her this week.

She’d missed him and was angry with herself because she knew better and still missed him.

Alistair’s brow furrowed. “Would you rather I not be here?”

“No,” Violet said. “Stay. I want you to stay. But—”

She watched as he removed his overcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt, revealing two bronzed forearms.

“But what?” he asked. “I’m here to help, Violet.”

Violet looked down, embarrassed. Alistair reached out with his hand and tilted her chin up. “Look at me,” he said. “But what?”

“Where were you this week?” she blurted out with less finesse than she might have hoped.

“You missed me.” He grinned his wolfish grin before his face became more serious. “I was working, Violet. I need you to understand that I—”

“Hey, Doc,” somebody called from the ever-growing line of patients. “You going to work today or what?”

“I have to go,” Violet said, turning from him.

She knew her cheeks were still flushed from the heat of her embarrassment. Or from the overwarm room packed with ailing bodies. Or from whatever it was that Alistair Crawford did to her senses.

“I’ll stay, Violet,” he called after her. “If you’ll have me.”

Violet only nodded and pointed to the lye wash. “Wash your hands,” she said and went back to work.

The minutes and hours flew past, with Alistair right by her side. They fell into an easy rhythm, seeing as many of Covent Garden’s sick and destitute as possible while the hours wound their way toward evening.

Violet called for bandages, scissors, iodine, salve, and Alistair handed her whatever she needed. As nighttime drew closer, he could almost read her mind, holding out the linen for a bandage before she’d even uttered a word.

“Send a note to Catherine,” she said at some point to Esmee, “and tell her I’ll not be home for dinner.”

She presumed it was done but didn’t verify because she could see now, for the first time all day, the patient standing quietly at the end of the line.

She would get to him before she retired for the evening, no matter how long she had to work or how tired she became. She’d see every last one of them.

Her hands were trembling with fatigue when she reached the last man, who had upon inspection a rotten tooth that needed to be pulled.

“Would you oblige?” she asked Alistair, and he did, using a piece of string and his formidable bicep to yank the infected tooth out of the man’s mouth in one swift pull.

And then she slumped into the nearest booth and, for the first time that day, she looked around her.

Esmee was there, her red hair neatly braided down her back.

She’d been the one who’d separated the patients according to Violet’s instructions and, Violet realized, the one who had been slipping the food Alistair had brought into her hands all day so that she wouldn’t have to quit working to feed herself.

McGann was there, of course. He’d set the bones as she’d instructed and performed other duties where brawn was needed.

And Alistair, who had worked by her side with quiet, compassionate diligence. He’d been near to her all day, providing extra light or supplies, carrying those who could not walk to and fro, and keeping order in the various sick bays if Violet’s would-be patients felt they had been waiting too long.

It felt so natural, the way their bodies shared space and the way they’d worked hand in hand. Today, he’d reminded her in so many ways of her brother, James, and the long days they’d spent in each other’s company, riding and shooting and quietly exploring Manhattan together.

She looked around at the trio of faces surrounding her and was so overwhelmed by gratitude on top of her hunger and exhaustion that she was at a loss for words.

It was Esmee who spoke first. “Our kitchen’s a mess for tonight,” she said. “I’ll just go wrangle something for supper while you two get your bearings and rest. Andrew, come with me.”

“Aye, mistress,” McGann said with a grin and a tip of his cap to Alistair and Violet.

Violet still said nothing while the siblings exited, one red-headed and one with jet black hair. And then it was just she and Alistair left alone in the tavern.

“You were magnificent today,” he said.

“What were you going to tell me?” she asked. “Before. When I asked you where you’d been all week.”

She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed and then a shadow of resolution pass across his features.

“I was working,” he said, “to find the funding for the shipping and trading company that McGann and I will start together. I am going to ask my father to invest. McGann had an altogether different plan. He was to—”

Alistair stopped speaking sharply, his head jerking up. Violet turned to see what he was staring at and found a small, ragged-looking boy standing in the doorway.

“Is this the clinic?” the child asked.

“It is,” Violet said at the same time that Alistair asked, “How can we help you, sir?”

“I ain’t a sir,” the boy said solemnly, and Violet suppressed her smile. “We need a doctor. Or my sister does. If you can come right away, gov?”

Violet stepped forward, ignoring the itchy film of sweat that clung to her beneath her heavy work gown and her aching feet.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asked.

“She’s having a baby,” the boy said. “But it ain’t happening right.”

Violet blanched but tried to hide it. Childbirth was exceptionally dangerous. Once it had gone wrong, it was nearly impossible to set right again.

“And?” she asked the boy. “What more?”

“There’s nothin’ more. That’s the problem. She’s been having the babe for over a day now and he ain’t come out.”

Violet closed her eyes for a moment and sent up a prayer.

“I’ll get my bag,” she said. “We must hurry.”