No Cure for Love (31 page)

The nails of Robert’s fingers dug painfully into the palms of his hands. He and William had been friends a long time, but just at that moment Robert had to hold back the urge to smash his fist into William’s stern face. Ellen might have been asleep, but he doubted she was now.

‘I am going to marry Ellen,’ Robert said with cool deliberation.

William shook his head. ‘Think, man, think. All your brilliance as a doctor, teacher and reformer will be lost if you marry Ellen.’

‘You are exaggerating,’ Robert said, spotting the top of Ellen’s head over the high back of the chair.

‘Have you got your invitation to the Annual Chief Physician’s Address at the College yet?’ William asked Robert with a tight smile.

‘No. Not yet,’ Robert answered.

‘Davies has.’ William crossed his arms across his chest. ‘So has Sir William Lawrence from Bart’s. Even St John, Young, Benthan and Maltravers had theirs delivered last week, so where is yours?’

‘I expect it will arrive any day,’ Robert said, sounding too defensive for his liking.

William raised his eyebrow. ‘Has Viscount Wickford agreed to be the patron of your new dockland surgery yet?’

‘I understand he has been engaged on his estates since he returned from Italy,’ Robert replied. William raised his eyebrow higher and lifted one side of his mouth. ‘What are you implying?’ Robert went on.

‘The rumours about your planned nuptials have reached beyond the hospital, Munroe. It’ll be whispered in the salons of London soon and then in the corridors of Westminster.’ William lifted both hands, palms upwards’ and shrugged. ‘Quite simply, old man,’ he looped his hat off its holding peg, ‘you can argue all you like but if you marry Ellen O’Casey you’ll be utterly ruined.’

 

Ellen had heard the heated exchanged between Robert and William. When she awoke and realised that it was William in the room she had almost made her presence known, but when she heard what he was saying, she remained still in her hiding place.

After being discharged as fit from the hospital, Ellen had followed Josie to Mr Cooper’s house and now lodged with them. Robert was a frequent visitor but they were never alone. In order not to scandalise the Reverend and his family, Ellen came to Robert’s room. Over the past weeks, after all the statements and interviews with the police, it had become a haven for them from the outside world. That world was now breaking in.

The door closed. Ellen swung her legs around and sat up.

Robert came around and took her hands. ‘Ellen, I’m sorry.’

She forced a bright smile onto her face. ‘I don’t blame Mr Chafford. He is only saying the same things I’ve said all along.’

Robert rested his hand on the mantelshelf, scowling into the fire.

‘Oh, Robert, I urged you to be discreet,’ she said. She stood up and laid her hand gently on his arm. ‘Didn’t you notice the sly looks from your colleagues when they came into the room or the whispered gossip of the nurses who tended me?’

Robert gave her an indulgent smile. ‘You’re being oversensitive,’ he said turning away from the fireplace. ‘A bit of hospital gossip...’

‘It’s more than “a bit of hospital gossip” if you are being snubbed by the College of Physicians.’

He waved the thought away airily. ‘I am sure the invitation will be forthcoming.’

Although his tone was light Ellen could see that Mr Chafford’s words had taken root.

‘Mr Chafford is right. Have you really thought what our marrying will mean to you, to your work?’ Ellen asked.

‘Since I saw you lying as near to death as I ever want to see you, I have thought. I have thought constantly of what it would mean to me not to have you by my side,’ he said drawing her to him.

‘But if—’

He put his index finger onto her lips to stop her words.

‘If?’ he asked.

‘When,’ Ellen answered.

‘I love you. God, how I love you.’

Forgetting William’s words, Ellen surrendered to Robert’s embrace.

As they lay exhausted in each other’s arms, Ellen gently moved a stray lock of sweat-dampened hair from Robert’s forehead. He hugged her then lay still, kissing her shoulders occasionally, but otherwise content to do nothing. His eyes were closed peacefully.

How could she not marry this man? She bit her lip.

But his work and position? Maybe there was another way. A small house where he could visit her. Maybe they could marry in secret?

Robert shifted up onto one elbow. He was silent for a long moment, then spoke.

