Chapter 15 #3
‘No, I’m sorry. I’m sure she will not,’ Gwen said.
She forced herself to smile. ‘I promise I will speak to Miss Rosewood in the next day or two. My husband is well enough for me to leave for an hour so I will be able to go visit her and speak privately. Please tell Mrs Charles we will have an answer to her by early next week.’
‘Sunday,’ Wolf said. ‘Let her know by Sunday.’
Gwen nodded. ‘Sunday, then.’
He grunted. ‘Another thing. Do you sell things to help out women in trouble?’
‘Trouble? I don’t know what you mean,’ Gwen lied, ‘but we sell remedies for a number of different illnesses. Headaches, stomach upsets, coughs…’
‘Something to get rid of unwanted mistakes,’ Wolf replied. If the euphemism hadn’t been familiar to Gwen, the way his eyes flickered and his lips turned down, added weight to the unlawful nature of the enquiry.
There were fairly reliable methods that did not involve such brutality to the woman concerned.
The newspapers were full of advertisements for draughts that every woman, and presumably most men, knew were abortifacients, however unreliable or dangerous.
Gwen was inclined to agree with Archibald’s assessment that these were probably more likely to damage the woman or fail to empty the womb.
Nothing was sold in the pharmacy for that purpose, of course, but when she had been younger in Wales, her grandmother, Nain Bevan, had known methods that would reliably end a pregnancy.
Women would occasionally come to her grandmother’s cottage, begging for help to restore their monthly courses or remove a blockage.
Gwen had occasionally helped Nain by pounding certain plants and leaves.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, wondering which unfortunate woman had let herself be seduced by Wolf.
‘Not me. Mrs Augusta Charles.’
An icy shiver ran down Gwen’s neck. ‘Why does she want to know? She must be past the age where she needs to dispose of mistakes.’ Gwen added an inflection to the word to tell him she knew damn well what he was referring to.
‘Some of her girls get into trouble and want to get out of it,’ he replied. ‘But if you can’t help then there’s always someone with a handy crochet hook.’
He leered and Gwen felt a wave of nausea. Jabbing and scraping away was the worst option, and the offer to provide a less violent alternative ran to her tongue, before wisdom cautioned her against becoming any more involved in Augusta’s business.
‘I’ll speak to Miss Rosewood about the other matter as soon as I am able,’ she said.
She walked away from Wolf to the small park and sat on the bench.
By Sunday, the weather might be better. A brass band would be playing.
Children would be enjoying what little sunshine there was for an hour of freedom.
Perhaps she might even bring Archibald here if he was feeling able to walk this far.
And now Sunday would have another purpose for her, and she would have to decide what to do.
She put her head in her hands and tried not to think about the repercussions.
Everything had become awfully difficult and the web she was tangled in felt inescapable.
She needed to speak to Jenny as a matter of urgency, so after dinner (a pair of pork chops for Archibald that he gnawed with his bare hands) Gwen plucked up the courage to break the heavy silence.
‘I need to go out.’
Archibald shrugged. ‘Do as you like.’
Gwen bit the inside of her lip. It was late, and the old Archibald would not have tolerated her leaving the house when it was growing dark without him – and he would have had enough curiosity to ask where she was going. This was further evidence that he had apparently given up interest in life.
‘I have a meeting with the Women’s Friends Society,’ she continued.
‘Very good, Mrs Walters. I am pleased you have found some friendship to take you out of the house. That will be a comfort to me when I am gone to my grave,’ Archibald replied sarcastically.
‘Really, Archibald! You talk as if death is knocking on your door when the truth is nothing of the sort.’
He turned away abruptly, so she left him alone with his thoughts.
Thanks to this discussion, though, Gwen missed the first trolley bus and did not arrive at the stop for Jenny’s house until almost eight o’clock.
Her irritation worsened when she remembered that it was Thursday, the day that Jenny always had an evening engagement.
It was likely Gwen had missed her. She hurried her pace, rounding the corner into the square and almost collided bodily with a tall young man who was walking along whistling to himself.
They both sidestepped and murmured apologies.
Gwen was about to carry on, but instead raised her head to look at her obstacle, and her heart almost gave out.
The young man wore a high collar and a bowler hat that partially shaded his forehead.
His neat moustache and sideburns concealed most of his face, but the eyes were a pair Gwen knew well. Her mouth dropped open in surprise.
‘Jenny?’