Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Ellen rubbed her bleary eyes and gripped the warm cup of tea in her hands.
“And so after Dr. Harbor and I made violent, passionate love in the supply closet, I walked into the observation gallery and performed brain surgery on Florence Nightingale herself. She cried and thanked me. I'm a national heroine.”
Ellen looked up from her tea. “Sounds love–-wait, what?”
Amelia smirked. “I knew you weren't listening to a word I was saying.”
Ellen thought back to what Amelia last said. She laughed. “Dr. Harbor? He's eighty if he's a day! I thought he was going to keel over and die in the lecture three years ago about cardiovascular circulation.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “I was trying to tell you I'm going to take Christmas day off and spend it with my family.”
Ellen stared at her friend. “You are? Since when?”
Amelia looked at her hands, busily tidying up the examining room before her first patient barged in. “There’s a nurse at St. Pancras workhouse who, um, bet me a crown I never take a day off. I must prove her wrong.”
“How did you meet this nurse?” Ellen cocked her head. Amelia never mentioned a social life. Ellen didn’t think she had one.
“A man's appendix burst at the workhouse. I was the nearest doctor. I kept trying to tell them I wasn't a surgeon, but Jiya said she'd worked for a surgeon before and she'd help me.”
Ellen side-eyed her. “When was this? How do you have friends I don't know about?”
Amelia blushed as she sterilized her tools for a second time.
“A fortnight ago. Jiya’s not a friend. We've just bumped into each other a couple of times. She has connections to different nursing schools across London and I’m thinking of asking her to tea so we can discuss future avenues of donations.
If I saw her again it would be meeting professionally. ”
Ellen hummed speculatively. Amelia never talked about men.
Usually because all the men she interacted with were either doctors or patients.
And male doctors tended to dislike female doctors.
Ellen never asked what Amelia’s hopes for a family were, but she noticed Amelia only ever blushed when she mentioned pretty and outspoken nurses.
“What are your plans for Christmas?” Amelia hastily changed the subject as she donned her white doctor’s coat.
“We haven't decided yet.”
“So there's a we?” Amelia paused and looked at Ellen.
Now it was Ellen's turn to blush. She took a long drink of her tea, sniffing the earthy brew in an effort to ground herself. She’d gotten so little sleep last night.
After their argument, she'd fumed at Mark as she got ready for bed.
How dare he make such high-handed assumptions about her!
How dare he woo her and quote poetry to her and kiss her senseless and marry her, do all sorts of other things that made her weak-kneed in the middle of the night, then decide she was dimwitted and run away.
How dare he be so sweet and kind and listen to her story about Constance’s name and how bad her day had been and then touch her hand and all but lay his cheek on her knee.
How dare he look at her with such softness in his eyes she thought of melted chocolate.
How dare he caress her face as if he cared about her now!
And those spectacles. She couldn’t believe how the sight of them made her belly swoop and spiral. They were just eyeglasses, for goodness’ sake.
Ellen had gotten into bed but tossed and turned for a good two hours.
She replayed their conversation over and over, thinking of wittier things.
Her belly tumbled at the image of him in his study, the warmth in his gaze when he saw it was her.
And it burned when she remembered what he'd done eight years ago and why he’d done it.
Sleep wouldn’t come. She got out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around herself and went to the connecting door between their rooms. It was locked, but someone, years ago, had left the key in the lock on her side.
All she'd had to do was turn the key, open the door, march over to his bed, and give him a piece of her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she turned the key. She opened the door, silently thanking Mrs. Gaye for keeping the hinges well-oiled. She tiptoed inside the dark room. She even opened her mouth, ready to start her diatribe as she approached. But there was a noise.
His legs slid along the sheets. He was tossing and turning, like her. At first, she thought he was as angry and upset as she had been. Good. Let him stew. Then she heard a low groan.
Ellen’s heart fluttered in concern, and she silently stepped closer. Was he having a nightmare? I don’t know what he went through in the Navy. Do they still fight pirates? Does that happen?
He sucked in a deep breath, unaware of his audience, giving a long shuddering sigh. “Ellen,” he whispered in reverent, low-pitched tones.