‘I can’t lie to you, Ellen. William is right. I had started to believe society would judge a man by his achievements, not by who his father was.’ He fell silent again for a moment. Where his body touched hers it was tense. Even in the soft light, the tight lines around Robert’s mouth and his eyes were clearly visible. ‘I am afraid that I have hoped for too much.’

An icy hand crept over Ellen’s heart as she thought of his work. It had been his driving passion. It still was. But now he was on the brink of losing it all for love of her.

‘Maybe you ask too much,’ Ellen said softly.

He looked down at her and gave her a ghost of a smile. ‘I don’t think it is too much to ask of my peers that they regard a woman who has retained her virtue and dignity while battling against unbelievable poverty as a fitting wife for anyone.’

Ellen reached up and traced a finger along Robert’s jaw. ‘Maybe you ask too much for them to accept a Roman Catholic Irish immigrant who takes in washing and sings in a tavern as a fitting wife for one of the most eminent physicians in the land.’

‘If society changes its regard for me, and some shut their doors on us after we marry, then so be it. I care nothing for their opinion. All I care about is having you as my wife.’

‘Could we keep our plans to marry a secret?’

Robert’s frown returned. ‘Why?’

‘Because of ... of ... because of the trial,’ she said feebly.

The frown disappeared again. ‘But what has that got to do with our marriage?’

‘You are one of the main witnesses,’ she said, light-headed at her sudden inspiration. ‘And you know that Danny’s barrister will bring up your association with me as a way of discrediting you. But it won’t be as bad for you, if I am portrayed as your mistress.’

‘Ellen, I—’

‘You having a mistress will not affect how the judge or the jury regard your evidence. After all, it is the way of things. I expect the judge and the barristers all have a little woman tucked away somewhere.’

Robert sat up. ‘I won’t have your good name dragged through the mud, Ellen.’

‘Robert, my love, my heart, my life,’ Ellen said, taking hold of his hand and kissing the tips of his fingers. ‘Supper-room singers don’t have a good name. But physicians with the ear of the Home Secretary do.’

Robert’s mouth took on a hard, stubborn line as he glared at her. Ellen now sat up, pulling the sheet around her.

‘Robert,’ she said, in a voice she often used to Josie to make her see the truth of a matter. ‘If you stand up in that court and tell the world that you intend to marry me there will be uproar. The judge and the jury will think you at best eccentric and at worst insane. All your evidence will be regarded in that light.’

She watched anxiously as her words sank in. He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger a couple of times. She held her breath. If Robert agreed to wait until after the trial before making their intention to marry public, it might stop some of the gossip that was already ruining his reputation. She waited.

‘You’re right. Any lawyer worth his sovereigns would have a field day with our relationship.’ Another long pause. ‘I have sworn to see Danny Donovan brought to justice and I will. And although I abhor the need for subterfuge, I agree.’

Ellen let out a heavy sigh.

Robert caught her chin gently with his thumb and forefinger and turned her head up to him. His dark eyes were warm as they gazed down at her. ‘But understand this, when the trial is over, I am going to make you Mrs Robert Munroe, before the month is out and no argument. Agree?’

‘Agree,’ she answered.

How could she say otherwise? With Robert’s love swamping her senses Ellen’s mind gave up the struggle to argue. And as Robert rolled her over and covered her mouth and her body with his, she gave up thinking. She lost herself in Robert’s arms and there was no reputation, no work, no society, only a woman and the man she loved.

‘Thank you Mrs O’Casey, those are all the questions I have,’ Mr Hewitt, the prosecuting barrister, said as he returned to his seat.

Ellen moistened her lips with her tongue and swallowed. She had stood already for an hour in the Number One court in the Old Bailey answering the questions of the prosecution while a hushed court hung on her every word. Now it was the turn of the defence.

All murmuring ceased as the jury, court officials and spectators waited for Mr Smyth-Hilton, the famous - some would say infamous - defence barrister to begin his cross-examination.

She had already laid her hand on the Bible and sworn to tell the truth, but as the gaunt man in the black gown and powdered wig approached, sweat trickled down Ellen’s spine. Under the heat of the four brass candelabra that hung from the ceiling above, Ellen actually thought she was going to faint. With a small prayer for courage she squared her shoulders.

