Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5) (12 page)

It had taken some persuading to convince Elizabeth that she shouldn't come along. A woman like her in a place like that would draw far too much attention. Finally, she'd seen the wisdom in it, although knowing it was the right approach did little to calm her frustration. After listening to a diatribe on the general failings of men as a gender, Simon had promised he'd be careful, and set off to the seedier side of town.

Watching the drunk weave his way down the street, he knew he had certainly found it.

Simon pushed open the swinging door and walked into the smoky main room. It was as he'd expected, as he'd feared it would be. Despite it being a large room, the stench of stale beer and spilled whisky assaulted him. Smoke curled up toward the rafters and the second floor landing. Two men slept with their heads resting on the tables between cards scattered from last night's game, while a few others sat on stools along the long wooden bar, drinking and commiserating. Two women wearing tired expressions and tired dresses leaned against the far end of the bar waiting for fresh meat. They both perked up at the sight of him.

Simon steeled himself as they sharpened their claws in anticipation of a rich meal. He smiled and approached them. “Ladies.”

They both giggled. “You're an English man, ain't ya?” the bleached blonde said with wide eyes that were so painfully delighted and ravenous at his presence it was a wonder they didn't roll out of her head.

“Yes,” he said. “Guilty.”

They giggled again and Simon smiled.

“You must be lonely so far from home 'n all?” the other said as her fingers walked up his chest.

“I am hoping for company,” he admitted and then, as her eyes lit up hastily added, “to talk.”

“Oh sure,” the blonde said with a knowing grin at her friend. “We can talk and things.”

Both girls were barely out of their teens and unlikely to know Alice's history. “You're not quite my type,” Simon said.

The brunette laughed while the blonde huffed and then smiled again, saccharine sweet. “I can be anything you want, honey.”

“He said you ain't his type,” the brunette said, practically shoving the other girl out of the way and stepping close to Simon, resting her hand on his chest.

“Neither of you,” Simon said, “are quite what I'm looking for. Is there someone older?”

“If it's experience you're lookin' for,” the brunette said as her hand wandered down his chest and toward his pants, “I can do things you ain't never dreamed of.”

Simon stilled her hand and pulled it away. “I'm looking for someone more mature?”

“Don't be in such a hurry, honey,” the brunette said again. “I'm older than I look.”

“Please—”

“Can I help you?” Simon turned as a woman in her early thirties was coming down the stairs. She caught the eyes of the two girls and jerked her head to the side. “Beat it.”

Judging from how hastily the two girls left and hurried over to the other men in the bar, this woman was in charge. The older woman slowly walked down the last set of stairs, sizing up Simon with each step. The slow predatory smile that spread across her face told him she liked what she saw.

“My name's Genevieve,” she said, holding her hand out. “Maybe I can help you.”

Simon took her hand and bowed slightly.

She smiled seductively and cocked her head to the side in anticipation.

“Have you worked here long?” Simon asked.

Her smile tightened and the veil of her pretense fell. “If it's a virgin you're lookin' for mister, you come to the wrong place.”

“No,” Simon said, feeling his neck color in embarrassment and anger at the awkwardness of his situation. “Is there somewhere we can continue this? Somewhere with a bit more privacy?”

Genevieve's eyes flashed at the prospect of a well-heeled client. “I have a room upstairs.”

Simon inclined his head and Genevieve showed him the way. He could feel the eyes of the other girls watching as they ascended the stairs, but did his best to ignore them. Genevieve led him along the second story landing and down a hall. She opened the door to a room and stepped inside. Simon followed her in and closed the door behind them.

“You want a drink first?” she asked holding up a half-empty bottle.

“No, thank you.”

Simon glanced around the sparse room. The wallpaper had long faded and begun to peel along the seams. Curtains that might have been bright red velvet were no more than a dull pink now. A small dresser with a tarnished mirror, a single wooden chair and an unmade bed were the only furniture.

“What do you like?” she asked, turning to face him and unlacing the front of her bodice. “It might be extra—”

It took Simon a moment to realize she was beginning to undress. “Please, don't.”

