Marrying Winterborne (25 page)

“Oh yes.”

“Well, it couldn't have been very entertaining for you,” Cassandra said.

“No, indeed.” Helen glued her gaze back to the tin of powders, acutely conscious of Lady Berwick's silence.

The carriage arrived at Ravenel House, and the footman carried a towering stack of ivory boxes into the house with the dexterity of a carnival juggler. While the twins went up to their rooms, Lady Berwick informed the butler that she wanted tea brought to the parlor.

“Would you like some as well?” she asked Helen.

“No, thank you, I believe I'll retire early to bed.” Helen hesitated, gathering her nerves. “May I speak with your ladyship?”

“Of course. Come into the parlor with me.” They entered the room, which was cold despite the fire on the grate. Lady Berwick sat on the chaise and shivered. “Give the fire a stir, if you will.”

Helen went to the hearth, picked up a poker, and prodded the coals until she had built up a cheerful blaze. Holding her hands near the flooding heat, she said sheepishly, “About my disappearance with Mr. Winterborne—”

“There is no need to explain. I approve.”

Helen gave her a stupefied glance. “You—you do?”

“I told you in this very parlor that you must do whatever is necessary to marry Mr. Winterborne. In other circumstances, I would object strenuously, of course. But if allowing him liberties will bind him closer to you and make the marriage more of a certainty, I am willing to look the other way. A wise chaperone accepts that one must occasionally lose the battle to win the war.”

Nonplussed, Helen said, “You are remarkably . . .”
ruthless.
“. . . practical, my lady.”

“We must use the means we have at our disposal.” Lady Berwick looked resigned. “It's often said that a woman's weapon is her tongue . . . but it's far from our only one.”

I
N THE MORNING, A
penny-post letter came for Helen while Lady Berwick was breakfasting in her room and the twins were still abed.

As the butler brought the envelope to her on a silver tray, Helen saw in a glance that it was from Ada Tapley. Her hand trembled as she picked it up. “I would prefer that you not mention this letter to anyone.”

The butler gave her an impassive glance. “Yes, my lady.”

Waiting until he had left the morning room, Helen opened the gummed envelope and took out the letter. Her gaze sped over the crookedly penned lines.

Milady,

You wrote to ask about the babe they gave me to raise. I named her Charity to remind her she might be set out on the street except for the pity of others, and she must try to be deserving. She was always a good girl what gave me no trouble, but the payments for her upkeep weren't enough. I asked every year for an increase, and they never gave so much as a farthing extra. Five months ago I had no choice but to send her to the Stepney Orphans Asylum at St. George-in-the-East.

I wrote to the solicitor to say I would fetch her back if he would make it worth my while, but no reply never came. I pray someday there'll be a hard judgment on the heartless old screw for letting the poor child end in such a place. Since she never had no family name, they call her Charity Wednesday, on account that's the day I sent her there. If there is anything you can do for the girl, bless you for it. She's a sore burden on my conscience.

Yours Truly,

Ada Tapley

Helen was grateful that she hadn't yet eaten breakfast. She wouldn't have been able to keep it down after reading the letter. Springing from her chair, she walked back and forth with one hand pressed to her mouth.

Her little half sister was completely alone, and had been for months, in an institution where she might have been starved and abused, or become ill.

Although Helen had never believed herself to be capable of violence, she wanted to kill Albion Vance in the most painful way possible. She wished it were possible to kill a man multiple times—she would
enjoy
making him suffer.

At the moment, however, she had to think only of Charity. The child had to be removed from the orphan's asylum immediately. A home must be found for her, a place where she would be treated with kindness.

First, Helen had to find out if the little girl had even survived this long.

She tried to push away the panic and fury long enough to think clearly. She had to go to the Stepney orphanage, find Charity, and bring her to Ravenel House.
What were the rules for removing a child from such an institution? Was it possible to do it without having to give her real name?

She needed help.

But who could she go to? Not Rhys, and certainly not Lady Berwick, who would tell her to forget the child's existence. Kathleen and Devon were too far away. West had told her to send for him if she needed him, but even though she would trust him implicitly with her own life, Helen wasn't sure how he would react to this. It had not escaped her that West had a streak of ruthless pragmatism, not unlike Lady Berwick.

She thought of Dr. Gibson, who had told her,
“You're welcome to send for me if you need a friend, for any reason.”
Had she meant it? Could she be counted on?

