Hello Stranger Page 6

  “I’m not sure.” Garrett set aside the sorbet spoon, picked up a fork, and stabbed a strawberry. She used a knife to mince it into miniscule bits. “Obviously Ransom is not an appropriate companion for me. I should put him—and his private parts—completely out of my mind.”

  “That might be for the best,” Helen said cautiously.

  “Except that I can’t.” Setting down the utensils, Garrett muttered, “I’ve never been ruled by unwanted thoughts or feelings. I’ve always been able to put them away as if they were folded linens in a drawer. What’s the matter with me?”

  Helen slid a cool, pale hand over her clenched fist and gave it a comforting squeeze. “You’ve been all work and no play for much too long. And then one night a mysterious and handsome man appears out of the shadows, fending off attackers on your behalf—”

  “That part was annoying,” Garrett interrupted. “I was doing quite well at being my own hero until he jumped in.”

  Helen’s lips curved. “Still . . . it must have been a little flattering.”

  “It was,” Garrett grumbled, taking refuge in examining the plate of tea sandwiches. She selected one filled with a translucent slice of pickled artichoke heart and a sliver of boiled egg. “In fact, it was ridiculous, how dashing he was, all brass and brawn. Only to you would I admit that when I heard his Irish brogue, I nearly began batting my eyelashes and simpering like the ingénue from some second-rate playhouse.”

  Helen laughed gently. “There’s something charming about a man with an accent, isn’t there? I know it’s considered a defect—even more so if the accent is Welsh—but to me there’s poetry in it.”

  “Nowadays having an Irish brogue is the surest way to have a door slammed in one’s face,” Garrett said darkly. “Which is no doubt why Mr. Ransom conceals it.”

  During the past ten years, the political unrest of those who believed in Ireland’s right to govern itself had fueled an atmosphere of growing intolerance. Rumors of conspiracies were everywhere, and the people found it difficult to separate prejudice from reason. Especially, now, after a recent spate of terrorist activities, including a recently foiled attempt on the Prince of Wales’s life.

  “The man is neither respectable nor gainfully employed,” Garrett continued. “He’s also sneaky, violent, and apparently as randy as a stoat. I can’t possibly be attracted to him.”

  “Attraction isn’t something one chooses,” Helen mused. “It’s a kind of magnetism. An irresistible force.”

  “I will not be held hostage by invisible forces.”

  Helen regarded her with a sympathetic smile. “This reminds me a bit of what you told me after Pandora was injured in the street attack. You said she’d received a shock to her entire nervous system. I think Mr. Ransom has been a shock to your system. Among other things, I think he’s made you realize that you might be a bit lonely.”

  Garrett, who had always taken pride in her self-sufficiency, shot her an indignant glance. “Impossible. How could I be lonely when I have you and my other friends, my father, Dr. Havelock, my patients—”

  “I meant a different kind of loneliness.”

  Garrett scowled. “I’m not some dewy-eyed girl with a head full of spun sugar. I should hope I’m more high-minded than that.”

  “Even a high-minded woman can appreciate a fine pair of . . . what did you call them? Quadriceps?”

  One could hardly miss the sly teasing in Helen’s demure tone. Taking refuge in dignified silence, Garrett drained another cup of tea while a waitress came to the table with little glass cups of lemon sorbet.

  Helen waited until after the waitress had departed before saying, “Hear me out before you refuse: I want very much to introduce you to my cousin West. He’ll be in town for a fortnight. You didn’t meet him the last time he was here to see Pandora. We’ll all have dinner at Ravenel House one evening.”

  “No. I beg you, Helen, do not put me—or your cousin—through such pointless torture.”

  “West is very handsome,” Helen persisted. “Dark-haired, blue-eyed, and charming. I’m positive you’ll like each other. After a few minutes in his company, you’ll forget all about Mr. Ransom.”

  “Even in the unlikely event that Mr. Ravenel and I formed an attachment, it would never work. I can’t live in the country.” Garrett tried a spoonful of sorbet, letting the tart, sugary frost dissolve into a cold flood on her tongue. “Among other things, I’m afraid of cows.”

