No Cure for Love Read online

  After a brisk walk to the Angel and Crown Robert and William entered at the side of the establishment and gave their hats and coats to a lad before making their way to a table. The alehouse was already packed with men drinking and talking, many with flamboyantly attired women by their side. Small spirals of smoke made their way above the crowd, drifting into the rafters and among the hanging lamps.

  Robert had visited the Angel and Crown before but had found it full of rowdy apprentice physicians and so often walked the mile or so to the City for more restrained eating establishments. William, with his more outgoing personality, dined more regularly at the Angel and Crown.

  Pushing his way through, William spotted an empty table at the corner of the balustrade that separated the two parts of the supper room. Robert stood back to let a blonde barmaid past.

  ‘Gawd, you’re a fine young gentleman and no mistake, ’ she said to him with a saucy smile. ‘I’m Lizzy, if you need a bit of company later, if you understand me like.’ She winked at Robert and squeezed past him, pressing her hip firmly into his groin as she went.

  ‘I see Lizzy has taken a fancy to you,’ William said as they reached the table.

  Robert smiled, but said nothing. He had become accustomed to such boldness since arriving in London.

  ‘Mr Chafford,’ a voice boomed across the room. ‘Won’t you and your friend do me the honour of joining me for a mouthful of supper?’ asked a large man with a broad Irish brogue.

  He beamed at William, his round face shining like a polished apple under the soft light of the oil lamps. He waved at them with one of his massive hands. ‘Make way there for Mr Doctor Chafford, the renowned surgeon, and his friend, fine fellows both of them.’

  With his black eyebrows and his curly hair hanging in an unruly twirl in the middle of his brow, the Irishman’s face had a boyish look about it that was at odds with his powerful frame. The expensive clothes he wore fitted snugly - a little too snugly. The huge meal on the plate before him showed why that would be.

  A path to the Irishman appeared, as if a scythe had cut a path through the press of bodies. William turned to accept the invitation and Robert followed.

  The Irishman untucked his large linen napkin from his collar and stood up as Robert and William reached the table. He grabbed William’s hand, pumping it so hard that his whole body shook.

  ‘Honoured, I am, honoured, to have you join me,’ he said.

  William reclaimed his hand. ‘May I introduce Doctor Robert Munroe, a colleague of mine and the author of Observations on the Diseases Manifest Amongst the Poor, which The Times called “the most comprehensive scientific work published in the past decade”.’ The Irishman raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Doctor Munroe has recently come from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary,’ William continued, as Robert shot him an embarrassed look. ‘Munroe, this is Mr Danny Donovan, owner of the Angel, and local businessman.’ Robert stepped forward and offered his hand for pummelling. He was not disappointed. His hand was clenched in a painful grip and subjected to the same treatment as William’s had been. The potman pulled back chairs for William and Robert, then stood waiting.

  A disarming smile spread across Donovan’s face. ‘Two plates of your mutton stew,’ Danny said to the potman. ‘And make sure there’s some mutton in it or I’ll be wanting to know why.’

  The man shot away and Danny fixed Robert with an inscrutable stare.

  ‘Doctor Munroe. Would that be the same Doctor Munroe who bought the lease on number thirty Chapman Street to open a dispensary?’

  ‘I am,’ Robert said, registering some surprise. He had only signed the agreement two days before. ‘I must say, Mr Donovan, you are very well informed.’

  Danny tapped the right side of his nose twice with a stubby finger. ‘I always make it me business to know who’s doing what around here.’ He pushed the bottle of brandy towards Robert, who poured himself a glass of the amber liquid. He sipped a mouthful.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, pressing his lips together and passing the bottle to William.

  ‘They keep it for me, special like,’ Danny said, his gaze still fixed on Robert. ‘You’re a Scot then, Dr Munroe?’ He drained the last of the brandy and raised the bottle for another to be brought.

  ‘Aye, I am,’ Robert answered, declining the newly opened bottle.

  ‘And would your father be a doctor too?’ Danny asked, as William poured another brandy.