It was a risk. Dr. Gibson was employed by Rhys, and she might go to him directly. Or she might refuse to become involved, fearing his disapproval. But then Helen remembered the woman's incisive green eyes and brisk, independent manner, and thought,
she fears nothing
. Moreover, Dr. Gibson was familiar with London, and had been inside an orphanage before, and must know something about how they were run.

Although Helen was reluctant to test a friendship before it had even started, Garrett Gibson was her best chance to save Charity. And for some reason, based on nothing but instinct, she felt sure that Dr. Gibson would help her.

“W
HY DO YOU
wish to see a doctor?” Lady Berwick asked, looking up from the writing desk in her room. “Another headache?”

“No ma'am,” Helen said, standing at the threshold. “It's a female complaint.”

The countess's lips pursed like the closure of a drawstring reticule. For a woman who discussed the breeding and reproduction of horses with ease, she was surprisingly uncomfortable when talking about the same processes in the human species. Unless it was in the small, exclusive circle of her society friends. “Have you tried the hot water bottle?”

Helen considered how to put it delicately. “I suspect that I may be ‘in a situation.'”

Lady Berwick's face went blank. With great care, she set her writing pen back in its holder. “If this concern is a result of your rendezvous with Mr. Winterborne the other night, it is far too soon to tell if there is fruit on the vine.”

Lowering her gaze to the patterned carpet, Helen said carefully, “I understand. However . . . Mr. Winterborne and I had another, much earlier rendezvous.”

“Do you mean to say that you and he . . .”

“Upon our engagement,” Helen admitted.

The countess regarded her with resigned exasperation. “
Welshmen
,” she exclaimed. “Any one of them could talk his way past a chastity belt. Come into the room, child. This isn't a subject to be shouted from the threshold.” After Helen had complied, she asked, “Your regular monthly illness has ceased?”

“I believe so.”

After considering the situation, Lady Berwick began to look somewhat pleased. “If you are in the family way, your marriage to Winterborne is practically a
fait accompli
. I will send for Dr. Hall, who attends my daughter Bettina.”

“Your ladyship is very kind, but I have already sent a note to request an appointment with Dr. Gibson, at her earliest convenience.”

The countess frowned. “Who is he?”

“Dr. Gibson is a woman. I met her on Monday evening at Winterborne's.”

“No, no, that won't do. Females are not meant to be doctors—they lack scientific understanding and coolness of nerve. One cannot trust a woman with a matter as important as childbirth.”

“Ma'am,” Helen said, “my sense of modesty would be less offended by a lady doctor's examination than one performed by a man.”

Huffing indignantly, Lady Berwick lifted a beseeching gaze to the heavens. Returning her gaze to Helen, she said dourly, “Dr. Gibson may attend you here.”

“I'm afraid I must go to her private office, in her residence at King's Cross.”

The countess's brows shot upward. “She will not examine you in the privacy of your own home?”

“She keeps all the latest scientific and medical equipment at her office,” Helen said, recalling Rhys's description of it when he'd told her about Dr. Gibson treating his dislocated shoulder. “Including a special table. And a lamp with a concentrated light reflector.”

“That is very strange indeed,” the countess said darkly. “A male doctor would have the decency to close his eyes during the examination.”

“Dr. Gibson is modern.”

“It would seem so.” Lady Berwick, who harbored deep suspicion of anything modern, frowned. “Very well.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Filled with unutterable relief, Helen fled the room before the countess could change her mind.

A
N APPOINTMENT WAS
secured for the next afternoon at four. In her growing agitation, Helen had hardly been
able to sleep that night. By the time she finally crossed the front threshold of Dr. Gibson's house, she was exhausted and fraught with nerves.

“I'm here on false pretenses,” she blurted out as Dr. Gibson welcomed her into the narrow, three-level Georgian terrace.

“Are you?” Dr. Gibson asked, seeming unperturbed. “Well, you're welcome to visit no matter what the reason.”

A plump, round-faced housemaid appeared in the small entrance. “Shall I take your coat, milady?”

“No, I can't stay long.”

Dr. Gibson regarded Helen with a quizzical smile, her green eyes alert. “Shall we talk for a few minutes in the parlor?”

“Yes.” Helen followed her into a tidy, pleasant room, simply furnished with a settee and two chairs upholstered in blue and white, and two small tables. The only picture on the wall was a painting of geese parading by a country cottage with a rose trellis, a soothing image because it reminded Helen of Hampshire. A mantel clock gave four delicate chimes.

