Читать книгу Sinful - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 7

The stench of the wards was always a little overpowering at the beginning of the shift. But tonight it was particularly putrid. The scent of excrement, vomitus, death and disease was literally breath stealing.

Two full pails of water and a pair of mops were placed at her feet—the water too clean to have been put to any use.

“Have you washed the beds and walls yet?” Jane asked the two petulant nurses standing before her.

“Whot fer? They only piss on them again.”

Jane glared at the one, a brunette with a comely face and sinfully curved body. She’d come from the workhouse after being arrested for prostitution. It was clear that the idea of nursing the ill and dying was less appealing than that of selling her body for coin. But for Jane Rankin, a woman of suspect birth, an opportunity to have any sort of respectable job was her idea of heaven.

“When you arrived here, I explained your duties thoroughly. At the beginning of the night you’re to clean the beds and walls before you begin your rounds.”

“And what’s it yer doing, Miss Hoity-Toity, when we’re breaking our backs cleaning?”

Jane straightened her spine. Illegitimate or not, she still had a measure of her aristocratic father’s arrogance. “I am head sister of the ward. Your superior,” Jane stated, prickled by the woman’s insolence. “I take this profession very seriously. If you have no respect for it, then you may leave.”

The new nurse seemed to settle her ire, although anger still flashed occasionally in her eyes. “I like the pay. I ’ate the work. Besides, it’s nothin’ but worn-out whores and old washerwomen doing this work. It’s not like yer an archangel saving lives. More dies in ’ere than lives.” She snorted with amusement. “And alls the men want a tup with their sponge bath. Don’t see ’ow this is any more respectable than whoring.”

“Stop that talk,” Jane commanded. “If we’re to make a go of this, then we must adhere to a strict code of morality and respect. If we want others to see nurses as something other than worn-out women, then we must first believe in the profession ourselves.”

The pair of them snorted. “And whot would the likes of ye know about bein’ on the outs, earnin’ yer coin by spreadin’ yer thighs?”

Jane softened a bit. “I know enough. My mother was a working girl.”

“Yeah? Well it’s not the same as when it’s you gettin’ pawed for a pence.”

“I am well aware of that. And here is your chance to make your life better. You’ll see, in a few years nurses will be respected. As much as a governess, or a…a tutor. Now, go on and see to your duties.”

“Whatever ye say, Sister,” Abigail jeered. “But nothin’ will come of it. You’ll see. It’s just another form of slavery for women.”

Jane watched the two new employees of London College Hospital saunter back to the wards, which tonight, were overflowing. They might take the profession of nursing lightly. They might scoff and laugh at it, but Jane could not. How could a girl, born in the gutter and raised by a mother who prostituted herself be anything but grateful for a chance at employment such as this? No, nursing, while in its infancy, had a long way to go, but already, in the short year she had worked here, it had provided so much for her.

She was no longer an illegitimate bastard castoff. She had purpose. Knowledge. And the power to know that when her other employer, Lady Blackwood, left this earth, she would not be left destitute and alone unable to support herself.

It was knowledge like that, that gave a woman power. She would not be dependent upon a man for her survival. She could rent a small room and furnish it in a home with other women who were making their way in the world. Independent women, she thought with satisfaction. There was a new generation of women such as her. Women who believed they could make it on their own. Women who counted on no one for their survival or happiness but themselves.

The world was changing, albeit slowly. Too slow, as far as Jane was concerned. But she took comfort in knowing that there were others out there like her, trying to live a respectable life without the encumbrance of a man.

It was Lady Blackwood’s doing, Jane thought with a wistful smile. It was her employer’s teaching of this radical new thinking. Many people laughed at Lady Blackwood. She had been blackballed by more than one hostess in the past few years, but Jane knew if someone like Lady Blackwood could make her way in a world dominated by men and their laws, then Jane could, too. Lady B. had grown up in a world where she had everything to lose. Jane had grown up with nothing, and everything to gain.

No, nursing was far better than lowering herself by selling her body in the streets. Or worse, being a mistress. There was something so abhorrent to Jane about the thought of a man owning a woman for his pleasure. For Jane, it would be more than the exchange of her favors, it would be the selling of her dignity, her identity—her soul. She may have precious little in the way of material things, but the things that mattered most to her, her ideals and beliefs, made her wealthier than most women she was acquainted with.

