‘And how far along do you think you are? Mrs Hislop did mention it, but, well, you’re the one who knows exactly, aren’t you?’

  ‘Eight weeks,’ Harrie said.

  ‘Good. Nice and early. I’ll just have a feel, to make sure.’ Harrie grimaced with embarrassment as Mrs Turner pulled up her skirt and pressed at her lower belly with stiff fingers, poking quite hard just above her pubic hair. ‘Yes, that feels about right. Shall we start, then?’

  ‘Will it hurt?’ Harrie asked. She couldn’t see how it wouldn’t.

  ‘I won’t lie, dear. Yes, it will, but it won’t take long. I’ve done this many dozens of times.’

  ‘Successfully?’ Sarah asked, rather sharply.

  Mrs Turner hesitated for the briefest of seconds. ‘Usually.’ She dried her hands on a towel and picked up another. ‘Now, I need you to move down so your bottom’s right at the end of the bed. And I want this towel underneath you. That’s right, tuck your skirts well out of the way.’

  Harrie wriggled down as requested.

  ‘Raise your knees, please, and set your feet on the oilcloth.’ Mrs Turner selected a long sewing stiletto of bone from the tray and knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘My goodness, that’s a nasty-looking boil on your backside. How long have you had that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harrie mumbled. ‘A week?’ A boil on her arse was the least of her worries. She stared up at the ceiling; there was a crack in the rough plaster and she was sure something with nasty, glinting eyes was peering though it at her.

  ‘I can give you a receipt for a good plaster to put on that. Should help to clear it up. You’ll have to lance it first, though. Remind me before you go. Right, I’m starting now.’

  Harrie jerked and cried out sharply.

  Mrs Turner sat back on her heels. ‘Hmm. There doesn’t seem to be much room in there. I barely even got my fingers in. Harriet, dear, how many, er —’

  ‘One,’ Friday said. ‘She did it once, and she caught.’

  ‘Oh dear, you poor thing. Let’s see.’ Mrs Turner pushed herself to her feet, her knees cracking like snapping twigs, took a slim glass tube from the tray and smeared a balm over the end of it.

  Sarah looked at Friday, appalled. Friday gave a tiny shake of her head, warning her to keep quiet and not to frighten Harrie.

  Harrie turned her head towards the chairs against the wall. Rachel was there, her hands folded in her lap, sitting quietly.

  ‘Help me,’ Harrie pleaded.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m here.’

  Mrs Turner knelt again. She inserted the tube, peered into it, said, ‘That’s better,’ then carefully introduced the stiletto.

  A knife drove up into Harrie’s belly and a shriek burst out of her. She slapped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, but the noise kept coming out in a long moan, like a cow in mortal terror. Then someone’s hands were on her head, soothing and cool, but the pain got worse and worse, searing deeply into her innards until she knew she couldn’t bear it. She heard Rachel telling her to hold on, and then Sarah’s voice, then came a small release of pressure in her abdomen, and at last the pain began to ease.

  ‘That should do it,’ Mrs Turner said as she got to her feet, the stiletto in her hand slick with blood.

  Harrie opened her eyes. Rachel had gone.

  ‘How are you feeling, dear?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘A bit uncomfortable? That’s to be expected. Did you bring anything with you for the blood?’

  Friday and Sarah helped Harrie to sit up. She glanced down between her legs and saw that the towel beneath her backside was stained an alarmingly dark red.

  ‘I think … in my reticule.’ She could barely gather her wits, she was that shocked.

  Friday dug around and found a cloth, and a cord to go around the waist to hold it up. ‘One isn’t going to last long, is it? We’d better get you home.’

  Mrs Turner dipped a washcloth into the bowl of warm water and passed it to Harrie. ‘Here, dear, clean yourself up.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Sarah asked as she gathered up Harrie’s boots and stockings. ‘Is that it? Is it done?’

  ‘Yes, it’s done, but the foetus won’t be expelled straight away. That could take up to a day or more.’

  Sarah eased the bloody towel from under Harrie, dropped it on the floor and crouched to help her put on her stockings and boots. ‘What if it doesn’t come out? Will that mean it’s still alive?’

