Exiting the Selsby townhouse without being noticed was impossible. Its noisy stairs squeaked and groaned, giving away even the lightest tread. But Kate didn’t need to avoid questions when she departed this afternoon. Her brother and sister-in-law—who’d fret if they knew of her trips to the East End—were away visiting friends and wouldn’t return until supper. She’d be back well in time to share the evening meal as a family. Kate and Will had started the practice of dining together years before, as bachelor brother and widowed sister sharing their family’s London townhome. With the addition of Will’s new wife, Ada, and her young sister, Vicky, the tradition had grown even richer.

Downstairs Kate found the Selsby’s housekeeper Sally trimming the fireplace mantle with holly and red satin ribbon. Vicky, the sweetest addition to their growing family, assisted her. Christmas was only a few weeks away and there was much to do before the party to celebrate Will and Ada’s recent marriage, and their first holiday as man and wife.

“What more is to be done, Sally?”

“Wee Vicky and I have it well in hand, miss.”

As soon as Kate spoke, Vicky approached and embraced her sister-in-law around the waist. Kate stroked the girl’s chocolate brown curls a moment before Vicky echoed her usual plea.

“Won’t you take me with you?”

“Not today, my dear, but we must go Christmas shopping together soon. How does that sound?”

“Perfect! I shall make a start on a list.”

Her ten-year-old’s enthusiasm was boundless, and the child turned away so quickly Kate thought she might start her list then and there, but she returned to sorting the ribbons and shiny boughs of greenery.

“Please tell Will and Ada I’ll return in time for supper.”

“Visiting are you then, Mrs. Guthrie?” Sally posed the question in a teasing tone, arching her eyebrow to emphasize the secret Kate had shared with her.

As yet Kate had kept her charity work in Whitechapel from her brother. And though her sister-in-law, Ada, had been born and raised in the district, Kate kept the details of her weekly jaunts to the East End from her too. She couldn’t face the admonitions and dire warnings about spending time in one of the most dangerous parts of London. Most of all, she couldn’t face Mr. Solomon Thrumble’s disapproval if he ever learned how she spent her days.

Yet Sally, in her observant way, took careful note of Kate’s leaving the house three days per week for the entire afternoon and much of the early evening. After all, Kate had never been much for visiting and doing the social rounds. And when Sally found her in the kitchen late one evening attempting to scrub a stain from her Whitechapel gown, the details of her charity work were easy for Kate to confess to a woman she’d known most of her life. With her usual practicality, Sally hadn’t simply warned her to take care when traveling in the East End, she’d presented Kate with a fearsome little object with which to protect herself.

“Don’t forget your wee friend, will you?”

Now Sally always reminded her to carry the small homemade cudgel, an oval of discarded leather stitched around a bit of lead ballast with a roughhewn piece of wood for a handle.

Kate patted the pocket of her skirt and returned Sally’s smile with a grin of her own before lifting the collar of her cloak against the winter chill and stepping out the door to hail a hansom cab to take her to Whitechapel.

Sally had been with the Selsby family for as long as Kate could remember, and she’d promised to stay on with Will and Ada. Now that the newlyweds were expecting their first child, Kate was especially grateful for Sally’s steady presence. But unlike their housekeeper, Kate had to move on with her own life, open her heart to the future, and start again.

Time heals all wounds. She’d heard the trite phrase often enough. She’d even uttered it a few times to her brother after he’d returned wounded and heart sore from the Second Afghan War. And in truth, time had eased the vividness of her memories. Nightmares came less frequently, and when she thought of Andrew now, a veil—though at times too thin—separated her from the pain and terror he had inflicted.

Solomon Thrumble was a different sort of man. Calm and stoic, he seemed wholly opposite in nature to her first husband. Andrew Guthrie’s fiery temper had been so well hidden by his charming, affable public face that none had suspected the monster he became in private.

But almost ten years of widowhood was surely enough. Friends continually urged her to marry. Her brother expected it. And Solomon Thrumble wished to marry her, despite her first refusal. With Will and Ada settled and on the cusp of starting a family at Moreton Terrace, it was time to marry and move on.

After all, time heals all wounds.

But more so than time, usefulness had healed Kate’s soul. To be needed, first by her brother after his return from war and now by the patients at the Whitechapel clinic, eased the ache in heart, set her mind to worthwhile tasks, and allowed her to counter the cruelty she’d found at Andrew’s hands. Tending the sick and wounded in Whitechapel seemed to help her as much as it benefited others. The pleasure gained from being needed was so keen, she sometimes felt selfish for the hours she devoted to charitable work. Such a great expenditure of time would surely be impossible once she took on the duties of a married woman.

The bounce and sway of the carriage and the steady clip clop of horse’s hooves on cobblestone had lured her into reverie, but she sat up straight, shaking the cobwebs of memory away. The scent in the air alerted her. They’d entered Whitechapel. None of London’s streets smelled sweet. Not even the teeming flower stalls in Covent Garden could mask the stench of so many working horses. But Whitechapel had a smell all its own, a fetid rankness that assaulted the senses. Kate had grown accustomed to it over time, but smelling it again even after a few days’ absence took some getting used to.

The cabbie dropped her in front of the clinic and she stopped a moment on the pavement rather than dashing inside as she normally would to avoid the more unsavory gentlemen who sometimes gathered outside the nearby pub and called to her, offering or petitioning favors no decent woman should hear.

Taking her time, she studied the front of the building which housed the small clinic, straining to imprint every little aspect of it on her memory—the freshly scrubbed window panes, the weather-beaten wooden door, its paint peeling off in long, curling flecks of dingy white. A sign maker up the road had donated the sign above her head, its words drawn in the most careful, bold yellow script. She had tended to that man’s wife. Mary Winship—that was her name. An infection after giving birth to her sixth child had laid the older woman low for a while, but Kate and the volunteer nurses and doctors had cared for her and nursed her back to health. How was Mrs. Winship doing now?

The tear that had threatened back at home returned now and made its way down her cheek. This would be the last time she ever saw the clinic, the last time she contributed her time to such a worthy cause. Mr. Thrumble would never approve of her forays into the East End. He might allow her time for charitable work, but it would be closer to home in London’s more fashionable districts, and it would only be allowed after she had done her duty to him and whatever children she might bear. He would expect that of her, and he would have every right to do so. A wife’s time was not her own.

She spied Alice Cole through the window levering a clean piece of linen onto a cot. Most beds were empty this evening. It would be a quiet night at the clinic. Though she usually preferred to be so busy she didn’t have time to peek at the watch fob pinned to her skirt, a quiet night would give her the opportunity to say her goodbyes. She sniffed away her tears, straightened her back, and walked into the clinic for the very last time.

You've reached the end of published parts.

⏰ Last updated: Dec 31, 2014 ⏰

Add this story to your Library to get notified about new parts!

Reckless Wager (a Whitechapel Wagers novel)Where stories live. Discover now