As was her nightly routine, Jane strolled down the dark hall, lantern in hand, quietly making her way from bed to bed, ensuring all the patients were tucked in. Most were lying two to a bed. The blankets, threadbare and some moth-eaten, were too thin to ward off the dampness of the April night. Inside the ward, the air was ripe with disease and the melancholy of death. Bad air, she thought as she gently covered up a child who lay with its mother. She wanted to open a window, but knew the cold would make the patients suffer more. Still, the sickly stench wasn’t much better than a damp draft.

There were sixty patients tonight, all suffering from a menagerie of ailments, and that was not including the five who already died since she arrived for her shift. Such were nights at London College Hospital. At first, she had been horrified by what she witnessed night after night. The beatings, the diseases, the air of hopelessness. But Jane had grown in strength these past twelve months, learning more about herself and human nature than she ever thought possible. The human soul was an amazing thing; the willpower to survive, humbling. The capacity to love, frightening.

She, herself, had never loved—not a passionate love. Of course she felt love for Lady Blackwood who had saved her from the streets and given her a life. But that was a different kind of love—a familial one. Sometimes, Jane would watch the other nurses with the male patients, flirting and flaunting themselves. She was no fool; she knew what went on in certain wards. She had been no stranger to the baseness of men. She had seen prostitutes with their clients. She knew of the acts. Knew that sex could be pleasurable. But what she had never been able to understand was how a passionate connection could be forged between two people. A connection that went beyond the few minutes that sex provided.

Perhaps there was something wrong in her makeup. Some flaw that prevented her from warmth of feeling. It was not that she hadn’t longed for that sentiment, or yearned to discover what sex was all about, it was just that she had never felt moved enough by a man to embark upon the journey that might very well enlighten her about the aspects of pleasure and passion.

She was old by the standards of the day. Twenty-seven, to be precise. She had been kissed only once, and it had left a lackluster feeling inside her. Of course, being a lady’s companion by day and a nurse by night did not exactly bring about ardent suitors. It didn’t help that most found her shy and plain, two facts that Jane had never bothered to worry over. She could not help the way she was born. She would be lying, of course, if she said she hadn’t questioned why she had not been born with her mother’s beauty. Her mother, despite being born in the stews, had managed to capture the notice of an earl’s son, who decided right then and there that she must be his mistress. That aristocrat had been Jane’s father. Homely though he was, he had been a prize for someone like Lucy Rankin. But their life had taken a horrible spiral downward when Jane was six and her father had married another. Lucy had still been his mistress, but his visits were less and less frequent, and Jane had been forced to watch her mother’s beauty, as well her spirit, decline. When her father had kicked them both onto the street without anything to live on, or a roof over their heads, Jane, at the tender age of seven, had made her first promise to herself. And that was, never be a mistress, and never allow a man to dictate your life or your happiness.

At twenty-seven, she was proud to say she had upheld that promise, and without any regrets. Still, she would be a liar if she refused to admit to at least herself, that there had been the occasional time, lying in her bed, that she found herself wondering what it would be like to share a bed and her body with a man.

“How is the consumptive child who arrived tonight?”

The whispered voice drifted over her shoulder, pulling her out of the unwanted, yet haunting, reminders of her past and the eager yearnings that had recently begun to plague her. Turning, Jane held the lantern aloft, illuminating the intelligent face of Dr. Inglebright, the younger. Dr. Inglebright, the senior, was a crusty old bear, with a wrinkled face and a deep mistrust of the new phenomenon of nurses. Inglebright, the younger, was a man with a kind smile, and gray eyes full of genuine concern—and respect.

“She sleeps at last, sir. Although her breathing is not so easy.”

“Give her a quarter dram of laudanum then.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she murmured, unable to look into his eyes. For the past month, Dr. Inglebright had been looking at her most queerly, and it made her insides turn inside out. Why, she didn’t know. She only knew that her response to the presence of Richard Inglebright had dramatically changed over the course of the year that he had taken her under his wing, teaching her about medicine, and showing her how to care for the ill. Perhaps it was only gratitude. After all, without Richard, she would never have had an opportunity to become a nurse. Mayhap it was friendship. They did talk very easily and freely between themselves.

