Talk Sweetly to Me
Page 28
She really ought not to have been surprised at the man who stood there. He had, after all, promised to come in the morning. But at the sight of Doctor Chillingsworth, all the emotion she’d hidden over the course of the night bubbled to the surface—all her fear, her despair. Every last ounce of impossible worry that she had swallowed came back in one blinding rush.
“Doctor Chillingsworth,” she said in a cold voice.
He looked down his nose at her. “I am here as promised.”
“You are too late,” she heard herself say. “Patricia gave birth an hour ago.”
His face did not even flicker at this news. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t apologize for his hateful words the previous night.
“Ah, did she?” he said instead.
She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides. “You said it wasn’t her time.” No. It wasn’t despair that filled her. It was a cold fury, one that threatened to overwhelm her. “You said she was a lying malingerer—”
He shrugged. “Well, there was some chance I was mistaken—there is always that chance. But I figured there’d be no real harm. Women of her sort are like cows: They scarcely need any assistance when dropping their calves.”
He stepped into the entry and took off his coat, oblivious—or perhaps just indifferent—to Rose’s splutter.
“I suppose I’ll take a look now.”
Lying malingerer. Women of her sort are like cows. It was too much—far, far too much.
She took a step toward him. “When Doctor Wells left, he asked me to stand in his stead—to tell him every time I heard the baby’s heartbeat, to convey every last kick I felt.”
It had not been so long ago that she’d held her sister’s hand, had put her hands on her sister’s belly and pushed her son’s head that last inch. They had not needed this man—but they might have. It staggered her what might have happened had things been even an iota worse. His absence could have meant the baby’s life. Or Patricia’s. And to him, this was a matter that he could shrug off. She could scarcely think for the anger that filled her.
“On behalf of my sister’s husband,” Rose said, “this is for you.”
So saying, she punched him in the stomach. She felt the blow travel all the way up her arm, stinging in the most gratifying way. His breath blew out; he gave a satisfying grunt.
“This is for her.” Rose punched him again. “And this is for me.” She made to ram her fist into his belly again, but he caught her wrist this time.
“Why, you little—”
“You’d better let go of her.” The words came from behind her. Rose felt herself smile—a beautiful, impossible, gratifying smile.
Chillingsworth froze. He looked up at Stephen, who had come into the entry. “And you are?”
“Taller than you,” Stephen said. “Stronger than you. Younger than you. And at this moment, I’m angrier than you, too. Let go of Miss Sweetly and get out of here before I hold you down for her to pummel.”
The doctor released her wrist. He stepped back and then shakily took his coat from the hook.
“Get out, then,” Stephen said.
He took another step forward; Chillingsworth wrenched open the door, letting in a blast of cold air, and then, as swiftly as he could, he vanished. The door slammed behind him.
Rose could hear her own breathing echoing wildly in the entry. She’d punched a man. Twice. And he’d deserved it.
And Stephen…
She turned to him. He was looking at her with the most intense expression on his face, one that made her whole body tingle from head to toe.
“Stephen.” She took a step toward him. “Stephen.”
He raised a finger and set it on her lips. “Don’t promise anything when your emotions are running high,” he said. “Or when you’re exhausted.”
Tired though she was, Rose had never felt more certain. All her fretting had burned away.
She didn’t know when she’d become sure. Not when he’d sat with her sister. Not when he’d agreed to come with her. Maybe it was when Chillingsworth had sent her away, when Rose had not known where to turn…until she had known. She had known that help was not a million miles away, but right next door. That she had only to stretch out her hand and ask, and it would be hers.
She had known. She had gone to him, and he had come.
“Now,” he said, “have you a coat I could borrow so that I could look respectable long enough to return home?”
She smiled up at him. “Of course. I have everything you need.”
She found one of Isaac’s old jackets and a pair of his boots in a trunk and brought them out. He was sitting on the sofa, looking somewhat dazed. He smiled at her wearily.
“Here,” Rose said. “Let’s get these on you.”
They were both too large on Stephen’s frame. He let Rose do up his buttons. Her hands trembled as she did. She’d kissed him, let him touch her. But somehow, this seemed the most intimate act yet, the sort of favor that wives performed for husbands.
When she’d done the last button, she looked up into his eyes. She’d expected, maybe, to see a reflection of her own emotion.
Instead, his gaze was hard and utterly unreadable.
“You’re exhausted,” she said. But that was not all it was.
“I’m contemplating.” His words came slowly.
“Here. Let’s get you home, where you can rest.”
He didn’t resist her tug on his arm. Rose put on her own coat, opened the door to the house, and glanced down the street. It was empty but for the drifts of snow.
“Quickly,” she told him, “while nobody’s about.”
She accompanied him. Maybe she needed to make sure he arrived safely; maybe it was because he seemed strangely subdued, and she feared he’d not think properly. He unlocked his own door and then looked down at her.
“You were right,” he said. “I didn’t understand how difficult things might be for you—not until just now at the very end.”
The fear she’d been trying not to feel washed through Rose. He’d stopped her from making a declaration. Of course he had; he’d seen what Chillingsworth had said and done, had understood all the indignities she’d face, small and large. And of course he’d changed his mind. She stared up at him, stricken.
