Ripper (11 page)

That morning at the hospital, I assisted in the curtained delivery area with Dr. Bartlett. During a particularly stressful delivery, he helped Simon perform a caesarian. The woman lived through this one, but Dr. Bartlett asked me to bring some dried ginger root from the pharmacy to ward off infection—a very real threat.

I had not familiarized myself enough with the pharmacy contents, particularly the herbal medicines and their Latin labels, and as I scanned the shelves for the bottle of ginger, I knocked a bottle of ammonia onto the floor.

I cursed.

As the strong smell of the solution permeated the pharmacy, making my eyes water, I ran back through the laboratory toward the small utility room. Hoping that it contained not only a sink, but also a mop and bucket, I swung open the door.

I gasped, and my blood ran cold.

The room did in fact contain a large, tublike sink, a broom, a bucket, and a mop. But it was the wall that caught my eye. It had a single decoration—a small, dingy painting. It looked old, the canvas buckled a bit against the rotting wood frame.

The painting featured a silver chalice with a single Latin phrase engraved across the side:
A Posse Ad Esse.

I felt my world spin a bit; this chalice was identical to the chalice in my visions.

But why? Why would I see it here?

I stayed frozen where I was, processing what was before me, until I heard footsteps, and then William cursing loudly as he discovered the spilled ammonia.

I recovered my senses a bit. Although my throat felt parched, dry from the shock, I had to act normally.

“Guilty,” I said as William stormed into the utility room. His angry expression softened when he saw me. I took this as a good sign.

“I knocked it over as I tried to find the ginger root, and was just in here to get a mop.” Then, nodding my head toward the picture, I asked casually, “What is that?”

“That?” William responded, distracted as he filled the bucket with water in the sink. “It's just an ugly portrait of a communion cup or the Holy Grail or something. It's always been in here.”

“But the inscription? The Latin words. From possibility … ” My brain fumbled through my poor knowledge of Latin.

“I never noticed the inscription.” He peered at it a little closer. “From possibility to actuality.”

He hauled the bucket out of the sink and I quickly grabbed the mop. It would seem odd if I focused on the old painting too much. But I was certain that it depicted the chalice from my visions.

William finished mopping up the ammonia, and I finally located the bottle of ground ginger root on the second shelf. William stood up awkwardly as I began to leave. His voice came out a bit abruptly. “So, I thought that today might be a great day for you to come to our house and meet Christina.”

I panicked. So far, although I felt attracted to William, he intimidated me, and I had managed to keep him at a safe distance. His famous writer aunt also seemed a bit daunting to me. Meeting Christina Rossetti, being in their home, both excited me and made me anxious. I felt even more flustered as I looked down at the blood, amniotic fluid, iodine stains, and splashed ammonia on my dress and apron.

“I need to change first.”

“Christina will think none the less of you.”

“I do need to tell Grandmother also.”

“Go home, clean up, and inform Lady Westfield that you have dinner plans with the Rossettis. Unless I hear otherwise, I'll assume that you're joining us for dinner.”

Grandmother seemed in a good mood when I arrived home—far from the rage she had been in that morning. She looked quite nice in a plum-colored dress with pearl earbobs. I assumed she had spent the day with Lady Violet. She sat at her desk in the parlor humming to herself while she wrote a thank you note. I felt a sense of relief that she seemed to have lost some of her anger from the morning.

“Hello, Arabella. You are home early today.”

“Yes.” I swallowed. “Grandmother, your dress is lovely.”

She turned around in her chair, staring at me suspiciously, quill pen still in hand.

I took a deep breath. “Would it be all right if I dined this evening with Dr. William Siddal and his aunt?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is he the physician who kept you so late, the evening you became lost on your walk?”

“Yes.”

“And his aunt is going to be there?” The edge in her voice must have made the still-bandaged Jupe nervous. He rolled off her lap and ran stiffly from the room. “Who is she?”