  “Because of their size?” Helen asked sympathetically.

  “No, it’s the way they stare. As if they’re plotting something.”

  Helen chuckled. “I promise, when you come to visit Eversby Priory someday, all scheming cows will be kept out of sight. And as far as living in the country is concerned, West may be willing to move back to London. He’s a man of many interests and talents. Oh, do say you’ll at least meet him!”

  “I’ll consider it,” Garrett said reluctantly.

  “Thank you, that sets my mind at ease.” A new, serious note entered Helen’s voice. “Because I fear there’s a very good reason Mr. Ransom has decided to stay away from you.”

  Garrett looked at her alertly. “What is it?”

  Helen frowned, seeming to debate something within her mind before continuing. “I know some information about Mr. Ransom. I’m not at liberty to relay all of it, but there’s something you should be made aware of.”

  Garrett waited with forced patience while Helen glanced around to make certain no one was approaching the alcove.

  “It has to do with that incident at the Guildhall last month,” Helen said softly. “You’ll recall that Pandora and Lord St. Vincent attended the reception.”

  Garrett nodded, having heard from Pandora herself about how a loose plank had led to the discovery that bombs had been laid beneath the floor. Within a few minutes, the panicked crowd had rapidly fled the building. Fortunately, the explosive devices had been dismantled before they could be detonated. No arrests had been made in connection to the plot, but it had been blamed on a small group of radical Irish nationalists.

  “One of the reception guests passed away that night,” Helen continued. “An undersecretary from the Home Office, Mr. Nash Prescott.”

  Garrett nodded. “As I recall from the account in the Times, he had a weak heart. In the midst of all the alarm and confusion, he experienced a fatal cardiac seizure.”

  “That’s the official story,” Helen said. “But Lord St. Vincent told Mr. Winterborne privately that Mr. Prescott had known about the bomb plot in advance. And it was none other than Mr. Ransom who found Mr. Prescott’s body, not far from the Guildhall grounds.” She paused. “After having given chase to him.”

  “Ransom chased him from the reception?” Garrett looked at her sharply. “Believe me, no one in the middle of a cardiac event would be running anywhere.”

  “Exactly.” Helen hesitated. “No one knows for certain what caused Mr. Prescott’s death. However, it’s possible that Mr. Ransom . . .” Her voice trailed away, the suspicion too terrible to be uttered out loud.

  “Why would he do that?” Garrett asked after a long moment. “Do you think he may be on the side of the conspirators?”

  “No one knows what side he’s on. But he’s not a man you should have anything to do with.” Helen gave her a worried, affectionate look. “My husband has a saying about risk taking: ‘God is good—but never dance in a small boat.’”

  The cloud of gloom that Helen’s information had cast over Garrett was not helped the following day when her father waved the latest copy of the Police Gazette beneath her nose, asking pointedly, “What do you make of this, daughter?”

  Frowning, Garrett took the newspaper from him, her gaze skimming rapidly over the page.

  On Wednesday night, the King’s Cross Court holding jail was broken and entered by an unseen intruder, who proceeded to attack a cell of three prisoners. The victims are soldiers in Her Majesty’s 9th Regiment of Foot, confined on charges of assault against a la
dy whose person has not been publicly identified. The intruder escaped before he could be apprehended. All three soldiers will remain in custody without chance of bail until their future appearance at the assizes. Any person giving information to W. Cross, Chief Constable, leading to the apprehension of the unknown offender shall, on his conviction, receive ten pounds reward.

  Struggling to conceal the signs of inner chaos, Garrett handed the paper back. Dear God, how could Ransom have attacked three men in custody?

  “There’s no proof that Mr. Ransom did it,” she said crisply.

  “Only Jenkyn’s men would be capable of going in and out of a heavily guarded court jail without being caught.”

  Garrett brought herself to meet her father’s gaze with difficulty. After recent weight loss, the skin of his formerly full-cheeked face now hung slightly loose, and there were deep pockets under his eyes, and he looked so kind and tired that it made her throat tighten.