Dr. Gibson took a chair beside Helen's. In the parchment-colored light from the front window, she appeared disconcertingly young despite her presence of manner. She was as clean and well-scrubbed as a schoolgirl, her maple-brown hair pinned in a neatly controlled chignon. Her slim form was clad in a severe unadorned dress of forest green that verged upon black.

“If you're not here as a patient, my lady,” Dr. Gibson said, “what can I do for you?”

“I need help with a private matter. I thought you would be the best person to approach, as the situation
is . . . complicated.” Helen paused. “I would prefer this to be kept confidential.”

“You have my word.”

“I want to find out about a child's welfare. My chaperone, Lady Berwick, has a nephew who sired a child out of wedlock and abandoned his responsibility for her. The little girl is four years old. It seems that five months ago, she was sent to the Stepney orphan asylum in the parish of St. George-in-the East.”

Dr. Gibson frowned. “I know of that area. It's a perfect bear pit. Certain parts are unsafe even during the day.”

Helen wove her gloved fingers together into a little snarl. “Nevertheless, I have to find out if Charity is there.”

“That's her name?”

“Charity Wednesday.”

Dr. Gibson's mouth quirked. “There's an institutional name if I've ever heard one.” Her gaze turned questioning. “Shall I go there on your behalf? I won't mention your name, of course. If Charity is there, I'll find out her condition and report it back to you. I'm sure I could make time to go tomorrow or the next day.”

“Thank you, that is very generous of you, but . . . I must go today.” Helen paused. “Even if you cannot.”

“Lady Helen,” Dr. Gibson said quietly, “it's no place for a gently bred woman. It exists at a level of human misery that would prove very distressing to someone who has led a sheltered life.”

Helen understood that the words were kindly meant, but they stung just the same. She was not delicate or weak-minded—she had already decided that she would muster whatever strength was necessary to do what
had to be done. “I'll manage,” she said. “If a four-year-old child has survived in such a place, I daresay I can endure one visit.”

“Could you not approach Mr. Winterborne? A man with his resources—”

“
No
, I don't want him to know about this.”

Struck by Helen's vehemence, Dr. Gibson regarded her with a speculative gaze. “Why must you be the one to handle this situation? Why would you take such a risk for a child who has only a slight connection to you?”

Helen was silent, afraid to reveal too much.

The other woman waited patiently. “If I am to help you, Lady Helen,” she said after a moment, “you must trust me.”

“My connection to the child is . . . more than slight.”

“I see.” The doctor paused before asking gently, “Is the child in fact yours? I wouldn't judge you in the least for it, many women make mistakes.”

Helen flushed deeply. She forced herself to look directly at Dr. Gibson. “Charity is my half sister. Her father, Mr. Vance, had an affair with my mother long ago. Seducing and abandoning women is something of a sport to him.”

“Ah,” Dr. Gibson said softly. “So it is with many men. I see the vicious consequences of such sport, if we're to call it that, whenever I visit the women and children who are suffering in workhouses. To my mind, castration would be the ideal solution.” She gave Helen a measuring glance. Appearing to make a decision, she stood abruptly. “Let's be off, then.”

Helen blinked. “You'll go with me? Now?”

“I certainly can't let you do it alone. It would behoove us to leave at once. Daylight will start to wane
at a quarter past six. We'll have to send your driver and footman home and hire a hansom. It would be foolhardy to take a fine carriage to the place we're going, and I doubt your footman would allow you to set one foot outside it, once he has a glimpse of the area.”

Helen followed her from the room to the hallway.

“Eliza,” Dr. Gibson called out. The plump housemaid reappeared. “I'm going out for the rest of the afternoon.” The maid helped her into her coat. “Look after my father,” Dr. Gibson continued, “and don't let him have sweets.” Glancing at Helen, she said in a quick aside, “They play havoc with his digestion.”

“I never do, Dr. Gibson,” the housemaid protested. “We keep hiding 'em, but he sneaks past us and finds 'em anyway.”

Dr. Gibson frowned, putting on her hat and tugging on a pair of gloves. “I expect you to pay closer attention. For goodness' sake, he's as subtle as a war elephant when he comes down the stairs.”

“He's light-footed when he's after sweets,” the maid said defensively.

Turning to the hall tree, Dr. Gibson pulled out her walking stick by its curved handle, and caught it smartly in midair. “We may have need of this,” she said with the satisfaction of a well-armed woman on a mission. “Onward, my lady.”