“Christina Rossetti.”

Grandmother's eyes blazed. I had given her the wrong information.

She stood up. “William Siddal is a relation to the
Rossettis?”

I heard a sharp, suppressed laugh from the hallway.
Richard!
I was glad that the situation amused him.

“Yes. William is Gabriel Rossetti's adopted son.”

“Not
only
are you spending days and nights at the East End hospital, but now you are cavorting with the
Rossettis.
Do you know about their family?”

“I know that Christina Rossetti has been a very dedicated and devout woman to the poor … ”

“They are
poets
.” She spit the word out as one would say
thief
or
whore
. “Arabella, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a classic hedonist, a womanizer, and a drug user. His models—well, he had affairs with
all
of them. He had countless mistresses.”

She did know about the Rossetti family.

“I like William.”

She paused. Horror crossed her face. With a tremulous hand, she dropped her quill.

I knew that Grandmother was fighting with all of her might not to forbid me from accepting the dinner invitation. As she almost always did, she cast her eyes in the direction of the dining room. She knew I was too much like my mother. Blinking back angry tears, she took a deep breath and struggled against her own will.

There was nothing to say, so I bowed slightly and left.

Twelve

I
had never met anyone as socially conscious as Christina Rossetti. An advocate for animal welfare, she never ate meat. She never drank alcohol. And, as William had previously told me, she did allow a limited number of former prostitutes to live in her house, referring to them as her “friends.”

According to William, the seven or eight residents who lived with Christina at any time had to have impeccable recommendations from their physicians and demonstrate much promise in terms of seeking and keeping respectable employment. Christina treated them with dignity, allowing each woman to have her own bedroom, and even encouraging them to attend church with her on Sundays. As long as they worked and refrained from alcohol, Christina housed them until they could afford to rent their own rooms. It was a remarkable system, and beyond various physical ailments, which William attended to, she had never had any severe problems—she had established too excellent a system of mutual respect with her friends.

Furthermore, Christina charitably employed an eighty-year-old former prostitute, Perdita, to work as her maid. On the carriage ride, William told me that the old woman, blind and nearly deaf, was incapable of doing much real work.

Christina herself was pale and fragile in appearance, with beautiful, orblike dark eyes. Though in her fifties, she had the energy of a much younger woman. Furthermore, in spite of her tiny figure and short stature, she carried a giant stewpot to the table with ease, and I could see how she managed, on top of her other responsibilities, to volunteer at New Hospital.

Her house was dark inside, the walls painted in dark greens and browns. In spite of this, the dwelling was by no means inhospitable. Books lined nearly every inch of the walls, even one wall in the dining room. Glancing over the titles, I observed an eclectic and broad range of topics. Devotional and religious books stood beside art books and anthologies of fairy tales and myths. Sketches, charcoal skeletons of more famous paintings, hung upon many of the walls. A polished cross hung on the left wall of the dining room, across from the books. But apart from the cross, Christina maintained a relaxed atmosphere at the table. William's Great Dane, Hugo, sat at his feet, and Christina's beloved parrot flew about the room, finally perching on my shoulder as I sat down for dinner.

“Toby likes you,” Christina said as she sat near me.

I didn't mind the bird much—except for when he beat my face with his feathers.

As the meal progressed, Christina's hospitality made me feel at home. I found William more at ease around his aunt, less intense than he was at work. Christina was very kind to me, and I could tell that she was quite fond of William. I noticed her peering at me occasionally in a manner that I found a bit unsettling. She asked me several questions about my growing up and I told her a bit about my years in Dublin, sans stories of the knife throwing.

Around seven thirty, Christina began watching the clock. “Some of my friends are supposed to return a little after eight. These recent Whitechapel murders have made me nervous for them.”

“Dr. Bartlett thinks that the murders are over,” I offered, curious about William's opinion.

“That's not likely,” William said.

“You think there will be more?” I felt a bit surprised at the tone of William's voice. He had spoken with certainty.

