Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone
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and wrong, love. Mad, indeed. Rich? ’Fraid not.”
The man holding him paused and loosened his hold a fraction, allowing Matthew to get in his surprise left hook.
“Ow! ’E broke me nose,” the man cried, stumbling back. Matthew was on him, using the skills he’d honed over the years studying pugilism. He was as big as an ox with the stamina of a stallion—the frail cockney indigent would be no match for his fists.
“Afraid you chose the wrong target, mate. I’m no weak guvnor. I’ve boxed for the past ten years.”
There was an angry cry from the depths of the alley, followed by three more ruffians who emerged through the darkness. Fists flying, legs kicking, Matthew fought them off even through his drunken haze.
Wait till he got his hands on that bitch, he thought savagely as he landed a jab into the throat of one of the thieves.
He was about ready to dispatch the last by planting his fist in his face when a glimmer of white whisked past his right eye. In a blinding whirl, he felt something crash against his temple. The last thing he felt was the slime-covered cobbles of the alley as his cheek cracked against them.
“Pick him clean,” the woman ordered. “I saw the winning bidder come up to him. I’m certain he passed him some money. Once you’ve found it, make it so he won’t be identifying me.”
Chapter Two
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.