  ‘My father’s a minister in the Church of Scotland,’ Robert replied, briefly thinking of the large, cold churches where he seemed to have spent most of his childhood.

  ‘A minister! God love him,’ Danny said, as two bowls of steaming mutton stew arrived.

  After a mouthful of the surprisingly good stew, Robert eyed his host. ‘Apart from the Angel, what are your other business interests, Mr Donovan?’ he asked, his eyes resting briefly on the musicians taking their places in the small orchestra.

  ‘Mr Donovan is the owner of the Angel, the Town of Ramsgate in Wapping and the White Swan in Shadwell,’ William said, before Danny could answer. ‘Plus a barge or two in the docks. Is that not so?’

  The large Irishman inclined his head. ‘The Blessed Virgin has rewarded most generously my small efforts to make a crust or two,’ he said, his humble attitude countered by a sudden inflation of his chest.

  ‘He is too modest to mention it,’ William said, ‘but Mr Donovan is also a benefactor to a number of charities hereabouts and on the governing board of the workhouse.’

  ‘Very commendable, Mr Donovan,’ Robert said. ‘However, the people here don’t need charity. They need better housing and clean water.’

  For a second Danny’s small eyes narrowed and his lips pursed together. Then the genial expression returned. ‘The people here are blessed by the Queen of Heaven herself, so they are, to have fine gentlemen such as yourselves to doctor to them.’

  ‘Aye, no doubt that helps, but better living conditions would help more,’ Robert replied with a frown, thinking of the poor wretches he had left to God in his mercy that morning in Mill Yard.

  Leaving Danny Donovan to talk to William, Robert turned towards the small stage where the worn velvet curtain moved with the activity behind it. The small band of musicians struck a chord, and conversation around the tables ceased as the plush red curtains squeaked back into the wings.

  Into the footlights stepped a young woman. In contrast to most of the other women in the Angel and Crown the woman on the stage wore a simple cotton gown. She swayed in time to the music, her head to one side and a wistful expression on her face as she sang about the beauty of the hills of Galway. The song finished and the singer took a small bow and smiled. She signalled for the leader of the musicians to start the next tune, then let her gaze sweep over the audience until her eyes alighted on Robert.

  Robert leant forward and studied her.

  Caroline had a passable voice for a house party recital, but the woman now entertaining them had a strong, clear voice that was very different. She was completely unsophisticated with her undressed hair and her fresh, unpowdered and flawless complexion, which glowed under the merciless lights. He had thought at first glance that her hair was the same colour as Caroline’s, a dark brown, but as she tilted her head jauntily towards the light he saw its shimmering red tone and her clear eyes.

  She had a fuller figure than Caroline’s, too, more rounded. Under the table his foot started to tap soundlessly against the table leg. As the woman on the stage swayed she invited the audience to join her in the chorus of the song with a wide smile and an arc of her arm. It was an abandoned movement, artless but sensual in its graceful execution.

  The song ended and Robert applauded as enthusiastically as any in the room. The singer nodded her head to the maestro and the atmosphere changed from jolly to haunting. In two chords, the woman on the stage changed from vibrant to wistful as she started to sing of a home far away across the sea. Robert was mesmerised.

  As she swept her gaze back t
o him she sent him the echo of a shy smile from under her lashes and Robert forgot all about Caroline, Danny Donovan, William and his mutton stew.

  Ellen surveyed the audience to include them in her next song, ‘The Run to the Fair’. Once the audience was focused on her there was less background noise. She was intrigued by the man sitting opposite Danny and her gaze returned to him.

  Danny’s guest was wearing a dark navy frock coat of some quality. Next to her boss’s garish outfit it looked positively sombre, but he was elegant in a way that Danny never would be. The light from the candelabra above fell on the angular planes of his face, highlighting the strong jaw and chin. His mop of light-brown hair, showing almost blond in the soft light, was trimmed neatly, but an unruly lock tumbled over his forehead. He leant back in his chair in a casual manner with his arm on the handrail, his strong, sculptured hand resting on the polished oak.