  Harrie felt her gorge rise and she retched, making a noise like Angus when he had a fur ball. Her eyes watered viciously, and she started to cry properly.

  Mrs Turner turned her back and busied herself rinsing her instruments in the water bowl. ‘No, it won’t be alive. I do know what I’m doing, you know. It’s more likely to mean an obstruction of some sort, preventing the foetus from coming away. But if that does occur, you can’t come back here. There’ll be nothing more I can do.’

  Again Friday and Sarah looked at each other.

  If that did happen, Harrie would most certainly die.

  Part Two

  Let Her Rave

  Chapter Seven

  As arranged, Jack took Harrie home in Elizabeth Hislop’s carriage. Nora put her straight to bed, telling George when he appeared for his dinner she’d been taken ill.

  And she was ill, bleeding heavily and suffering severe cramps. By late afternoon she worsened and, convinced she was dying, wanted Friday and Sarah, but Friday was on duty at the brothel until ten that evening and Sarah was also busy at work. At six o’clock Nora sent Abigail to fetch her: she arrived as soon as the shop closed, leaving Adam to organise his own supper.

  She flinched as she entered Harrie’s little attic room — Nora was changing the bed linen and the chamber smelt faintly like an abattoir. The sheets dumped on the floor were stained with a shocking amount of blood, and Harrie’s face and lips were absolutely white. She was wearing a shift pulled up around her waist, and a wad of cloths was folded between her legs.

  ‘My God, Mrs Barrett, how long has she been like this?’

  ‘A couple of hours.’ Nora pushed her fair hair off her face with the back of her wrist. ‘The flow was steady earlier, but I think the baby’s coming away. I’ll never get the stains out of this linen.’

  Sarah took Harrie’s hand. It was cold and limp, like a dead fish. ‘How are you feeling, love?’

  ‘Rachel? Is that you?’ Harrie’s eyes were glazed and a sheen of sweat gleamed on her brow.

  ‘It’s Sarah, sweetie. Are you in pain?’

  Harrie groaned.

  ‘Do we need a doctor?’ Sarah asked Nora.

  ‘What for? What’s a doctor going to do?’ Gazing down at Harrie, she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘I was thinking of James Downey,’ Sarah said.

  ‘James Downey? Her suitor? Don’t be stupid, girl. Do you think he’ll still want her after treating her for a botched abortion?’

  Sarah’s heart lurched. ‘Is it botched?’

  ‘God. I just don’t know. Shall we wait another hour? I’ve given her plenty of laudanum. She’s full of it.’

  Harrie let out another low moan and rolled onto her side. Sarah wondered if she had another hour.

  ‘Help me get another sheet under her, will you?’ Nora asked. ‘I’ve just put a couple of clean cloths on her.’

  The door opened and Hannah stuck her head around it.

  ‘Hannah, get out!’ Nora snapped.

  Catching sight of the bloody sheets on the floor, Hannah’s eyes were huge. ‘Da says he’s hungry and where’s his bloody supper.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Nora straightened, her hand pressed into the middle of her back. ‘Tell him to get it himself. I’m busy.’

  ‘Is Harrie dying?’ Hannah asked, and burst into tears.

  Nora hurried over and gave her a quick cuddle. ‘Of course she isn’t.’

  ‘But she’s got a really bad bleeding!’ Hannah wailed.

  ‘Yes, I know, but she’ll be all right, don’t worry. I know, why don’t you and Abigail get your father his supper? You’re such big girls now. There’s cold roast beef in the safe, and cheese and piccalilli and some of that loaf left from this morning. Is that a good idea?’

  Hannah sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and nodded. Abigail would have to slice the meat because she wasn’t allowed to play with sharp knives after what had happened with Sam, but she could put everything on a plate. She went out, yelling for her sister.

  Nora flapped out a fresh sheet, rolled it longways, and laid it on the mattress parallel to Harrie’s back.

  ‘This is my last set,’ she said. ‘The rest are dirty. Normally I’d go next door to borrow some, but, well, I don’t really like to for this.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty,’ Sarah said. Adam’s previous wife, Esther, had left a stock of them in the linen cupboard. She knew how arduous washing all the soiled sheets in the copper was going to be — a chore Harrie normally did. And if it rained, they would take days to dry. ‘I’ll go home later and get them. And Friday might be able to borrow some old ones from Mrs Hislop.’

