London - Edward Rutherfurd [568]
The pains in her stomach had started a week ago. Sometimes they seemed like a knot. Twice she had been sick and she knew she was very pale. She was not surprised when Mrs Silversleeves said gently:
“Jenny, you don’t look very well. I’m going to call the doctor.”
If Mayfair had always remained a fashionable residential quarter, the area above Oxford Street had taken on a more professional air. Baker Street, on its western side, had been immortalized by Conan Doyle as the abode of his fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, but Harley Street near its eastern edge had achieved world fame all on its own.
Harley Street: it was, so to speak, the Savile Row of the medical profession. The men who practised in Harley Street were no ordinary doctors, but the most eminent specialists and were usually granted the title of “Mr”, rather than “Dr”. They also had the reputation for being rude – for the simple reason that they could get away with it. After all, if a man is only treating you for the common cold, you need not put up with much nonsense; but if he is going to cut a piece out of your liver, you normally prefer to humour him.
With some apprehension, the following week, Jenny made her way down Harley Street until she reached the door which a brass plate announced was the sanctum of Mr Algernon Tyrrell-Ford.
The Silversleeves’s family doctor had not been able to find anything seriously wrong with her; but he had confessed to Mrs Silversleeves that, had Jenny been able to afford it, he would have sent her to a specialist just to make sure. Esther had been adamant. “Of course she must go!” she said. “Refer all the bills to me.” And despite Jenny’s protests she had sent her there in the carriage.
Mr Tyrrell-Ford turned out to be a large, portly and brusque gentleman. He ordered her sharply to undress and then examined her. It left Jenny feeling awkward and humiliated.
“Nothing wrong with you,” he stated bluntly. “I’ll write to your referring doctor, of course.”
“Oh,” she said weakly. “That’s nice.” She tried to mumble more thanks; but he did not seem interested. Then, just as she was nearly dressed he casually remarked: “You know you can’t have children, I suppose.”
She stared at him in horror for a moment. “But why not?” she managed at last.
Seeing no point in wasting words which such an insignificant woman could not possibly understand he merely shrugged. “It’s the way you’re made,” he said.
Percy had suggested by letter that they should meet at Tower Bridge and she had agreed. She understood it was his way of saying that he hoped the place would bring him luck.
Now that she knew what to do it was almost a relief. When she had told Mrs Silversleeves, the old lady was not sure. “He might not mind, Jenny,” she had suggested. But Jenny had known better. “He told me he wants a family,” she explained. “I know Percy. If I tell him the truth now, he’ll say it doesn’t matter. But it does.” The old lady had sighed.
Though it was summer, it was a dull day. As she had expected, he was waiting for her in the middle of the bridge, just as he had before. She gave him a smile, linked her arm in his in a friendly way, and then began to walk, leading him instinctively to the southern side, as if she were returning him to his own territory. They walked a little way down Tower Bridge Road then turned right towards London Bridge Station where there was a little tea shop where they could sit down.
“What’s it to be, then?” he asked.
“Just a cup of tea,” she said quickly, so he ordered tea and for a minute or two they talked about nothing at all, until the tea was poured.
“So,” he said again, looking at her meaningfully this time. “What’s it to be, Jenny?”
“I’m sorry, Percy,” she said slowly. “I’m so flattered, I mean, really honoured, Percy. You’re such a kind friend. But I just can’t.”
He looked shaken. “Is it something Maisie . . .”
“No,” she cut in. “It isn’t that. I don’t care about her. It’s my fault. I like going out with you very much, Percy. I’ve really enjoyed it. But I’m happy where I am. I don’t want to get married.