“The Irish are accounted violent drunkards,” he said. “Gamblers with no sense of responsibility, and terrible human beings, through and through. But at least we’re considered human beings.”
“Doctor Chillingsworth,” she said in a cold voice.
He looked down his nose at her. “I am here as promised.”
“You are too late,” she heard herself say. “Patricia gave birth an hour ago.”
His face did not even flicker at this news. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t apologize for his hateful words the previous night.
“Ah, did she?” he said instead.
She felt her hands clench into fists at her sides. “You said it wasn’t her time.” No. It wasn’t despair that filled her. It was a cold fury, one that threatened to overwhelm her. “You said she was a lying malingerer—”
He shrugged. “Well, there was some chance I was mistaken—there is always that chance. But I figured there’d be no real harm. Women of her sort are like cows: They scarcely need any assistance when dropping their calves.”
He stepped into the entry and took off his coat, oblivious—or perhaps just indifferent—to Rose’s splutter.
“I suppose I’ll take a look now.”
Lying malingerer. Women of her sort are like cows. It was too much—far, far too much.
She took a step toward him. “When Doctor Wells left, he asked me to stand in his stead—to tell him every time I heard the baby’s heartbeat, to convey every last kick I felt.”
It had not been so long ago that she’d held her sister’s hand, had put her hands on her sister’s belly and pushed her son’s head that last inch. They had not needed this man—but they might have. It staggered her what might have happened had things been even an iota worse. His absence could have meant the baby’s life. Or Patricia’s. And to him, this was a matter that he could shrug off. She could scarcely think for the anger that filled her.
“On behalf of my sister’s husband,” Rose said, “this is for you.”
So saying, she punched him in the stomach. She felt the blow travel all the way up her arm, stinging in the most gratifying way. His breath blew out; he gave a satisfying grunt.
“This is for her.” Rose punched him again. “And this is for me.” She made to ram her fist into his belly again, but he caught her wrist this time.
“Why, you little—”
“You’d better let go of her.” The words came from behind her. Rose felt herself smile—a beautiful, impossible, gratifying smile.
Chillingsworth froze. He looked up at Stephen, who had come into the entry. “And you are?”
“Taller than you,” Stephen said. “Stronger than you. Younger than you. And at this moment, I’m angrier than you, too. Let go of Miss Sweetly and get out of here before I hold you down for her to pummel.”
The doctor released her wrist. He stepped back and then shakily took his coat from the hook.
“Get out, then,” Stephen said.
He took another step forward; Chillingsworth wrenched open the door, letting in a blast of cold air, and then, as swiftly as he could, he vanished. The door slammed behind him.
Rose could hear her own breathing echoing wildly in the entry. She’d punched a man. Twice. And he’d deserved it.
And Stephen…
She turned to him. He was looking at her with the most intense expression on his face, one that made her whole body tingle from head to toe.
“Stephen.” She took a step toward him. “Stephen.”
He raised a finger and set it on her lips. “Don’t promise anything when your emotions are running high,” he said. “Or when you’re exhausted.”
Tired though she was, Rose had never felt more certain. All her fretting had burned away.
She didn’t know when she’d become sure. Not when he’d sat with her sister. Not when he’d agreed to come with her. Maybe it was when Chillingsworth had sent her away, when Rose had not known where to turn…until she had known. She had known that help was not a million miles away, but right next door. That she had only to stretch out her hand and ask, and it would be hers.
She had known. She had gone to him, and he had come.
“Now,” he said, “have you a coat I could borrow so that I could look respectable long enough to return home?”
She smiled up at him. “Of course. I have everything you need.”
She found one of Isaac’s old jackets and a pair of his boots in a trunk and brought them out. He was sitting on the sofa, looking somewhat dazed. He smiled at her wearily.
“Here,” Rose said. “Let’s get these on you.”
They were both too large on Stephen’s frame. He let Rose do up his buttons. Her hands trembled as she did. She’d kissed him, let him touch her. But somehow, this seemed the most intimate act yet, the sort of favor that wives performed for husbands.
When she’d done the last button, she looked up into his eyes. She’d expected, maybe, to see a reflection of her own emotion.
Instead, his gaze was hard and utterly unreadable.
“You’re exhausted,” she said. But that was not all it was.
“I’m contemplating.” His words came slowly.
“Here. Let’s get you home, where you can rest.”
He didn’t resist her tug on his arm. Rose put on her own coat, opened the door to the house, and glanced down the street. It was empty but for the drifts of snow.
“Quickly,” she told him, “while nobody’s about.”
She accompanied him. Maybe she needed to make sure he arrived safely; maybe it was because he seemed strangely subdued, and she feared he’d not think properly. He unlocked his own door and then looked down at her.
“You were right,” he said. “I didn’t understand how difficult things might be for you—not until just now at the very end.”
The fear she’d been trying not to feel washed through Rose. He’d stopped her from making a declaration. Of course he had; he’d seen what Chillingsworth had said and done, had understood all the indignities she’d face, small and large. And of course he’d changed his mind. She stared up at him, stricken.
“The Irish are accounted violent drunkards,” he said. “Gamblers with no sense of responsibility, and terrible human beings, through and through. But at least we’re considered human beings.”