  Grim-faced, Nora nodded her thanks. ‘I just hope to God it doesn’t go on that long.’

  So did Sarah.

  Together she and Nora eased Harrie onto her other side, so she was on the fresh sheet, then smoothed out the rolled-up section. But as they did, more blood oozed through and around the cloths between Harrie’s legs and soaked into the sheets. Nora swore quite spectacularly, then folded back the cloths and inspected the contents.

  ‘I think it’s come out,’ she said after a moment.

  Sarah looked. In the folded pads of coarse linen was not a tiny baby as she’d expected, but a lumpy sac-like mass of tissue and blood. ‘Are you sure?’

  Nora nodded. ‘That’s what they look like before they’ve quickened.’

  ‘Really? But why is she so ill? And the blood!’ Sarah bent down and sniffed. ‘Has it gone rotten?’

  ‘No, there won’t have been time for that.’

  ‘Will she stop bleeding now?’

  ‘I bloody well hope so.’

  Friday and Sarah were both with Harrie the next morning when they overheard Nora having a furious row with George. Under the impression that Harrie was suffering some sort of ‘women’s affliction’, George was extremely disgruntled by the fact that his wife intended to pay, from her own purse, the fee for the doctor who would soon be attending. Harrie was the one indisposed, they heard him rant on the floor below; why couldn’t she pay the cost of the doctor’s visit?

  ‘She doesn’t have any money!’ Nora shouted. ‘She’s a bonded convict!’

  Harrie did have a little, Nora knew — the money she earned drawing flash for Leo Dundas — but George didn’t know about that: he thought the only profit being made from that arrangement was the small retainer Leo paid him for Harrie’s services.

  ‘Well, that’s just too bad!’ George bellowed back. ‘Doctors’ house calls cost a fortune!’

  Upstairs in Harrie’s room, Sarah muttered to Friday, ‘Arsehole. It’s Nora’s money.’

  ‘But I’m her mistress, George,’ Nora responded, loud enough for even the neighbours to hear, ‘and you’re her damned master. We’re responsible for her welfare!’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be all right. What does she need a doctor for? And why are those bloody friends of hers here? It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.’

  Something broke. A plate?

  ‘Oh, just finish your cup of tea and bugger off to your shop. Go on!’

  George didn’t know, of course, that Nora would be asking Biddy Doyle for reimbursement, but that was beside the point.

  Harrie’s bleeding and accompanying pain had eased overnight, but this morning she was so weak she could barely move or speak and was constantly on the verge of passing out. Nora had dispatched Abigail to the Siren’s Arms to alert Friday just after sunrise, and they’d decided to send the child out again to fetch a doctor, who was expected any minute now. Sarah had arrived of her own accord.

  ‘Who’s the doctor?’ she asked.

  ‘A man I’ve taken the children to once or twice. He’s a bit of a bad-tempered old sod, but he knows I can afford to pay, so that should get him out of doors fairly smartly.’

  ‘What are we telling him?’

  ‘That Harrie’s having a lot of trouble with her courses.’

  The door to Harrie’s room opened and Hannah marched in.

  ‘Hannah,’ her mother said. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, knock and wait to be invited! It’s very rude to just barge into someone’s room.’

  Hannah was clutching a handful of flowers that looked as though they might have been pinched from someone’s garden. She laid them on the end of Harrie’s bed.

  Nora frowned. ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘I found them. Is Harrie all better?’

  ‘Not yet, love. That’s why the doctor’s coming.’

  Hannah’s eyes went very round and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘There’s a man waiting outside. With a big black hat on.’

  ‘Oh, Hannah! How long has he been out there?’

  ‘I’ll fetch him,’ Friday said. ‘What’s the cove’s name?’

  ‘Dr Poole.’

  Fed up with standing around in a smelly backyard, Dr Randolph Poole was about to return to his house-cum-surgery in Cambridge Street, and his breakfast, when Friday opened the back door and invited him in. As she stood aside so he could ascend the stairs, she noticed with alarm that he ponged of alcohol. Following him up, she scowled as his hand flew out and clutched at the wall several times to steady himself.

