The Viscount Made Me Do It by Diana Quincy

Citiand Rafi were waiting for Hanna in the front salon when she returned home.

“Salam.” She drew off her bonnet as she greeted them. She came to an abrupt halt, sensing a tension in the air. Citi was frowning more than usual. Rafi wore a grim expression.

“Salam?” Citi said. “How can we possibly have any peace around here with you bringing shame on the family?”

They couldn’t know she’d been with Griff. “Whatever is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” Citi’s voice rose. “Why must you consort with ajnabi men?”

Hanna tensed. “There is nothing between us.”

“Then, you ought to consider telling that to Dr. Bridges,” Rafi suggested.

Her mouth fell open. “Dr. Bridges?”

Rafi cocked his head. “Who did you think Citi was speaking of?”

“Evan was here? What did he say?”

“He asked for permission to marry you,” Rafi said.

Relief whooshed through Hanna, relaxing her muscles. But then irritation slid in. “He came here today to ask for my hand in marriage?”

Rafi nodded. “He came to seek my permission since Baba is no longer with us.”

“May God have mercy on your father’s soul,” Citi intoned, speaking in Arabic. “We just threw out the viscount, and now you’ve taken up with another ajnabi?”

“I haven’t taken up with anybody.”

“First Blue Eyes and now the doctor.” Citi tsked as she sucked on her hookah, engulfing herself in a smoky haze. “We should have made you close the dispensary as soon as it opened.”

“Evan had no right to come here. I never agreed to marry him. And I have no intention of accepting his offer.”

“I gathered as much,” Rafi said. “I’d be very surprised if you did accept a proposal.” Then he added, “From Dr. Bridges.”

“Evan is not worth losing my family or my community over.” And then, because Griff was not in contention to be her husband and never would be, she said, “No man is.”

“Are we ever going to finish our conversation?” Evan asked tightly. “It is not every day that a man asks a woman to be his wife.”

They’d just arrived at the dispensary and were setting up for the day. Hanna bit back a sharp retort. Between Evan going to her family behind her back and the upcoming commission hearing, she’d gotten little sleep and woke with a frayed temper.

“Will you at least do me the courtesy of responding?” he asked, an edge in his voice.

“It is interesting that you would ask for courtesy, even though you did not extend the same to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you that my family would not accept our marrying, and yet you went to my brother, without my consent, to ask for my hand.”

“Only to help ease the way. You said yourself that your family is all that is stopping us.”

“I never said that. But perhaps that is what you wanted to hear.” She stopped what she was doing and faced him. “I do not want to hurt you, Evan. But the truth is that I do not wish to marry you.”

A vein pulsed in his forehead. “Is this about your viscount?”

White-hot anger flashed through her. “You have no right to question me about Griff or anything else that does not relate to this dispensary. I do not answer to you.” She already answered to her family far more than she cared to. “We work together. That is it. If you cannot accept that, we should consider rethinking this arrangement.”

His lips flattened. “I see.”

She’d hurt him. But Evan had no right to question her choices. It was well past time that he stopped acting as if he did.

“If you will excuse me,” he said stiffly, crossing to the exit. He closed the door behind him harder than necessary.

A few minutes after Evan’s departure, the bell above the door sounded. Hanna did not recognize the plump, middle-aged woman dressed in country clothes who came in.

The woman scanned the dispensary, looking lost. “This used to be a grocer.”

“Yes, but as you can see, it is now a dispensary.”

“Yes,” she answered, a troubled expression on her face. “This is a mistake. I am sorry to bother you.”

“It’s no bother.” Hanna went toward her. “I am Miss Zaydan. Can I assist you?”

“I don’t mean to intrude.” One of her hands worried the fabric of her skirt, fingers clenching and releasing fists full of fabric. “I am Mrs. Florence Gould.”

“How may I be of help, Mrs. Gould?”

“I am looking for my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Mrs. Lockhart. Claudia Lockhart. This used to be her grocer.”

Hanna’s heart contracted. “I am sorry.” She paused, trying to find the appropriate words. “Your sister . . . erm . . . she became ill.”

“I know Claudia is dead,” the woman said with a kindly expression. “But I cannot find where she was buried. I hate the thought of her in a pauper’s grave.”

“The matron at the hospital where your sister died said Mrs. Lockhart’s family came for the body.”

“The late Mr. Lockhart’s family had no interest in seeing to my sister—in life or death. And we, Mrs. Lockhart’s blood family, have asked the hospital where her remains can be found, but no one seems to know. Or if they do, they refuse to tell us.” Tears filled the woman’s ruddy face. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Hanna came to a decision. “I will try to help you.”

“You are so kind.” The woman’s face brightened. “But what can you possibly do?”

“An acquaintance of mine sits on the hospital’s board of governors.” After tomorrow’s commission hearing, she would approach Griff on the matter. “I believe he can be persuaded to look into it for us.”

