A Brutal Chill in August: A Novel of Polly Nichols, The First Victim of Jack the Ripper (21 page)

Polly wasn’t prepared for the reaction. If she’d had to face anger, she would have been able to respond. The sadness in Susan’s eyes said that the woman still thought the best of Polly. The realization that she did not feel the least bit worthy of such goodwill became a pain in her chest that took much of what little strength remained to her. The landing seemed to spin about for a moment, and she reached out to the wall to steady herself.

Susan took her by the arm. “You should come in and sit.”

“No,” Polly said, “I don’t have time. You’ve been good to me and I’ve abused your trust. I’m truly sorry for that, yet I’m too weary to speak to you of my problems at present. I’ll tell you what has happened soon.” Although she didn’t think she’d do that, for the time being, the statement might help forestall the matter.

“When you’re ready, then,” Susan said. She patted Polly’s hands affectionately. “Percy and Alice are in the courtyard playing. I told them not to be long.”

Polly had not seen the older children when she came in. With Percy thirteen years old and Alice at age eleven, they were old enough to take care of themselves in the afternoon. She gathered her toddler and infant from the Heryford flat and went to her flat to prepare supper.

Traveling some miles on foot each time she went out to search, several days a week, even at the cost of many of her other responsibilities, Polly wasn’t merely physically exhausted, she was wrung out emotionally as well. At some point between starting a pot to boil on the stove and cutting potatoes, she collapsed on the floor.

* * *

“Percy and Alice said they couldn’t wake you,” Bill said, when she came around much later.

Polly found herself in bed. She saw darkness outside her bedroom window.

“They still fussed over you when I came home,” he said, his manner strangely sweet. A flowery fragrance came from his clothing.

“The potatoes?”

“They took the pot off the stove. I fetched meat puddings and we had a feast. They’re getting spoiled.” He rubbed her arm softly.

Polly didn’t want her husband’s tenderness, she wanted Tom’s. Despite the time—at least a year—that had passed since last she’d seen him, she missed her lover as much as ever. Even so, the thread of hope she’d had of finding Tom had finally broken. Polly knew she’d come to the end of her strength, and that she’d have to abandon the search. The Dews had moved somewhere else, away from South London. Polly would never find them.

She groaned and turned over, away from Bill.

Polly heard his steps as he left the room.

She wanted a drink, but, for the present, she’d sleep.

28

Bed Rest

When Polly awoke, she found a short, plump woman she didn’t know sitting beside her bedstead feeding Henry from a small bowl. Eliza sat in a crib beside the door, playing with what looked like a red felt elephant. Polly had never seen the toy or the crib before.

“I am Nurse Flake,” the woman said. With a small mouth and nose, fair skin, and large brown eyes, she looked something like a porcelain doll. The beautiful, dark hair on her head was done up in a bun. “Your husband has employed me to watch over you for the week. You are to remain in bed, and I’ll do everything for you.”

Polly ached all over. The emptiness in her stomach needed filling. She groaned and sat up.

The nurse set the bowl down on the table beside the bed next to a cup of water, then got up from her seat and lowered Henry into the crib. She moved to the cabinet on the other side of the bed, fetched the chamber pot, and placed it on the floor.

Polly stepped from the bed, and squatted over the porcelain vessel to relieve herself.

“Am I ill?” she asked. Her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth.

“We had a doctor in. He said you suffer from overwork, and prescribed a week of bed rest. You’ve slept for two days. I should think you’d be hungry.”

Although Polly had felt a strong need, little urine fell into the chamber pot. The liquid had a dark yellow appearance and a strong, sour odor. Polly’s stomach growled even as she returned to bed. “And thirsty.” Her voice came out rough. She reached for the glass of water and the nurse stopped her.

“Let me help,” Nurse Flake said. “You’ll be unsteady.” She lifted the glass and helped hold it, but pulled it away before Polly had her fill. “You mustn’t have too much at once.”

Polly smelled a familiar odor on the woman. “What is the sweet fragrance?”

“My beau bought me a fine French soap what has a scent—peonies, I think.”

Polly remembered that Bill smelled of the peony scent when he’d awakened her.
When was that,
Polly asked herself,
two days ago? Before or after he hired the nurse?

Nurse Flake set the glass on the bedside table. “Don’t try to lift it on your own until you’ve got a bit of your strength back.” She handed Polly a mirror. “I’m sure you’ll want to tame your hair. I’ll just get some porridge for you.” Although she got up and left the room, she continued to speak loudly enough for Polly to hear her. “You’re lucky to have such lovely children.”

Polly looked in the mirror, and absently straightened her hair. The small scar on her forehead stood out, its shiny oblong shape with the small lip on one side, catching the light. While considering the flaw, something about the nurse troubled Polly’s thoughts.

“Are you married?” she asked, trying to make her voice loud enough to reach the next room. The words came out with a bit of croaking, yet evidently were heard.

“Yes, I am, but when we discovered I cannot become pregnant, Harry left for Australia. He writes to me so I know he still lives or I might have remarried.”

During a pause in the nurse’s words, Polly heard the clinking of a utensil against a bowl. She wished the woman would hurry back with the food.

“Bill said he hoped I’d like your children, since I’d be spending so much time with them. I’m glad to say that I do.”

Is he grooming her to replace me?
Polly wondered. She noted that Nurse Flake didn’t refer to him as Mr. Nichols.

When she returned, Polly wasted no time asking, “How do you know my husband?”

The quickness and tone of Polly’s question seemed to surprise and fluster Nurse Flake. She stopped dead in her tracks, the bowl and spoon held loosely in her hands. Despite the gnawing hunger, Polly wanted to hear the woman’s answer right away.