“How is Lady Blackwood?” he asked, concern evident in his eyes. “I wanted to stop by this morning, but I found myself engaged in sewing up a young lad after removing his appendix.”

Richard Inglebright was far more dedicated to the pursuit of healing than his father. If she had any say at all, she would, without batting an eyelash, request the younger Inglebright, despite the fact that his father was very often called to care for the elite of the city. It was episodes such as these, Richard staying on after his shift to care for others, that endeared him to Jane.

“You must be utterly exhausted,” she said with concern. “You performed four surgeries last night.”

Inglebright’s eyes flashed. “Your concern warms me,” he murmured in a deep voice that flustered her and made her look away. “No one cares about my needs like you do, Jane.”

The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.

“As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”

He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”

“You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”

His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”

A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”

“There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.

“Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”

Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.

“’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”

“My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”

“Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.

Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.

Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.

“We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard announced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”

Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.

“’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”

“Never mind that now,” Richard growled. “Help me to get him undressed so I can see if there is more damage. Jane, bring over the tray with the ether. I have a feeling when this giant awakes, he will not be in pleasant humor.”

The two men began pulling off the bloodstained jacket and waistcoat. Jane turned her back, preparing the silver tray with the ether and an assortment of tools she thought Inglebright might need. For certain, this man would require needle and thread to close the gaping wound in his head.

“Damn me, the man’s been through a rounder!”

Whirling around, Jane caught sight of a very muscular chest and arms. On the man’s ribs were black smudges, which she knew were bruises.

“Spleen and liver feel intact, and there isn’t any swelling or firmness,” Richard muttered as he palpated the man’s belly, which was etched in muscle. “His limbs seem to be intact, as well. I don’t know how he managed it, but he seems to have avoided breaking any bones. Bring a cloth and water, Jane. Let’s find out where all this blood is coming from.”

Jane set the silver tray down on a wooden table, and began dabbing at the wound. The scalp wound, while large, was not overly deep. More of a superficial gash, really. The blood was already starting to dry, and the wound no longer wept.

Cleaning the cloth in the water, Jane wrung it out, watching the clear water turn red. She turned to his face, bending over him to work. He snarled, his white teeth bared like a rabid animal’s as he grabbed her wrist.

“Givens and Smith, if you please,” Richard said, motioning to where the man held her.

“None of that now, guv,” Givens said. “The chit is only tryin’ to help.”

The man came off the table, swinging and hitting, as the night men struggled to hold him down.

“Get off,” he cried. Like a madman, he swung at anything that moved. “Get the fuck off me, you whoreson!”

“’E don’t talk like a gent,” Mr. Smith grunted as he twisted the man’s arm, forcing his torso back onto the table. “Talks like ’e was born in the rookery.”

The man burst into a litany of profanity about being tied down. He struggled, his strength incredible considering his wounds.

“Give him two drops of ether, Jane.”

With a dropper, she administered two drops of the liquid onto a folded cloth and pressed it tightly against the man’s face.

He struggled, roaring, but it was not a cry of rage, Jane thought as she watched him, it was one of terror. He tossed his head from side to side trying to dislodge the towel, but Jane held firm.

“No,” he said, muffled beneath the cloth, his voice weakening, as was his strength. “Don’t do this. No binds…”

Jesus Christ, not again. He was being held down, his body unclothed, hands, cool and damp, stroked his flesh. He retched, trying to fight through the fog that clouded his brain. Fumbling at his waist told him his trousers were being removed, and he gathered the last of his evaporating strength to fight off his assailant.

The old fear seized him and he began to shake and breathe too fast.

“Shh,” came a female voice. “You’re safe.”

He stilled, going limp, then realized it was a trick. This was no angel in disguise.

Violently he tossed his head, trying to fling off the cloth that was smothering him.

“It’s all right,” came the softly spoken voice, directly in his ear. “Take a slow deep breath, and hold it. That’s right. Now let it go.”

His body seemed to go languid. He felt hands in his hair. They were gentle and soothing. Not like the other hands that had always plagued his dreams. Hands that clawed and pinched. Hands that had awakened him many times in his sleep. Hands that had ruined him.

“You’re bleeding, and we want only to help you,” the voice whispered again. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

The world was blackening. He felt disembodied, weightless. Yet his hearing remained nearly perfect.