“I do. These murders are far too planned, too methodical. The murderer is sending a message. He is not finished yet.”

Christina's eyes seemed liquid as she pondered this for a second. “Please explain, William.”

“I
saw
the body of the first victim, the Nichols woman, at the mortuary. My reaction was that the murder was
not
a random violent act against a prostitute. Every injury on her body seemed intentional. With Annie Chapman's body, even more so. Each cut seemed part of a larger message for London. He is carving out some sort of code. More is to come. Unfortunately.”

“If you are correct, William, I wonder if the ‘message' might be against Whitechapel Hospital. Don't forget that both victims were also your patients,” Christina said.

I picked up on a tension in the air, like an electric current.

“
He's goin'
down the row, he is
,” Dotty had said.

Christina looked as if she wanted to say something else, but refrained.

“Why might someone want to do that?” I asked.

“The hospital has provoked some criticism from more judgmental Londoners. Dr. Bartlett has been accused of fostering too much compassion for prostitutes and not putting enough emphasis on religious conversion,” William responded.

The atmosphere became a bit sober, and Christina quickly veered the conversation to a lighter subject.

Soon dinner ended and Christina called for Perdita to clear the dishes away. No response came from the old woman's bedroom quarters, located just beyond the dining room.

“Did you forget, Aunt, that Perdita naps between the hours of nine o'clock in the morning and nine o'clock at night?” William asked. “Unfortunately, straight through two of our meal times.”

“She is old, Will. I'll do it myself in a few minutes.” Christina stood and exchanged an odd glance with her nephew. “William, why don't you take Abbie to the parlor? I'll be there in a minute.”

I glanced at William, but his expression was unreadable.

The parlor was small, cozier than Grandmother's parlor. A roaring fire in the fireplace drew my eyes to the portrait above it. The portrait depicted a young man, very handsome, with dark curly hair and an intense look on his face. He did not look unlike William.

“Who is he?” I asked, walking toward the fireplace.

Hugo padded into the room and began sniffing me, probably smelling Jupe's scent on my skirt. I patted his head; the dog was about the size of a small horse.

“That is Christina's uncle, my great uncle, John Polidori.”

“John Polidori, the author of
The Vampyre,
is your relation?” I remembered our conversation about vampire literature. He had said nothing at that time. “Why didn't you tell me before? Did Christina know him well?”

William just laughed a bit and came to stand beside me at the fireplace. I only vaguely felt the heat of the flames on my skirts.

“He was not only a writer, but a physician. He was actually the poet Lord Byron's physician for a while in the Alps. And to answer your question, Christina never knew him. Polidori had several spoiled love affairs, an overreliance on laudanum, and loads of gambling debts. He died quite young of an overdose of prussic acid. Whether the overdose was accidental or suicide has always been a family debate.”

William's expression seemed far away for an instant. Lost in a sea of memory. Then he snapped back to the present and chuckled. “Because everyone in my family seems to be so
literary
,
I've always felt a connection with my great uncle, the physician.”

“But he was also a
writer
.
You might write also if you wish.”

“If you are wondering why I haven't tried my hand at writing or painting, I simply haven't the skill. But being a physician
is
a creative act. At least I think so.”

I understood the line of thinking. Perfectly.

“Are you telling Abbie about our sordid family history?” Christina entered the parlor with a tray of steaming cups of tea. As we seated ourselves, she met William's eyes again.

There was an awkward pause before Christina spoke. “Abbie, William and I not only wanted to visit with you tonight, but we wanted to tell you something. We both wanted to wait until after dinner, so as not to shock you with too much information at once. But the fact is, after your first day at work, when William explained to me that you were Lady Charlotte Westfield's granddaughter, returned to London, I knew immediately that you were Caroline's daughter.”

My heart quickened, and I set my tea down, afraid and excited about what was to come.