Ellen went hot, then cold, and her feet stuck to the carpet. She knew those sounds. She hadn’t heard them in years, but she knew when Mark was experiencing sexual ecstasy. Did he hear me? Does he know I’m here?
Mark made a huffing noise as something clattered on his bedside table. Probably reaching for a cloth in the dark. “You tie me in knots,” he grumbled.
Oh. He didn’t know she was there.
Mortified, Ellen stumbled backward silently in her bare feet, leaving the door cracked behind her, and didn’t dare lock it.
What if he hears the key in the lock? She dove back in bed, bringing the covers up to her chin.
She gasped for breath. I didn’t mean to walk in on that!
Ellen had thought they parted angry. Or perhaps she was the only one who left the exchange in a rage? What did he mean, you tie me in knots?
“He doesn’t look at me with contempt,” she whispered aloud. “At least, not completely, not anymore.” Her memory flashed to the scene only a few hours earlier in his study, when he'd so self-mockingly mentioned the irony of thinking she was stupid.
Wasn’t that part of their marriage over, not to be revived?
She’d noticed his physique, like how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he took a drink of morning tea, or how broad his shoulders looked as he put on or took off his frock coat each day.
How his hands so lovingly stroked the spines of his favorite books.
So her body noticed his. Fine. That was normal, considering their history.
Expected, even. She’d not thought he would notice hers.
He probably isn’t used to abstinence. Ellen hadn’t thought much about it at all, but now she was faced with Mark’s clearly barely-repressed sexual desires, she’d assumed he would get a mistress.
He was good-looking and genial, and some women loved a man in uniform.
If a mistress was too expensive, he could always find a regular girl at a high-end bordello along St. James Street.
He’d been in the Navy. Maybe he is used to abstinence.
How many weeks at a time would he be at sea?
She’d heard some of Amelia’s patients mention how lonely men got at sea that even those who wouldn’t typically be attracted to the male form would sometimes seek companionship with one another.
For others who only were attracted to other men, perhaps a life at sea was perfectly suited to their tastes.
Did he seek the company of other men? She doubted it.
As a stiff, cerebral midshipman with hopes of becoming an officer, there wouldn’t be much opportunity to explore.
Did he have a girl in every port? Ellen was shocked to discover the idea gave her stomach cramps.
Girls would line up to kiss Mark, if they ever discovered how passionate he is under the surface.
She had clearly made some poor decisions after learning how well he kissed.
Ellen huffed, her body hot and aching. I wish...
I wish he’d kept our vows. She eventually drifted to sleep without ever wondering why she wished that so badly.
Ellen had woken to the gray light of pre-dawn, still discomfited by what she’d accidentally witnessed. She’d donned her heaviest wool clothing, then a dark cloak lined with Welsh flannel, and slipped off to the dispensary.
And now, here she sat, exhausted and confused and wondering how on earth she was supposed to look at Mark again knowing he’d done that while thinking of her.
Amelia frowned, clearly concerned by Ellen’s hesitation. “Is he treating you badly again?”
Ellen shook her head. “No. He’s treating me well, which confuses me.”
The door opened and Mrs. Daugherty ushered a young, pregnant woman with a baby on her hip through the door. “Slipping this one in early before the rush.” She winked at Amelia and Ellen, shutting the door and resuming her post.
When Amelia and Ellen told Mrs. Daugherty about the latest donations—the murder bottles specifically—she’d just sighed and kept on checking the schedule book.
It was such a world-weary sigh, as though she’d experienced similar contempt or self-righteousness over the years that it wasn’t worth getting angry over anymore.
She just said, “And this is why I’m glad you two take in the donations yourselves to serve as a buffer. ”
This patient, however, didn’t seem to need the social buffer Mrs. Daugherty mentioned.
The young Black woman was older than many of their first-time mothers, perhaps twenty-two or so.
And her baby had the chubbiest cheeks Ellen had ever seen.
She hardly noticed any of that. She took one look at the scratch marks on the backs of the woman’s hands and the way one foot lifted to rub against the calf of her other leg.
Dread filled her. “Are you itching?” she demanded, moving toward the woman.
Amelia slipped between them, facing the woman with a smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. And what an adorable baby you have. When’s your second due?”