Hester put down the wood and came forward, glancing only once behind her to make sure that Margaret was already getting hot water, cloths, bandages, and the herbs to steep, which would make cleaning the wounds easier and less painful. It was the purpose of this place to care for women of the streets who were injured or ill, but who could not pay a doctor and would be turned away from more respectable charities. It had been the idea of her friend Callandra Daviot, and Callandra had provided the initial funds before events in her personal life had taken her out of London. It was through her also that Hester had met Margaret Ballinger, desperate to escape a respectable but uninteresting proposal of marriage. Her undertaking work like this had alarmed the gentleman in question so much he had at the last moment balked at making the offer, to Margaret’s relief and her mother’s chagrin.

Now Hester guided the first woman to one of the chairs in the center of the floor beside the table. “Come in, Nell,” she urged. “Sit down.” She shook her head. “Did Willie beat you again? Surely you could find a better man?” She looked at the bruises on Nell’s arms, plainly made by a gripping hand.

“At my age?” Nell said bitterly, easing herself into the chair. “C’mon, Mrs. Monk! Yer mean well, I daresay, but yer feet in’t on the ground. Not unless yer offerin’ that nice-lookin’ ol’ man o’ yours?” She leered ruefully. “Then I might take yer up one day. ’E’s got an air about’im as ’e could be summat real special. Kind o’ mean but fun, if yer know wot I’m sayin’?” She gave a guffaw of laughter which turned into a racking cough, and she bent double over her knees as the paroxysm shook her.

Without being asked, Margaret poured a little whiskey out of a bottle, replaced the cork, and added hot water from the kettle. Wordlessly she held it until Nell had controlled herself sufficiently to take it, the tears still streaming down her face. She struggled for breath, sipped some of the whiskey, gagged, and then took a deeper gulp.