Portpool Lane to the huddle of interconnected houses that had once been a thriving brothel run by one Squeaky Robinson. A few years ago, at the successful conclusion of a case, Sir Oliver Rathbone had tricked Squeaky and his silent backers out of possession of the place. Several of them had ended up in prison, but Squeaky had remained in the place, not as owner or manager anymore, but as a peculiarly gifted bookkeeper.
The property itself had, with minor changes, been turned into a clinic for sick or injured prostitutes. Hester, with her military nursing experience in the Crimean War, ran the place. She managed to obtain professional help from one or two doctors willing to give their time without charge. Funds for simple maintenance were obtained by different volunteers: ladies of a charitable nature who were prepared to ask their friends, acquaintances, and even strangers for help.
Margaret Ballinger, later Oliver Rathbone’s wife, and now his ex-wife,had been one of the best at raising funds. It was a sadness to Hester that she no longer worked with them. However, Hester’s relationship with Margaret had suffered irreparable damage thanks to the tragedy that had struck Margaret’s family, and the way in which Margaret had reacted to it.
Now, as Hester went in through the door to the room turned into a reception hall, she was greeted by Claudine Burroughs, a woman in her middle years, plain of countenance but remarkable of character. Her success here had given her a sense of freedom from her restrictive marriage, and the friendships she had won at some cost enriched her in all manner of ways. Her face lit up when she saw Hester.
“How are you?” she asked warmly. “We’ve missed you since that dreadful event on the river.” She looked Hester up and down, assessing if she was really well enough, regardless of what she might say.
Hester smiled back. “Feeling totally useless,” she replied. She felt comfortable being completely honest Claudine, and had for some time now. It was inevitable, given the work they faced together. They had shared triumphs and disasters both in the clinic and beyond. They helped people, sometimes cured them, but the very nature of their purpose meant that they came late into every battle against death, and often lost. Sometimes all they could give was warmth, peace, and a little dignity, making sure a woman didn’t feel alone in the last days of her life.
Claudine frowned. “Come and have tea. The accounts are all done and we are in quite good shape. I didn’t ask Mr. Robinson where our latest funds came from. I don’t know if you care to know?” Her expression reflected her erratic opinion of and relationship with Squeaky. To begin with they had despised each other. He was a renegade in every respect, loathing the law and having little regard for women, particularly of the stiff, plain, middle-aged, and genteel variety—all of which Claudine so perfectly epitomized.
She saw him, in return, as devious, despicable, and personally repulsive. Experience had taught both of them their mistakes. Tolerance had very gradually turned into something almost resembling affection.
“Thank you,” Hester said drily. “I have sufficient troubles not to go courting anymore. I have to say I miss Margaret’s help in the funding.”
“You mean Lady Rathbone …” Claudine said with a slight rasp to her voice. She was intensely loyal to those who had offered her friendship, but she regarded Margaret as one who had betrayed them all.
They went into Claudine’s storeroom—now also her office—where Ruby was counting bandages, bottles of medicine, and packets of powder of one sort or another. She gave Hester a shy smile.
Claudine asked her if she would be kind enough to get them tea and she went off to do it, relieved she wouldn’t have to focus on numbers in front of her superiors.
“She’s improving,” Claudine said the moment the door was closed. “She doesn’t make many
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