She arched an eyebrow and shrugged, then hefted up her heavy skirts and put one foot on the chair. “I can keep 'em on, but it's more fun—”

“I'm here to talk, not…”

She let her leg fall to the floor and frowned. “Look, mister—”

Simon hurriedly took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He held it out to her. “Just talk.”

She looked hungrily at the money and then again at him, sure there was some catch, some trick. Apparently, it didn't matter in the end. She snatched the money and stuffed it down the front of her dress.

“I'm looking for information about another girl who used to work here. Alice Stewart.”

Genevieve poured herself a few fingers of whisky. “Yeah?”

“I'm hoping you might be able to tell me something about her.”

She drank down half the glass. “What's to tell? She worked here and now she don't.”

“Did you know her?”

She shrugged. “She worked here when I was just comin' on. She was all right. Better than that lot down there,” she said with a nod toward the door.

“Do you know anything about her child, Mary?”

“She's dead.”

Simon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, I heard.”

Genevieve finished her glass and poured another. “You sure you—”

Simon thought it might make her feel comfortable and accepted a small glass. He took a sip. It was noxious and burned all the way down.

“Why are you so interested in Alice?”

Simon pulled out his wallet again and put a ten-dollar bill on the bed next to him. “Does it matter?”

She shrugged and took the money. “She worked here, like I said. She got pregnant with the kid and left.”

“Any idea who the father was?”

Genevieve arched both drawn on eyebrows and laughed. “This ain't a hotel. We don't exactly keep a registry.”

“Where did she go?”

Genevieve shrugged. “She lived over on Canal in a boarding house. A few of us did. She was just about to have the kid and she disappeared. Ended up in a house up river.”

Simon looked into his drink. “Disappeared?”

“Few days before she's ready to have the kid, she just left.”

“Did she go to hospital?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “although she did see a doctor. I don't know why. She was as healthy as a horse and twice as crazy.”

“Crazy?” Simon prompted.

“High strung, like one of them racing horses. She was never fit for harness.” The bitterness in her voice was clear, but she tried to shrug it off. “Next I hear, a few weeks later, she's had the kid and they're living in a little house up river. She was beautiful in her day. Maybe one of her regulars wanted to keep her to himself.”

“Any idea who that regular might have been? Did anyone stand out?”

She laughed. “Honey, you all stand out.”

Simon almost smiled. “I mean, there wasn't one man in particular who fancied her?”

