Kitty gave a shuddering sigh. “No. No! I… I reckon I caught his nose when I hit him back. It’s not mine. I’ll be all right. Nell’s bleeding. You should see to that. And Lizzie broke her wrist, or somebody did.” She spoke generously, but she was still shivering, and Hester was certain she was far from well enough to leave. She would have liked to know what bruises were hidden under her clothes, or what beatings she had endured in the past, but she did not ask questions. It was one of the rules; they had all agreed that no one pressed for personal information or repeated what they overheard or deduced. The whole purpose of the house was simply to offer such medical help as lay within their skill, or that of Mr. Lockhart, who called by every so often and could be reached easily enough in an emergency. He had failed his medical exams at the very end of his training through a weakness for drink rather than ignorance or inability. He was happy enough to help in return for company, a little kindness, and the feeling that he belonged somewhere.

He liked to talk, to share food he had been given rather than paid for, and when he was short of funds he slept on one of the beds.

Margaret offered Kitty a hot whiskey and water, and Hester turned to look at Nell’s deep gash.

“That’ll have to be stitched,” she advised.

Nell winced. She had experienced Hester’s needlework before.

“Otherwise it will take a long time to heal,” Hester warned.

Nell pulled a face. “If yer stitchin’s still like yer stitched me ’and, they’d throw yer out of a bleedin’ sweatshop,” she said good-humoredly. “All it wants is buttons on it!” She drew in her breath between her teeth as Hester pulled the cloth away from the wound and it started to bleed again. “Jeez!” Nell said, her face white. “Be careful, can’t yer? Yer got ’ands like a damn navvy!”