The commission met in the same room as before. Hanna was jittery, unable to get her nerves under control. But she managed to force herself to remain still and expressionless. Evan accompanied her as before, only this time there was a distance between them. Anger and disappointment radiated from him.

Griff, sitting across the room from them, offered an encouraging smile. He looked very dashing in a blue checked double-breasted tailcoat that brought out the color of his eyes.

As they waited for the hearing to start, she observed the others in attendance. Mansfield sauntered in behind his father. Hanna’s gaze landed on a somewhat familiar face. Mr. Lockhart, the nephew of Hanna’s benefactor. He inclined his chin in her direction, no doubt eager for the commission to rule unfavorably so that he could claim the dispensary space.

So many people of influence were working against her, determined to see her fail. Hanna’s pulse slammed in her throat. Panic threatened. But she forced it down by reminding herself that she too had powerful forces on her side.

One of them, the Marquess of Brandon, entered once almost everyone else was seated. He wore a harsh expression and black wool perfectly tailored to his sinewy form. Brandon nodded curtly to Hanna, then did not look in her direction again. Her cousin was an enigma. A man of position and influence in the upper echelons of society. Yet also one of them. The son of an Arab-merchant mother.

Griff spoke first, describing the terrible pain he’d been in and how Hanna had alleviated his severe discomfort. He moved his arm, demonstrating the range of motion he’d regained since his treatment at the hands of the bonesetter.

Mrs. Rutland came next. William, her son, was not with her. But Griff’s sister spoke in detail about how easily Hanna had put the boy’s finger back in after it was dislocated.

Once she completed her testimony, a commission member asked Dr. Pratt to give his professional medical assessment of what he’d heard.

“I know Lord Griffin truly believes that Miss Zaydan cured him.” He spoke in an even tone. “But my medical opinion is that the injury healed on its own, as I and other physicians told him it would. As to Mrs. Rutland, she took her son to see Miss Zaydan on the very day his finger was injured. In all likelihood, it was just bruised and would have healed on its own in a day or two. I regret to say that, on the basis of these two accounts, I am not convinced Miss Zaydan is not a danger to her patients.”

“Let’s have the final patient.” Brandon impatiently gestured. Mrs. Peele came in.

Dr. Pratt’s eyes rounded. “Mrs. Peele? This is most irregular.”

“Do you know this woman?” Brandon asked.

“Indeed I do.” Dr. Pratt’s face flushed. “This is my housekeeper.”

Brandon turned his attention to Mrs. Peele. “Please do come in, and tell us why you went to see Miss Zaydan.”

Mrs. Peele cast a worried glance at her employer before she spoke. “My girl Annie had a curved spine. All of the doctors said there was nothing to be done for her. That her affliction was permanent.”

“I see,” Brandon said. “And was Dr. Pratt among the doctors who said there was no cure for your daughter?”

Mrs. Peele avoided looking in the doctor’s direction. “Yes, sir, he was.”

“Do tell us what occurred when you went to see Miss Zaydan.”

“She said Annie could be healed. She massaged and pressed and pulled. She somehow managed to manipulate my Annie’s spine.”

“And how is Annie today?”

Mrs. Peele beamed. “See for yourself.”

The door opened, and Annie marched in dressed in her Sunday best, walking straight and tall with a proud expression on her face. The room erupted. Everyone seemed to talk at once. A couple of physicians on the commission left their seats to examine Annie more closely.

“It is nothing short of a miracle,” said one a few minutes later. “I have never known a curvature of the spine to be corrected.”

“I have seen enough.” Brandon spoke in a bored tone. “Obviously, Miss Zaydan should be allowed to continue to heal the patients that doctors cannot.”

After a bit of discussion, a majority of the other commissioners concurred with Brandon’s assessment. Hanna barely registered what happened next. There was a whirlwind of chatter. Lord Payton protesting. Mansfield cursing. Lockhart making an exclamation of unhappy surprise. All of her disappointed detractors made their voices heard.

Then Brandon spoke again, and before Hanna fully comprehended what was happening, the meeting adjourned. And, by some miracle, she was still a bonesetter with the ability to practice in London.

A small group crowded around her. Griff, Mrs. Rutland, Mrs. Peele and Annie all offered heartfelt congratulations.

“I can barely believe it.” Hanna was stunned. “I never expected to get a fair hearing.”

Mrs. Peele beamed. “Now you can continue to help people like my Annie.”

Dr. Pratt approached them. Hanna tensed, but he did not even look at her. “Mrs. Peele,” he said.

Mrs. Peele paled. “Yes, Doctor. I was just on my way home to see about supper.”

“Don’t bother. Your services are no longer needed.” He walked away without sparing another glance for any of them.

Mrs. Peele appeared on the verge of tears. “I knew he’d be angry. But I had to tell the truth. He’s known Annie since she was born.” Her chin quivered. “I thought maybe he’d be happy she was cured.”