“I-well…I…um…met your husband many years ago…uh…when he stayed with his sister, Rebecca, for a brief time after dropping a crate on his foot.”

What Polly most remembered about Bill’s injury of that time was the cane he used to help him get around on his damaged foot, the one with which he’d beaten her. Bill stayed with his sister following the thrashing her father had given him.

“His sister and I have been lifelong friends,” Nurse Flake said, “and she called on me to take care of him in her home. As I recall, he wasn’t married at the time. Are your older children from another marriage?”

“We
were
married at the time,” Polly said.

The nurse frowned. “I see.”

She drew her chair up beside the bed and awkwardly fed Polly a spoonful at a time of porridge. Polly avoided looking her in the eye. She brooded.

* * *

She didn’t care if the woman took her husband’s affections. Polly didn’t want them, yet she did want some of what came with their marriage. Bill had to provide for her, and couldn’t divorce her without evidence of adultery. Apparently, the traces of that were so well hidden, even Polly had been unable to find them after a year of searching.

What bothered her most about Nurse Flake was that the woman had a good way with the children. She treated them as if they were her own. She laughed and played with Percy and Alice when they came in from school. Although they treated her like a friend, when she gave commands, they complied readily. She’d made felt toys for them as well, a yellow lion for Percy, and a white swan for Alice.

The older children couldn’t have been pleased with Polly for a long time, especially during the last year. She had been so worn out from her desperate search that she gave them little time or energy. Her presence had been the bare minimum required on most occasions, and at times woefully inadequate. She could not remember the last time one of her children had approached her with eyes filled with delight.

In the evenings, when Bill came home, she listened to him talking in low tones to Nurse Flake. Polly believed she heard tender feelings expressed between them, even though she could not make out their words. Bill slept in the bed next to Polly at night without touching her. The reasonable explanations might have been that he thought she should be left alone while recovering from her exhaustion or that he’d been instructed to do so. Polly thought he’d lost interest in her. The more she considered the idea, the more she hoped that to be true.

Over the days of her confinement to bed, she increasingly felt like a stranger in her own home. When the nurse or any of her family spoke to her, Polly showed little emotion. Her weariness continued, and she drowsed fitfully.

“Polly, dear,” Bill said to her, “are you still with us? You seem to have traveled to a distant land.” She didn’t respond.

* * *

On her sixth day of confinement to bed, she was awakened as Nurse Flake brought her a visitor. Polly hid her excitement upon seeing Estell enter the room carrying a large carpet bag.

“Mrs. Nichols,” she said. “Good to see you.”

In the year and a half since Polly had last seen her, Estell had grown into a woman.

“I am busy folding nappies,” the nurse said, “so I’ll leave you two.” She turned to Estell. “I’ve been told not to get Polly excited, but she suffers a melancholia. I should think a lively response from her would be most welcome.”

“Yes, nurse,” Estell said, dutifully.

“Shall I take your bag for you?” Nurse Flake asked.

“No, thank you. I won’t be long.”

As soon as the nurse left the room, Polly allowed her eyes to go wide. She opened her arms. Estell sat on the bed and hugged her. When she pulled away, glad tears streamed down the younger woman’s face. “Because of you, I have good work,” she said proudly. “A position! I’m a clerk for the Sedulential Assurance Company.”

Polly had never heard of such a thing, a young woman entrusted with record-keeping. “How?”

“You taught me to read and write. I’m very good at it. The company gave tests for female employees, and I won a position.”

“I’m so
very
proud of you.” Polly pulled Estell close and hugged her again. When the younger woman pulled away, Polly wasted no time asking, “How’s Tom? Where is he?”

Estell’s smile turned grim. “My income supports us now. We’re in York Street, Walworth. We lost Nancy over the winter, poor girl. She began coughing one day and didn’t stop until her little heart did. Tom took it hard. He’s not done well since last you saw him.”

Where Polly had lived on Trafalgar Street was part of Walworth. Although she’d searched the area—a mere two miles away—evidently, she’d not done a thorough job.

“I’ll come right away,” Polly said.

“Yes, perhaps that’s best,” Estell said, her eyes becoming large. “Your nurse speaks freely of things she should not. I’m glad she has done. She said your husband spoke to the doctor, and they decided that if you didn’t come out of your melancholia soon, they’d send you to Bedlam.”

Estell used the local pronunciation for Bethlem Hospital, the centuries-old madhouse. Polly felt her mouth drop open and her eyes focussed beyond Etsell on the intangible distance where memory lived. In an instant, she saw how Bill might have fancied a form of insanity growing in her for a long time, possibly years. She understood his reasoning as she thought of her secretiveness, her drinking, her indifference to him, and so many evenings lately when he came home to find her exhausted. Within the last year, she’d taken to going to bed early so she didn’t have to spend time with him, and also so she’d awaken early the next day and be ready to continue her work or resume her search as quickly as possible. She’d got so that she rarely spoke to him or the children. He probably saw the changes in her as a retreat from the world.

She’d walked past Bethlem Royal Hospital in Lambeth on several occasions. Perhaps the days were long past when the madhouse had been so defined by the tumult and din of its inmates that the facility fairly rocked on its foundation and the new word “bedlam” was coined. At present, the hospital kept its greens beautiful, and allowed some of its inmates to stroll among the trees while supervised. The current common wisdom held that the patients were well treated, but Polly had heard that the “tours” of the asylum for those who wanted to gawk at the raving lunatics still took place. She had no desire to become a part of the entertainment.

Then again, Bill may know I’m perfectly sane, yet he needs an excuse to be rid of me so he can take up with Nurse Flake. Pretending happiness could spoil their plan.

No, if they don’t have the excuse to put me away in the madhouse, they might turn to murder.
Polly imagined the nurse bringing her a teaspoon of poison in the guise of medicine.