“You will be permitted to do what you like, Miss Pritchard, so long as it’s not on these premises.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to plead for mercy. “Before you ask, don’t even consider requesting references, as none will be forthcoming. Good day to you, Miss Pritchard.” He substituted “miss” for “nurse,” making it clear that it was no longer her title.
Oh God, nothing had at all gone as she’d hoped or as she’d feared. Her greatest fear should not have been that Trenwyth remembered her.
It should have been that he’d not recognize her at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Imogen didn’t remember that she’d abandoned her things in her cupboard at the hospital until halfway through her shift at the Bare Kitten. She couldn’t even recall who’d escorted her out. She’d barely felt the chill of the misting rain until she’d wandered the streets for an hour. Incredulity had given way to numbness, and then despair. She couldn’t bring herself to return home. Couldn’t watch her mother try to keep the house and cook the meals and do the shopping on rheumatic knees that no longer wanted to work. Couldn’t watch her sister, dear, pretty Isobel, try to make herself look presentable for school and tell her that she might just have to go to the factory instead. She couldn’t face her failure in their eyes. She’d saved the life of a wealthy, ungrateful duke and, in doing so, lost the only income that kept them afloat. It amazed her how short a distance it was from St. Margaret’s in the West End to the Bare Kitten on St. James’s Street, and yet, how they seemed to occupy separate worlds.
Her world was only this now, Imogen thought as she looked around the dingy opulence of the place she loathed. Sweeping rubbish and a broken glass from the disgusting floor, she did her very best not to resent everyone and everything. Her father, for leaving them in this diminished position. Her sister for being younger and innocent and in need of protection. Her mother for being feeble and ill and reliant upon her. Dr. Fowler for his irrational ego and damnable pride. Trenwyth for making love to her. For making her care for him. For not recognizing her.
And most of all, herself. Because, regardless of everything, this was her fault.
“While you’re down there on your hands and knees, why don’t you clean this with your mouth?” the drunken man who’d broken the glass suggested as he cupped himself lewdly. His companions erupted into hilarity disproportionate to the wit, as a table of drunken men was wont to do.
Imogen stood, her broom in one hand and dustpan in the other. “I’ll get you a new glass,” she offered dryly, trying to avoid the disgusting sight of the spittle studding his beard. She turned away, making for the rubbish bin behind the bar.
“How much for this one, del Toro?” The man slapped her behind as she passed him. “She seems obedient. I like that.”
Del Toro paused from where he enjoyed his imported cigar in the corner. “She’s my serving bird,” he answered easily. “She’s not for sale, Barton. But help yourself to any of my kittens, sir, at a discount since it’s a slow night.”
“Not for sale, everyone’s for sale!” Barton argued. “How much, and I’ll pay it?”
Del Toro’s eyes flickered over her, and he sent her a secret smile that curdled like sour milk in her stomach. “Someone once paid twenty pounds for her.” He blew a perfect ring of smoke. “You can have her for that much.”
“Ha! That’s an entire bargeload of shit, del Toro. She in’nt worth twenty shillings, tits that small.”
“My hand to God.” Del Toro enjoyed his own story with a hearty laugh. “Believe me or don’t.”
“Who was the doffer wot paid it?” Barton challenged.
“Now, Barton, what would your wife think if I went around disclosing my clientele?” Del Toro was without scruples, certainly, but not without savvy. “A man in my business must be discreet.” He gave Imogen a wink, but tossed his head toward the bar in a silent order to get back to work.
Discarding the shards of the glass into the rubbish bin, she stowed the broom and dustpan and returned to fill the odious Mr. Barton another drink.
“I’ll do it, Ginny.” Jeremy Carson flashed that kind, boyish smile of his and, not for the first time, Imogen noted that his cobalt eyes seemed to have witnessed ages. “I’ll deal with your table if you deal with that, though I don’t know that I’m doing you any favors.” He pointed to a puddle of vomit left beneath a table of old and grumbling men who’d decided now was a good time to settle the bill.
Sighing, Ginny decided she’d rather clean up vomit than serve human excrement like Mr. Barton.
“It’s a full moon tonight,” Jeremy mused seriously. “They say it makes people do strange and terrible things. Best watch yourself, Ginny.”
“Thank you, Jeremy.” She mustered a grateful smile, and went in search of a pail.
She spent the night working through her predicament in her head. Rent was due in a week, and she’d not have it. The larder was full—well—as full as it ever was, and they wouldn’t starve if they were careful for at least two weeks. Maybe she could apply for another nursing position at a different hospital. She didn’t have references, but if she wasn’t mistaken, Dr. Longhurst held her in some respect. Perhaps she could convince him to write an unofficial letter of recommendation.
The thought cheered her slightly as she emptied the rubbish bins into the can in the side alley out back. Her arm ached from the strain as she used one to clutch her shawl over her wig to keep the curls from loosening in the rain. All she had to do was wait until Dr. Longhurst finished his shift at St. Margaret’s and catch him as he left. She could even pen the letter for him and persuade him to sign it, and then she wouldn’t have to rely on him to remember—