‘Mrs O’Casey,’ Mr Smyth-Hilton said, a condescending smile crossing his lips. ‘Is that the kind of “Mrs” play actresses adopt?’

Several titters could be heard in the spectators’ gallery. Robert sat among them. He had given evidence on day one when the charges of corruption and embezzlement were being heard and now, in his charcoal grey frock coat, that she had brushed and buttoned herself that morning, he sat giving her his love and support while she faced Mr Smyth-Hilton.

‘No. I am a widow,’ Ellen replied, her voice a-quiver with nerves.

All eyes in the body of the court and the spectator gallery were on her and to her left was Judge Beecham who, in his black gown and with his deeply etched face, looked more like a member of the Spanish Inquisition than a dispenser of the King’s justice.

‘For how long?’

‘Ten years.’

‘Ten years,’ Smyth-Hilton exclaimed, his thin eyebrows shooting up into his powdered wig. ‘A pretty young woman like you a respectable widow? Has no other man in all those long years alone ever taken your fancy, Mrs O’Casey?’ he asked, with a sly look at the jury.

‘No,’ Ellen said, as her mind went to Robert above her.

Again the incredulous look which included the jury. ‘Never?’

‘Objection,’ Mr Hewitt barked, as he jumped to his feet.

‘Sustained,’ a voice boomed from the left. ‘I fail to see what Mrs O’Casey’s widowhood has to do with the case at hand, Mr Smyth-Hilton,’ Judge Beecham said, looking down at the defence barrister below him.

Smyth-Hilton bowed.

‘Mr Daniel Donovan is charged with attempting to murder you on the night of the fourteenth of September,’ Smyth-Hilton stated.

Ellen stole a glance at Danny, who stood facing her behind an iron bar, shackled hand and foot between two sturdy-looking jailers. A mirror was placed to show every crease in his face to the jury. When he first entered the courtroom three days ago he was his usual swaggering self, waving to his supporters and acting the rough but honest businessman. He had acted outraged as the list of charges against him was read and emphatically pleaded not guilty to all of them. But now, after hearing witness after witness testify against him, he just stood there, his mouth twisted in a sneer of hatred, and his ice-blue eyes like dagger points as they fixed on Ellen. She shivered and looked back at the barrister questioning her.

‘He did, and would have succeeded had not my daughter returned home,’ Ellen said forcefully. Her nervousness had faded a little after Judge Beecham’s intervention.

‘Would you tell the jury what your connection with Danny Donovan is, Mrs O’Casey.’

‘I sang in his supper rooms.’

‘And where, pray, are these supper rooms?’ the barrister asked, leaning back and looking at his fingernails.

‘In the Angel and Crown, the Town of Ramsgate and occasionally at the White Swan.’

Smyth-Hilton stood up and his mouth dropped open. ‘Are not the places you sing in public houses?’

‘They are.’

‘I understand they are also frequented by prostitutes looking for clients.’

Around the court tutting could be heard. In the gallery Ellen could see some smartly dressed women shake their heads and purse their lips.

‘Yes,’ Ellen said reluctantly, thinking of the poor women who earned a few coppers selling the only commodity they had.

‘Mrs O’Casey,’ Smyth-Hilton exclaimed in an astonished voice, looking around the court. ‘You, a
respectable
widow, associating with prostitutes?’

Danny sniggered. Her cheeks now burned as she saw the barrister look her up and down in a frank way.

‘I had to earn a living,’ she answered without thinking, then cursed herself for her hot temper. Inspector Jackson had warned her that Smyth-Hilton would try to make her angry. And he was certainly doing that.

‘Of course. And Mr Donovan helped you earn a living, did he not?’ Smyth-Hilton asked.

‘Well, yes.’

‘You came to him and asked him for a job singing.’

‘Yes, yes, I’d—’

Smyth-Hilton moved into the middle of the court and asked. ‘Had you ever sung on stage before?’

‘No.’

‘So although you had never sung before, Mr Donovan gave you a job. And you ask us to believe that this man, who had helped you out of the kindness of his heart, tried to murder you.’

‘It wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart he gave me a job,’ Ellen said, again letting her tongue run away with her.

An expression of confusion creased the barrister’s face. ‘Why else would he give you a job?’