  ‘Keep going,’ she said as Dr Poole reached the parlour beyond the landing. ‘Her room’s in the attic.’ She pointed down the tiny hallway, at the end of which were the narrow stairs to the uppermost floor. The doctor tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, tightened his grip on his bag, said ‘Thank you,’ and lurched off.

  With the doctor, Sarah, Friday and Nora all crowded into Harrie’s room, and Angus the cat curled up on the rocking chair under the eaves, there was barely space to move. Dr Poole set his bag on the floor, his hat on top of Angus, and stood peering down at Harrie, lying still and pale in the bed. Behind his back, Friday caught Sarah’s eye, pointed at him and made exaggerated glass-raising gestures.

  ‘Your daughter, er, Adelaide?’ he began.

  ‘Abigail,’ Nora corrected him.

  ‘Abigail informed me that your servant is too unwell to attend my surgery, but was unable to tell me what ails her.’

  Nora nodded — at eight Abigail wasn’t old enough to be told what had happened to Harrie. ‘Harriet is suffering from very heavy courses. She bled badly all yesterday, and last night especially. I’ve been having to change the linen constantly.’

  Friday glanced at Sarah again. Their eyes met. Dr Poole was obviously so swattled that if Harrie had just given birth and the baby was sitting up in bed smoking a pipe he probably wouldn’t notice. Their secret was likely safe.

  ‘Is she still bleeding?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Yes, though not as much this morning.’

  ‘An improvement, then?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Then why have you called me?’

  ‘Look at her!’ Friday exclaimed. ‘She’s so weak she’s hardly bloody well breathing! We’re really worried. She looks half dead.’

  It was true — Harrie’s breathing was alarmingly shallow and she was that pale her skin appeared almost transparent. Her eyes were open but she seemed barely able to focus.

  The doctor peered blearily down at her. ‘Is she prone to this sort of thing?’

  ‘Heavy bleeding?’ Nora said. ‘Ah, a little.’ Though as far as she was aware, Harrie wasn’t. Her courses seemed to be as neat and tidy as the rest of her normally was.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Dr Poole asked. He glanced longingly at his bag, and Friday wondered if his tipple was in it.

  ‘Harriet Clarke,’ Nora said.

  ‘Is she married? Had any babies?’

  ‘No and no.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the problem. A baby would fix things. Her menstrual difficulties would no doubt settle if she married and had a baby.’

  It was an extremely unfortunate thing for him to say. A prickly silence settled over the room. The doctor noticed it after about half a minute, and looked up to find Friday, Sarah and Nora all glaring at him.

  Nora said, ‘We were hoping you would examine her, Doctor. If you can’t see your way to doing that, please leave. And don’t expect the custom of my family at your surgery again any time soon.’

  Dr Poole let out a weary sigh. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He bent over Harrie, and said loudly in her face, ‘Miss Clarke, can you hear me?’

  Harrie moved her head slightly away from him. That’ll be his breath, Friday thought. Nodding weakly, Harrie raised her hand, then let it flop onto the bedcover. Dr Poole lifted the limp wrist and felt for her pulse. He examined her fingernails, peered into her eyes, looked in her mouth and pressed on her gums, and felt around under her jaw with his fingers.

  He asked Nora, ‘Would you please lower the bedclothes to the hips?’

  Nora moved Hannah’s flowers and folded back the blanket and sheet — one of Sarah’s — and stood back while Doctor Poole prodded Harrie’s belly over her shift. Harrie groaned. Then he lifted the bedclothes off the end of the bed and examined her feet, paying particular attention to her toenails.

  Finally, he straightened, looked at Nora, and said, ‘There is an imbalance of the humours. I note symptoms of disruption of all four — dry and rough skin, split nails, dull hair, bags under the eyes, and she is underweight. Does she have access to adequate nourishment?’

  ‘Of course she does,’ Nora said, insulted. ‘She eats what we eat.’

  ‘In particular her liver is swollen, a sure indication of a severe deficiency of blood, and of course we are coming into spring, the season corresponding with that very humour. I suspect that coinciding with her menses as it has, this disparity has resulted in excessive bleeding. It seems she is approaching a state of exsanguination.’