  His large frame all but blocked the man sitting behind him and to Danny’s right, yet he wasn’t stout like Danny, but muscular, with long legs that extended under the table to the edge of the raised platform.

  As her eyes came back to his face, his dark eyes rooted her to the spot. Reuben struck the chord again and Ellen jumped out of her daze.

  She smiled broadly and tried to slow her pounding heart. The man leant forward, putting his elbow on the rail and resting his chin on his hand.

  Forcing herself to break free from his gaze, she started the song. Within moments the people in the supper room had picked up the tune and were swaying and singing along with her.

  She stole a glance at Danny’s guest. He was still staring intently, a small smile on his lips.

  Suddenly Ellen’s heart took flight. This man, whoever he was, approved of her, his expression told her so. He was handsome and he was looking at her. She was enjoying a man’s admiration in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to for a very long time.

  The song was exuberant, so Ellen took advantage and jigged a little herself. Roars of approval rose from the floor. She finished with a quick swirl and swept her audience a bow, then gave the crowd two more songs in quick succession. She didn’t look at Danny’s guest again, but she was singing for him.

  She caught Reuben’s eye and he smiled at her with a toothless grin. She signalled for him to slow the pace. The violin sent out a melancholy note and then started to play the haunting bars of another Irish tune. The audience quietened as the tempo of the music slowed.

  Ellen usually finished with a sentimental song. ‘The Soft, Soft Rain of Morning’ was one of her favourites. It was a ballad, set to a well-known Irish folk tune, about the heartache of being exiled from the home one loved. It would mellow the audience, many of whom were indeed a long way from the land of their birth.

  She could hear her voice tremble a little as she glanced around the room, knowing all the while that the stranger had his eyes fixed on her. Thankfully, only she noticed the lapse and soon women could be seen wiping the corners of their eyes as she sang the sorrowful ballad.

  Unexpectedly, the sober mood caught Ellen’s emotions. The gaiety of the past moments was suddenly lost as the reality of her life came back to her - a life could never include a man such as the one who hadn’t taken his eyes from her all the time she was on stage.

  Disappointment settled on her. She had met the type before. Danny often entertained them. Rich young men who came east for drink and women.

  He had introduced her to men like the one looking at her now, and she had seen their eyes light up in the hope of pleasures to come. Ellen had always dashed those hopes smartly. She might have to sing for her supper, but she didn’t have to entertain unwanted attentions for it. She bowed, and left the stage to rapturous applause.

  Without speaking, she shot to her small room and slammed the door behind her. She sat in front of the mirror and found her hands were trembling.

  There was a light knock on the door and Tom’s head popped around the door. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs O’Casey, but Mr Donovan says you’re to join ’im and ’is party for a drink.’

  Two

  The sweet notes of ‘The Soft, Soft Rain of Morning’ drifted over them as Danny studied Robert Munroe from under his ebony brows. He chewed the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.

  To Danny’s mind Robert Munroe looked a mite young to be a doctor, and with his well-tailored appearance Danny would have thought him more at home in a ballroom or at the races than in a bloodstained hospital ward.

  ‘Sings like one of the celestial choir, does she not, Doctor Munroe?’ he said, studying the other man’s face intently.

  Doctor Munroe was still looking towards the stage, although Ellen had already left and the curtains were closed. He turned and pulled the front of his waistcoat down.

  ‘She does,’ he smiled, ‘she does indeed.’

  He picked up his glass and downed a mouthful of brandy.

  ‘Striking too,’ Danny continued, watching Robert’s eyes for a hint of his feelings.

  ‘Quite,’ Robert replied coolly, but Danny saw what he was looking for. Just for a split second there was a flicker of interest in the doctor’s brown eyes, then it was gone.

  He didn’t blame Robert. Ellen was striking. There were prettier women who worked in the Angel but none caught hold of a man’s attention like Ellen.

  ‘Our Ellen has admirers from all over the city who come to hear her sing,’ he said, trying to see if he could spark Robert Munroe’s interest again.

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ Robert replied in a bored tone, but his eyes were still warm.