  “Mr. Ransom can’t tolerate any manner of violence against women,” she said. “That’s no excuse, of course.”

  “You made light of what happened that night,” her father said soberly. “You said those soldiers only insulted you, but it was worse than that, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Then those jackals deserved whatever Ransom did to them. He may be a cold-blooded cutthroat whose soul is bound for hell, but he has my thanks. I’d thrash the bastards myself, if I could.”

  “I wouldn’t approve of you doing that any more than I would him,” Garrett informed him, folding her arms. “A vigilante is no better than a thug.”

  “Is that what you’re going to tell him?”

  A wry smile edged her lips. “Are you trying to trick me into some kind of admission, Papa? I have no intention of seeing Mr. Ransom again.”

  Her father snorted and lifted the gazette to continue reading. His voice floated out from behind the rustling pages. “Just because you can look a man in the eyes when you lie doesn’t mean you’ve fooled him.”

  The next few days were nothing but annoyance and drudgery. Garrett delivered the baby of a department manager’s wife, set a broken collarbone, and performed minor surgery to remove a benign tumor, and all of it felt perfunctory. Not even an interesting case of rheumatic effusions of the knee joints could cheer her up. For the first time in Garrett’s life, her enthusiasm for work, the thing that had always filled her with purpose and satisfaction, had inexplicably disappeared.

  So far, she had managed to avoid dinner with the Ravenels, pleading exhaustion after having stayed up twenty-four hours with the patient in labor, but she knew another invitation would soon be forthcoming, and she would have to accept.

  On Tuesday afternoon, as Garrett loaded her bag with supplies for her Tuesday visit to the workhouse, her partner at the clinic approached her.

  Although Dr. William Havelock had made no secret of his objections when Winterborne had hired a female physician, he had soon become a mentor and a trusted friend. The middle-aged man, with his distinctive shock of white hair and large, leonine head, was everyone’s idea of what a doctor should look like. He was a man of remarkable skills and judgment, and Garrett had learned a great deal from him. To his credit, Havelock, despite his gruff manner, was a fair and open-minded man. After some initial resistance, he came to regard Garrett’s surgical training at the Sorbonne with interest rather than suspicion, and had soon adopted the antiseptic methods she had learned from Sir Joseph Lister. As a result, the patients at the Cork Street clinic experienced a substantially higher and faster rate of postoperative healing than average.

  Garrett looked up as Dr. Havelock came to the doorway of the supply room with two small glass laboratory beakers containing pale gold liquid.

  “I’ve brought you a restorative tonic,” he said, coming forward to hand her one of the beakers.

  Lifting her brows, Garrett took the beaker and sniffed the contents cautiously. A reluctant smile crossed her lips. “Whiskey?”

  “Dewar’s whiskey.” Regarding her with a shrewd but kindly gaze, he raised his beaker in a toast. “Happy Birthday.”

  Garrett’s eyes turned round with amazement. Her father hadn’t remembered, and she’d never told the date to anyone. “How did you know?”

  “The date was on your employment application. Since my wife keeps the files, she knows everyone’s birthday, and never forgets a one.”

  They clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey was strong but very smooth, flavors of malt, honey, and cut hay lingering on Garrett’s tongue. Closing her eyes briefly, she felt the soft fire travel down her esophagus. “Excellent,” she pronounced, and smiled at him. “And much appreciated. Thank you, Dr. Havelock.”

  “One more toast: Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.”

  They drank again.

  “What does that mean?” Garrett asked.

  “‘Not even Apollo keeps his bow drawn all the time.’” Havelock regarded her kindly. “You’ve been in a sour mood of late. I don’t know the specifics of your problem, but I have an idea as to the general cause. You’re a dedicated physician who has shouldered many responsibilities in such a capable manner that all of us, including you, tend to forget something: You’re still a young woman.”

  “At eight and twenty?” Garrett asked bleakly, and took another swallow. Still holding the beaker, she reached for a box of adhesive plasters and dropped it into her bag.

