“Josephs left a few minutes past. He should be back soon.”
Mr. and Mrs. Josephs were the married couple that kept house for Patricia—Mrs. Josephs as the maid-of-all-work, and Mr. Josephs as an all-around handyman. In their neighborhood, having two servants was considered an enormous expense; she’d heard someone whisper that Patricia was putting on airs above her station. But then, Patricia’s husband was away, and she herself was pregnant.
“Are you scared?” Rose asked. “What does it feel like, a contraction? I did promise to tell Isaac everything when he returned. You have to tell me.”
“Oh, I’m not having the contraction any longer—now I just feel…I don’t know, a little odd.” Patricia gave a deprecating laugh. “Like a bloated duck on the verge of being popped. But that hasn’t changed since last night.”
“Can you walk?”
“Of course I can. How do you think I got to your room? Even bloated ducks can manage a good waddle.”
Rose smiled. “Well, labor hasn’t altered your sense of humor. It’s still dreadful.”
“Wait until I have another contraction,” Patricia said. “Then I’ll have no humor at all. Come and wait with me downstairs?”
Rose dressed swiftly and held her sister’s hand on the way down the stairs—even though Patricia tried to wave her off, saying she was perfectly able to walk on her own. Once she’d ensconced her sister in pride of place on the sofa, Rose ran around, lighting lamps, pushing away all the shadows of the night. It was lovely to have something to do. She bustled about, fetching and carrying for her sister—slippers, a warm blanket, chamomile tea, and a crumpet that she toasted over a fire and then piled high with butter and currant jelly.
“Mmm,” Patricia said, closing her eyes. “Won’t you have one, too?”
“I was already having the oddest dream when you woke me,” Rose said. “I don’t need to upset my digestion any further.”
“Dream, eh?” Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t dreaming of—”
“I dreamed I was being chased by a heap of numbers,” Rose intervened.
Patricia choked, almost laughing. “You would.”
Yes, someone had been laughing in her dream. Almost like that. Friendly laughter, the mirthful burble of someone who knew all Rose’s faults and loved her anyway.
It had been too deep a laugh for Patricia, and not merry enough to sound like her mother. Her father’s laugh was more of a rumble. And yet it had seemed familiar.
The answer came to Rose as her sister took another bite of crumpet. Mr. Shaughnessy laughed like that.
She’d been avoiding thinking about him. Despite his protestations, she knew exactly what he was doing. This was how men like him seduced women like her: step by careful step, wearing away at her inhibitions one by one.
She had no illusions that her innocence would protect her; innocence was for a different class of women altogether. Rose was a shopkeeper’s daughter; she was a woman who worked for a living herself. The well-to-do men who could command society’s respect usually thought that women like her existed to serve in whatever capacity they were desired.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t sent Mr. Shaughnessy on his way. Stupidity, surely. Misplaced romanticism. But this wasn’t the time to berate herself.
As her sister took yet another bite of crumpet, the front door opened. Mr. Josephs entered.
Behind him came Doctor Chillingsworth. The physician’s coat was wet with glistening rain; he set an umbrella in the umbrella stand, frowning at it as if it had no business being wet. He took off his gloves and chafed his pale hands together for warmth. Then he looked over at Patricia—seated on the sofa, wrapped in wool blankets, trying not to drip red jelly down her chin—and his expression froze in something that looked alarmingly like a sneer.
The back of Rose’s neck prickled. But the doctor shook his head, and that hint of a scoff disappeared from his face.
Maybe she’d imagined it. Maybe he simply didn’t like jelly.
Chillingsworth was a tall, elderly fellow. He always had an air about him that Rose disliked. It was not exactly disdain; it only smacked mildly of disapproval.
She tried to tell herself she was seeing things that weren’t there. He’d come so highly recommended after all. Before he’d retired to civilian practice, he’d spent thirty years as a naval physician. Maybe that air of his was nothing more than residual military discipline.
Patricia’s husband didn’t have that air—but then, he was only thirty-two. Maybe, she thought dubiously, it took years to develop.
Chillingsworth took off his galoshes, an outer coat, a scarf, and finally, a blue-striped hat. He came forward.
The examination was brief, almost cursory. Patricia’s eyes squeezed shut and her breath hissed when he set his stethoscope against her belly. The metal must have been ice cold. But she didn’t complain.
The doctor straightened after he’d finished. “Well,” he said. “I was roused from bed for nothing.”