“There,” she soothed, her breath caressing his cheek. “There is nothing to fear.” The cloth fell away from his mouth as his body stilled. “Sleep now,” she encouraged.

“You truly are an angel, Jane,” came the voice of a male.

Before the blackness settled in, his fingers reached for her wrist, which he sensed was near his hip. He grabbed her, holding on to her like an anchor clutches the sand at the bottom of the sea.

“Be here,” he scratched out through his cracked lips and dry throat.

She squeaked at the shock of knowing he was not asleep, but then she recovered swiftly. The tension in her hand lessened, and Matthew entwined his fingers with hers, holding on to the only thing that felt safe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice like that of an angel.

“No,” he growled. “Later. Be here…later.”

“He’s out at last. Jane, hand me the scalpel.”

Jane did as she was told. Thankfully, it was nearly automatic now, for she could not take her gaze off the stranger. He was beautiful, she realized, allowing her gaze to wander along the length of his unclothed body. He was very tall and broad. His were muscles honed and sculpted, reminding Jane of a diagram she had once studied while she learned anatomy. She tried to still her pulse as she ran through the anatomical terms. Pectoralis. His were large and firm, his nipples small and brown. On the left one, above his heart was a tattoo. A crest of some sort.

Rectus abdominis. Stomach muscles. All six of his were prominently displayed. So too was a tantalizing trail of soft black hair that disappeared beneath the white sheet.

“Jane.”

The sharp voice drew her attention and she blushed. Sliding her spectacles back on her nose where they belonged, Jane met Richard’s annoyed gaze. “Needle and thread,” he repeated.

“Yes, Doctor.”

She’d been caught staring. She was no better than the two new employees she had scolded a short time ago. But really, how could a woman possessed of a pulse not notice the man lying before her. He was stunningly masculine, and his face, while exceedingly handsome, held a beauty that was dark and sensual.

She noticed his lips were cracked and smeared with blood. She went to wipe them. “Not now, Jane,” Richard commanded. “I need your hand.”

In the light, he held a shining object between a pair of tweezers. “From a gin bottle most likely,” Richard murmured as he held the tweezers up to the light. “It was lodged in the corner of his eye. You’ll need to sew the outer lid back together. That is what is bleeding. You’ve a steady, delicate hand, Jane. You’ll leave less scarring if you do it.”

“Yes, Dr. Inglebright.”

Richard nodded and reached for the towel. His hands were drenched in blood to his wrists. “He’s an aristocrat,” he muttered as he tossed the towel into the wicker basket they used for laundering. “I don’t want him coming back displeased with me because I’ve bungled his looks.”

Jane hid her smile. She knew Richard’s opinion of the titled populace. It was not gracious.

Bending over her patient, she tried to forget that Richard was watching her, and that her patient’s face lay pressed against her ample bosom as she bent low over his eyes.

Concentrating on steadying her hand, Jane tried to ignore the way the man’s warm breath caressed her exposed skin above the edge of her bodice. Never before had she been so discomposed to be sitting this close to a man. He was asleep from the ether, yet her body was as aware of him as if he were awake, caressing her with his gaze, his hands, his beautiful mouth.

“He’ll need his head bandaged. We don’t want that gash to get putrid, or his eyes. You can see to that, can you, Jane?”

“Yes.”

“Givens and Smith will find a bed for him. I think it best if he stay the night here in my room. He doesn’t need to be out with the others. Whoever he is, he has money. I think he would be rather dismayed to find himself amongst the consumptives and typhoids.”

Squeezing her shoulder, Richard passed behind her, studying her skill with the needle. “It’s unfortunate the college doesn’t allow women in, Jane. You’d be a superb surgeon. Lucky bastard, I doubt he’ll even have a scar.”

That was praise, indeed. No other compliment could have meant more to Jane. It carried far more substance than one based on the superficialities of beauty and feminine wiles. She was not a beauty. She knew and accepted it. But she was smart, and eager to learn all she could. She was a woman of worth, and would continue to be so, despite her looks.

“How do you do it?” Richard asked, peering over her shoulder. “Your stitches are so slight.”

She laughed despite the closeness of Richard at her back, and the stranger’s face at her front. “Sometimes it pays to be a woman,” she whispered, smiling secretly to herself.

“We’ll, you’ve a fine hand, and a quick mind, Jane. I’m glad I found you first.”