“Mrs. Peele,” Griff said. “I am in need of a housekeeper. I hope you will consider accepting a position at Haven House.”

Mrs. Peele did burst into tears then. But at least they were tears of happiness. After a few minutes of chatter, they all walked out together, except for Evan. Hanna had no idea where he’d gone, but she was relieved to be free of his pouting. Mrs. Rutland, Mrs. Peele and Annie said their goodbyes.

“Congratulations,” Griff said once all of the others had gone.

“This would not have happened without you.” He was the one who’d brought Annie to her and convinced Mrs. Rutland to testify on Hanna’s behalf.

He cast an admiring glance at her. “Your skills speak for themselves.”

“Only as long as a viscount and his sister do as well.”

“The world is unfair to those born to different circumstances than mine.”

“Mucking around with the middle classes has afforded you some perspective, has it?”

“Serving in the army helped broaden my horizons. As have you.”

She examined him. “How are you really?”

“I am coping. It’s a relief to finally know what happened to my parents. But hearing Palk’s confession has also made the tragedy feel fresh again.” He gave a rueful look. “Consequently, I am grateful for any diversions that come my way.”

She hesitated. “Well, as long as you are interested in being distracted, I happen to have one for you.”

His eyes blazed. “No one can divert me as ably as you.”

“It’s nothing like that,” she admonished. “Mrs. Lockhart’s sister came to see me today.”

He cocked an ear. “And who is Mrs. Lockhart?”

“The grocer who left me the space for the dispensary.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Mrs. Lockhart’s sister cannot find where her sister is buried. The family is eager to give Mrs. Lockhart a proper burial.”

“How can I help?”

“The hospital has not been forthcoming about the whereabouts of Mrs. Lockhart’s remains.”

“And when did Mrs. Lockhart die?”

“Several weeks ago. Do you suppose that, as a member of the board of governors, you could use your influence to learn what became of the body?”

“Certainly. I might as well do so now, as long as I am already here.” He paused, casting an inquiring look at her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to accompany me? Having you along could be helpful since you know more than I about this Mrs. Lockhart and her ailment.”

Their efforts seemed certain to prove fruitless. Each clerk, physician or ward matron gave them blank looks before referring them to someone else.

While they spoke to a ward matron, an older man cleaning the floor moved closer to them. Every step seemed like an effort as if he pulled a great weight behind him. But the man’s face was alert, his expression one of interest.

After an hour of unsuccessful inquiries, Hanna and Griff gave up and departed the hospital.

“That wasn’t very helpful.” Griff adjusted his hat. “I suppose I could force myself to ask Norman for help.”

“There must be a process the hospital follows when people die. A place where they hold the bodies.”

“Pssst. Yer Grace.” The summons came from a narrow lane as they passed. Hanna recognized the floor cleaner from the hospital. She stopped.

As did Griff. “You work at the hospital,” he said to the man. “I saw you there.”

The older man nodded. “I knows what they does wiv the bodies.”

“Do tell.” Griff reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins.

“Not ’ere,” the man said. “Could lose me job if they see me talking ter you.”

They followed him back to the narrow lane.

“What is your name?” Griff asked as he paid the man.

“I’m Bartlow.”

“Very well, Mr. Bartlow. Please tell us what they do with the bodies.”

“If the families don’t claim ’em right away, they sell ’em ter the gravediggers.”

“Good lord,” Griff said.

Hanna’s stomach turned. Had Mrs. Lockhart been dissected? “How do you know?”

“Cuz I ’elps carry the bodies out. If yer poor over in that ’ospital, yer ain’t gettin’ a burial.”

“But the woman we’re looking for wasn’t a pauper,” Hanna said.

“Don’t matter. When folks ain’t claimed right quick, the docs sell ’em ter the body snatchers.”

“The medical colleges are always on the lookout for bodies to dissect,” Hanna said. It was a well-known problem in the medical community.

The man nodded. “There ain’t never enough bodies. Someone’s always buying. The Margate bodies go ter Thomas’s.”

Griff’s brow knit. “Thomas’s?”

“St. Thomas’s Medical College,” the man answered.

“Who decides which corpses go to the body snatchers?” Griff asked.

“Don’t know.” He leaned closer, the stench of hard work, body odor and unwashed clothes assaulting them. Hanna reflexively took a tiny step back. Griff remained in place. “Rumor ’as it that it comes from the top.”

“Have you ever told this to anyone else?” Griff asked.

“Once. A long time ago, I told a toff who always ’ad a kind word. ’E was good to us. Made Dr. Pratt pay us fair.”

“Did this toff do anything about what you told him?” Hanna asked.

“No, ’e ended up dead not ten days after I tole ’im. ’E and ’is missus. After that, I learned ter keep my mouth shut. Until now.”

Griff blanched. “Why are you telling us now?”

“Because yer that toff’s boy.” His rheumy gaze held Griff’s. “And I reckon yer Da would want ’is son ter know the truth.”