Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(36)

“One man’s life isn’t important when weighed against many.”

“No.” Garrett sounded urgent now, her hand closing on a fold of his shirt. “Every life is worth fighting for.”

“It’s your job to believe that. It’s my job to believe the opposite. Trust me, I’m expendable.”

“Don’t say that. Tell me what you’re planning to—”

“Garrett,” he interrupted gently, taking her head in his hands, “it’s not my way to say good-bye. I’ll take a kiss instead.”

“But—”

Ethan covered her mouth with his. He felt as if he’d been running for thousands of nights through violence and shadows, and had stumbled upon some serene place on a cool spring morning. She had brought him closer to joy than he’d ever been before. But like all moments of surpassing pleasure, it was tempered with the bittersweet awareness of its transience.

“Forget me,” he whispered after their lips parted.

And he left swiftly, without looking back.



The next morning, Garrett emerged from a troubled sleep, and began the day as usual. She woke her father and administered his medicine, and had a breakfast of bread, butter, and tea while reading the newspaper. As soon as she arrived at the clinic on Cork Street, she checked on the overnight patients, made notes in their charts, gave instructions to the nurses, and began to receive patients with scheduled appointments.

On the surface, everything was routine. But underneath, she was miserable, giddy, and shamed, all at once. The effort to regulate herself was exhausting.

Would she ever see Ethan Ransom again? How in God’s name was she supposed to forget him after the things he’d done to her? Every time she thought of those knowing masculine hands, the slow kisses and soft whispers, she wanted to melt to the floor. “You and me, in the dark . . . that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Thinking about him could drive her mad, if she let it.

Nothing went right. The way the nurses trilled “Good morning” set her teeth on edge. The medical supply cabinets and closets were disorganized. The staff talked too loudly in the hallways and common rooms. At lunchtime, she ate at the staff commissary, and the cheerful bustle she usually enjoyed was profoundly irritating. Oblivious to the conversation around her, she picked morosely at an artful arrangement of cold sliced chicken, watercress-and-cucumber salad, and a tiny dish of cherry tapioca.

There were more patient appointments in the afternoon, some correspondence and bill paying, and then it was time to return home. Glum and weary, Garrett descended from the hansom, walked up to her front door . . . and paused to look at it with a bewildered frown.

The familiar name plate was still there, but a heavy bronze mortise lock had replaced the old outdated one. There was a new cast-bronze doorknob, and a lion’s-head knocker, its jaws clamped on a heavy ring. Unlike the standard snarling, squinty-eyed design, this lion looked rather friendly and sociable. The door’s casing had been repaired and reinforced. Old hinges had been replaced with sturdy new ones. A draft-proof weather strip had been added to the bottom edge of the door.

Hesitantly Garrett reached for the door knocker. The ring hit the handsome engraved bronze backplate with a satisfying clack. Before she could continue knocking, the door opened smoothly, and a beaming Eliza took her bag and cane.

“Evenin’, Dr. Gibson. Look at this door! It’s the finest one in King’s Cross, I’ll warrant.”

“Who did it?” Garrett managed to ask, following her into the house.

Eliza looked puzzled. “Didn’t you hire a locksmith?”

“I most certainly did not.” Garrett removed her gloves and hat, and gave them to her. “What name did he give? When did he come?”

“This morning, after you left. I took your father out for a constitutional in the park. We were gone no more than an hour, but when we came back, there was a man working on the door. I didn’t ask his name. He and Mr. Gibson exchanged a few pleasantries while he was finishing up, then gave us a set of steel keys and left.”

“Was it the man from last night? My patient?”

“No, this one was old. Gray-haired and stoop shouldered.”

“A strange man let himself into the house and changed the lock, and neither you nor my father asked for his name?” Garrett asked with an incredulous scowl. “Good God, Eliza, he could have robbed us blind.”

“I thought you knew about it,” the cookmaid protested, following her into the surgery.

Anxiously Garrett went to see if any of her supplies or equipment were missing. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Folding back the partition to her laboratory, she checked to make certain the microscope was safely in its case. Turning, she ran her gaze over the shelves of supplies, and froze.

The dozen glass test tubes in the wooden rack had been filled with violets. The blue petals were as vivid as jewels in the utilitarian environment. An intoxicating scent drifted from the row of tiny bouquets.

“Where did those come from?” Eliza asked, standing beside her.

“Our mysterious locksmith must have left them as a prank.” Garrett removed one of the blossoms and touched it to her cheek and lips. Her fingers were trembling. “Now my test tubes are all contaminated,” she said, trying to sound cross.

“Dr. Gibson, are you . . . are you about to cry?”