  “A mere babe in the woods,” he said. “And like all young people, you tend to rebel against a harsh taskmaster.”

  “I’ve never thought of you that way,” Garrett protested.

  Havelock’s mouth twisted. “I’m not the harsh taskmaster, Doctor, you are. The fact is, recreation is a natural necessity. Your work habits have turned you into a wet blanket, and you will continue being a wet blanket until you find some leisure activity outside of this clinic.”

  Garrett frowned. “I have no outside interests.”

  “If you were a man, I’d advise you to spend a night at the best bawdy house you could afford. However, I have no idea what to recommend to a woman in your position. Look at a list of hobbies and pick one. Have an affair. Go on holiday to a place you’ve never been before.”

  Garrett coughed on a sip of whiskey, and regarded him with wide, watering eyes. “Did you just advise me to have an affair?” she asked hoarsely.

  Havelock let out a rusty chuckle. “I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? Not as stodgy as you thought. There’s no need to stare at me like a dyspeptic nun. As a physician, you’re well aware that the sexual act can be separated from procreation without descending to prostitution. You work like a man, you’re paid like one, and you might as well take your pleasures like one, so long as you’re discreet about it.”

  Garrett had to drain the last of her whiskey before she could reply. “Moral considerations aside, the risk isn’t worth it. Being caught in an affair wouldn’t ruin a man’s career, but it would ruin mine.”

  “Then find someone to marry. Love is not something to be missed, Dr. Gibson. Why do you think I, a comfortable widower, made a fool of myself over Mrs. Fernsby until she finally consented to be my wife?”

  “Convenience?” she guessed.

  “Good God, no. There’s nothing convenient about joining your life to another person’s. Marriage is a sack race: you may find a way to hop together toward the finish line, but you would still reach it more easily without the sack.”

  “Then why do it at all?”

  “Our existence, even our intellect, hangs upon love—without it, we would be no more than stock and stones.”

  Inwardly astonished by such a sentimental speech coming from Havelock, of all men, Garrett protested, “It’s no simple task to find someone to love. You make it sound as easy as shopping for a good melon.”

  “Obviously you’ve done neither of those things. Finding someone to love is considerably easier than finding a good melon.”

  Garrett smiled wryly. “I’m sure your advice is well-intent
ioned, but I have no use for melons or grand love affairs.” She handed the empty beaker to him. “However, I’ll try to come up with a hobby.”

  “That’s a start.” Havelock went to the doorway and paused to glance over his shoulder. “You’re very good at listening to other people, my young friend. But you’re not nearly as good at listening to yourself.”

  Night was falling by the time Garrett had finished her rounds at the Clerkenwell workhouse infirmary. Fatigued and hungry, she removed her white apron and donned her dark brown walking jacket, trimmed with silk braid and cinched with a thin leather belt around the waist. After gathering up her cane and doctor’s bag, she left the workhouse and stopped just beyond the iron gate, on a front walkway mottled with light and shadow.

  In the weary hush of the summer evening, she started on the walk back to the main road. The wail of a distant train rode on the dull thunder of churning rods, hissing boilers, and metal wheels. Her steps faltered as she realized that she was reluctant to return home. There was no compelling reason to be there: Her father was playing his weekly game of draw poker with his friends and wouldn’t miss her. But she couldn’t think of where else to go. The clinic and the department store were closed, and it certainly would not do to appear uninvited at someone else’s home. Her stomach growled beneath the confines of her light corset. She realized she’d forgotten to eat lunch.

  One of the cardinal rules of navigating through the dangerous areas of the city was to appear confident. And here she was, pausing at a street corner, her feet as heavy as lead. What was she doing? What was this terrible feeling inside? Sadness, wrapped around yearning. A hollow feeling that no blasted hobby or holiday was ever going to fix.

  Perhaps she should go visit Helen unannounced, manners be damned. Helen would listen to her worries, and know what to say. But no . . . that would only lead to more urging to meet Weston Ravenel, a substitute for the man she truly wanted to see . . . an amoral, oversexed government assassin with a dimple in one cheek.