She took another long swig of whisky and frowned in discomfort as it went down. “I don't think so,” she said. “You all love us just the same.”

~~~

Elizabeth had read the sampler on the wall five times.
Home is where the heart is.
What she wouldn't give for a crinkly old issue of People Magazine or better yet, GQ. Was there an 1852 equivalent? Southern Gentlemen's Quarterly? If there were it should be required for any doctor's office waiting room.

She'd sat at the hotel while Simon went off to the brothel. He'd been right, darn him, that it was better that she didn't go, but that didn't mean she had to sit on her duff either.

Simon's version of the doctor and the one she'd seen at dinner didn't quite jibe. While he hadn't exactly been Mister Charm, he wasn't as recalcitrant and flinty-eyed as Simon had painted him. Maybe he just didn't take to Simon, or perhaps he needed a woman's touch to relax him into spilling a little more information. Either way, in the ten minutes she'd sat in their hotel room after Simon had left, she'd hatched her own plan. Visit the doctor and see what she could pry out of him.

So, here she sat, in Dr. Walker's waiting room in his home office. The house was attractive and well-kept, but a far cry from the fancy, schmancy mansion Catherine and the Colonel lived in. As she looked around the room more carefully, she could see that it could use a little sprucing up. All of the furnishings were expensive, but a little beyond their prime. Even the nurse who sat behind a large desk busily going over paperwork had seen better days. Maybe the doctor's practice was on the wane?

“Thank you,” a slightly overweight middle-aged woman said as the door to the office opened. She fluttered about in the doorway for a moment, waving her handkerchief anxiously and dabbing at her throat. “Are you sure this will help?”

Dr. Walker appeared and gestured toward the waiting room. “I'm sure.” He turned to the nurse. “Would you make sure Mrs. Turnbull has a follow-up appointment for two weeks from today?”

Mrs. Turnbull fluttered again. “You'll be quite well by then, I assure you.” He pointed to a small bottle she clutched in her hand. “Two drops before every meal.”

“Will that be enough?” Mrs. Turnbull asked with a sigh that threatened to blossom into a swoon.

“Yes,” the doctor said, irritation tinting his voice. “Quite.”

With that he shuffled Mrs. Turnbull off to the nurse. Elizabeth could see him reign in his frustration as he turned back toward his office and heard Mrs. Turnbull argue with the nurse about her “continuing and unrelenting suffering.”

Elizabeth rose from her chair. “Doctor Walker?”

“Mrs. Cross?” he asked as he checked his pocket watch. “Did we have an appointment?”

“No, I'm sorry. I was hoping you could spare a few minutes?”

Dr. Walker glanced at the nurse who nodded and returned to soothing Mrs. Turnbull.

The doctor held out his hand to usher Elizabeth into his office, leaving the trilling complaints of Mrs. Turnbull behind. Once inside, he gestured toward a chair by the desk.

Elizabeth took her seat. “Is she all right?”

“Mrs. Turnbull?” The doctor arched an eyebrow and took his chair behind the desk. “Like so many of my female patients, the only diseased part of her body is her mind.” She could see him consider the wisdom of saying more. “Hysteria. A plague upon the rich and indolent.”

His gaze fell on Elizabeth's expensive dress and from his expression he felt she fit the bill on both counts.

“Common sense and hard work can bring one money,” she said, “but it is seldom the other way around.”

The doctor smiled appreciatively. “Indeed.”

“I may be guilty on one count, my husband is wealthy, although I hope you'll forgive me the transgression of marrying well,” Elizabeth said as she pulled off her gloves. “I am however, like you, I think, in the other respect.”

“Are you?”

“We share a common interest. You give of your time to the Institute, the orphanage and others. I'm assuming that's how you came upon that girl Mary Stewart. Her mother was somewhat of an unfortunate. One of your charitable pursuits?”

The doctor leaned back in his chair and a smile creased his eyes enjoying the challenge. “Yes. She actually came to me when she was first with child. Asking for…help,” he said delicately. “I assured her that I could do no such thing. Sadly, just as wealth does not a clever man make, having a child does not always create a mother.”

He leaned forward and pushed some papers into a tidy stack on his desk. “I did what I could for the child, but she was always sickly and uncared for. Perhaps it's a blessing that she has to suffer no more.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, wishing that were the case.

“But,” the doctor said, reaching for a notebook. “You surely didn't come here to talk about my other patients, hmm? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I'm not sure.”

“What are you symptoms?”

“Just a little tired really. A few headaches. I'm sure it's nothing.”

The doctor hummed and made a few notes. “Is your husband here with you?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “I didn't want to worry him over nothing.”

The doctor nodded. “He's quite emotional for an Englishman. No offense intended.”

“He is passionate.”

The doctor jotted another note down. “Cambridge man, isn't it?”

“Oxford,” Elizabeth said, getting the distinct feeling this was some sort of test.

“Yes, that's right.” The doctor came around his desk. “Stand up, please?”

Elizabeth did and he gently probed her neck and examined her head for bumps as he spoke. “I knew a man who went to Oxford, about your husband's age. Always complaining about a Professor there. Haverford, I think.”

Elizabeth smiled innocently. “I'm afraid you'll have to ask Simon about that.”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “Turn your head. Any feelings of nausea or other discomfort?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, not really.”

The doctor turned her head to look her in the eye. “Now, Mrs. Cross you must be honest with me if I'm to help you.”

“A little cramping,” she said feigning embarrassment and touching her stomach. She'd planned her symptoms well.

“Sit,” he said as he took her wrist and took out his watch. He took her pulse. “A bit fast.”

She wasn't surprised, what with all the dissembling and deceiving she was doing. Not to mention that he seemed to be examining not just her, but her story as well.

He circled back around his desk and sat down again. “You needn't be embarrassed, Mrs. Cross. I am well acquainted with issues common to the female. Including pregnancy.”