“Your mother was a friend of my brother, Gabriel. She was part of his Pre-Raphaelite artist circle.”

I felt speechless and did not know what to say. My mother had not merely painted—she had known the Rossettis. She had painted and worked
with
them. This was extraordinary, and I wondered why she had never told me. My emotion in that moment was a little overwhelming.

“You knew her?” I asked.

Christina smiled. “I didn't know her as well as Gabriel did.”

Dear God
.
I remembered what Grandmother had said about Gabriel's many mistresses. I remembered Christina's eyes on me throughout the evening. A cascade of questions formed in my mind. Was my mother one of his mistresses? When exactly had she known him? I felt it would be indecent to ask these questions at that moment, but they burned in my mind. I recalled Grandmother's visceral reaction to my friendship with a Rossetti relation; perhaps Mother's elopement was not the only reason Grandmother had severed ties with her.

A tear slid down my cheek, and, after rapidly wiping it away, I felt my face burn with embarrassment. I hated appearing so vulnerable—particularly in front of William.

“It's all right, Abbie,” Christina said quickly. “I just wanted you to know.”

I took a quick breath to regain composure.

“She not only painted, but also did a bit of modeling for Gabriel,” Christina added.

I met her eyes.
Model
.
Rossetti had likely been my mother's lover. The timeline of Mother's relationship with Jacque Sharp in relation to my birth had never added up; it was always as if she was keeping something from me about my father. Could Dante Gabriel Rossetti have been my father?

The question burned on my lips, but once again, it seemed too bold to ask. I had only known Christina for a few hours.

“For which paintings did she model?” I asked quickly.

“There was just one. It's missing now. I never saw it,” William said, a bit gruffly. I feared that my show of emotion might have made him uncomfortable.

“I've seen it,” Christina said.

We heard voices coming down the street outside. Christina's friends were returning from their jobs. She glanced at the window and stood. “Gabriel frequently liked mythological subjects. Your mother posed for a portrait of a lamia—the part-serpent, part-female monster. If I remember correctly, Caroline dictated to him much of the portrait style and her position in it, as well as what colors to use. The portrait was really quite stunning, and was in his studio. Then, around the time of his death, it disappeared. Either someone took it or it was lost as we cleared out the room.”

I couldn't speak. Somewhere, there was a lost Rossetti portrait featuring my mother.

“If I ever locate it, or if it is returned, I will give it to you, Abbie. It should be yours.”

There was a knock on the front door.

As Christina left the parlor to let her friends in, I found myself alone with William.

I bent over, rubbing Hugo's ears as he lay at my feet in an effort to hide my emotions. I felt angry at my mother for all of her secrets, for not telling me about her past. I had now been thrust into her London life with very little knowledge of who she had been, whom she had loved. Furthermore, if she had had visions—as I suspected she had—she should have discussed them with me. Now that
I
had them, the question of where they came from and how to process them frightened me. With my mother dead, I was left to navigate them on my own. I also felt a renewed anger at Grandmother. She had participated in concealing Mother's past from me.

After a full two minutes of silence, having regained my composure, I finally looked up at William as he sat in a chair near me.

The expression on his face made something flicker inside me, and I gasped. He was staring straight at me, and it was not the William I knew. The cynical expression was gone, and I saw, very clearly, something like affection in his eyes. We both knew that we shared a bit of history, through my mother's relationship with his adoptive father.

Then it hit me. William had been a small child during the years Mother spent with the Pre-Raphaelites.

“Do you remember her?” I whispered.

“I wish I did. My father had many women in and out of his house and studio.” His look still lingered on me.

At that point, voices from Christina's friends in the dining room broke a bit of the spell between us.

“It's getting late,” I said. “I should leave soon.”

I bid Christina good night. I wanted to talk with William during the carriage ride back to Kensington, but I had too much to process. Facing Grandmother—after learning what I had—would be difficult. Many emotions were bubbling inside me, and I knew a confrontation would be unavoidable.