Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [42]
“I fink she’s a little better,” Mary said hopefully when she realized Hester was beside her.
“Good.” Hester did not argue. “Lady Ravensbrook’s got the fever now. I’m going to find a hansom to take her home. Lady Callandra will stay here, and Dr. Beck will be back later this evening. See what you can do about some more wood. Alf said there was some rotten timber on the dockside. It’ll be wet, but if we stick it in here it may dry out a bit. It will spark badly, but in the stoves that won’t matter.”
“Yes, miss. I …”
“What?”
“I’m sorry about Lady Ravensbrook.” Mary’s face was pinched with concern. Hester could see it even in this uncertain light. “That’s a real shame.” Mary shook her head. “Didn’t think a strong lady like that’d catch it. You take care, miss. In’t much ter you neither.” She looked up and down Hester’s rather thin figure with kindly honesty. “Yer ain’t got much ter fight agin it wif. You lose ’alf yer weight an’ there won’t be nuffink left.”
Hester did not agree with that piece of logic, but she did not argue. She pulled her shawl closer around herself and retraced her steps back between the straw beds and the entrance, and went down the stairs to the outside door and the street.
Outside was pitch-dark and gusting rain on the blustery wind. The solitary gas lamp just around the corner shed a haze of light through the rain, guiding her towards Park Place. She would probably have to round the narrow Limehouse Causeway up to the West India Dock Road before she could find a hansom. She pulled her shawl tighter around herself and bent her head against the rain. It was less than half a mile.
She passed several people. It was still early evening and men were returning from work in factories, dockyards and warehouses. One or two nodded to her as their paths crossed in the misty arc of a streetlight. She had become a familiar figure to far too many who knew or loved someone stricken with typhoid, but to most she was just another drab woman about her business.
The West India Dock Road was busier. There was plenty of general traffic, goods carts, drays, wagons laden with bales for the docks or warehouses, loads taken off barges or ready to go on in the morning, horse-drawn omnibuses, an ambulance, and all manner of coach and carriage of the more ordinary type. There were no hansoms, broughams or fashionable pairs.
It was ten minutes before she managed to stop a hansom looking for a fare.
“The corner of Park Street and Gill Street, please,” she requested.
“It’s less ’n five minutes away,” the cabby protested, seeing her wet shawl, worn boots and dull dress. “Lost the use o’ yer legs, ’ave yer? Look, luv, i’nt worth your money. You can walk it, an’ sure as ’ell’s a waitin’, yer i’nt goin’ ter get any wetter than y’are!”
“I know, thank you.” She forced herself to smile at him. “I’ve got a friend there who needs to go up west, all the way to Mayfair. That’s what I need you for.”
“Mayfair?” he said with disbelief. “What’d anybody from ’ere be doin’ in Mayfair?”
She debated whether to tell him to mind his own business, and decided swiftly against it. She needed him too much. Enid was too ill to wait until she found another cabby who was less skeptical or inquisitive.
“She lives there. She’s been helping us organize the hospital for the fever!” She said it in her own most cultured accent.
“ ’Ad enough o’ Limehouse, ’as she?” he said dryly, but there was no unkindness in his voice, and she could not see his face since he had his back to the light.
“For a while,” she replied. “Change of clothes and some more money.” It was a lie, but one to serve a better purpose. If she told him the truth, he might well whip up his horse and she’d never see him again.
“Get in!” he said agreeably.
She climbed in without