  Danny’s mouth drew into a leer. Educated doctor he might be, a man of letters even, but in his trousers Robert Munroe was just the same as any other man.

  On the pretext of greeting some customers behind him, Danny turned away from the table, but out of the corner of his eye saw Chafford lean towards Munroe.

  ‘I see you think our Ellen a tempting armful, Robert,’ William said in a low voice.

  A chair scraped on the floor. ‘I think Miss Ellen is a fine singer,’ he heard Robert reply. There was a change in his voice. ‘And she is fair on the eye.’

  William gave a chuckle. ‘Don’t give me that, Munroe. Dash it, man, she’s a looker and no mistake.’

  Danny spun back to the table just in time to see Robert smile broadly in agreement. ‘I’ve asked Mrs O’Casey to join us for a glass of port, gentlemen,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs O’Casey?’ Robert said.

  Danny winked. ‘There ain’t a Mr O’Casey, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ Danny pointed with his fork to Robert’s abandoned dinner. ‘Eat up, Doctor Munroe, your dinner grows cold.’

  As if she knew she was the topic of their conversation, Ellen appeared from the side of the stage and made her way around the tables towards them. Robert’s dinner remained untouched.

  As she snaked around the table she smiled and greeted the regular patrons, Danny watched Robert study her. She hadn’t changed after her performance and still wore the simple cotton dress, its folds clinging to her as she moved. She laughed a couple of times, sending the soft curls of her dark auburn hair rippling around her shoulders.

  Her rich throaty chuckle caught Danny deep within. Fury rose in him. Smile at others, would she, but too fine a lady to give him a jig? He should ignore her. He had other women - Kitty and Red Top Molly in Cable Street - but Ellen’s rejection of him only made him hanker after her more. When he had first taken her on in the Angel and Crown he thought her refusal was just her way of raising her price. Others had tried the same thing and, as anyone would tell you, he was a generous man who didn’t mind putting his hand in his pocket for his pleasure. But after a month or two he realised that she wasn’t greedy but respectable: well, as respectable as any woman singing for money in a public house could be.

  His gaze flicked back to Robert, who had risen from his chair and awaited her arrival. Anger rumbled around inside Danny as Ellen reached the table.

  The tall and soberly dressed doctor and
the impoverished supper-room singer stood for a long moment gazing at each other. Danny remained seated and slowly explored his front teeth with a silver toothpick.

  ‘Ellie, my dear, you have a new admirer,’ he said at length. ‘Doctor Munroe, may I introduce Mrs Ellen O’Casey?’ With a swift movement Danny grabbed her hand and kissed it loudly. She tried to draw her hand from his grasp, but he held on tighter. ‘Ellen, this is Doctor Munroe, a man of letters, and a celebrated doctor from the hospital who has come to cure us of all our ills. And you know Dr Chafford already.’

  Ignoring Danny, Robert bowed. ‘It is my great pleasure to meet you, Mrs O’Casey.’

  ‘Doctor Munroe is wild to meet you, me darling,’ Danny said, his kindly expression not reaching his eyes.

  Alarm flashed across Ellen’s face for a second. Then she wiped the back of her hand against the tablecloth and offered it to Robert.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Doctor Munroe,’ she said in a clipped tone.

  Her manner at the table was like that of a rabbit caught in the yard by the house dogs. Taking her small hand, Robert bowed over it again. He gazed down on soft, clean fingers and noticed her short, ragged nails. Mrs O’Casey did more than just sing for her living.

  ‘You sang most wonderfully. So clear and such a range,’ he said, smiling reassuringly at her.

  ‘You have a musical ear, Doctor Munroe,’ Ellen said.

  Robert found that he was looking at the fluid movement of her mouth and thinking how Caroline’s was more often than not drawn together in a sulky pout. Despite her friendly manner Ellen O’Casey was ill at ease. Was it him, William or Danny? Robert didn’t know, but he wanted to dispel the feeling and see Ellen O’Casey smile at him with her eyes.

  ‘My mother doesna’ think so,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Five years of music lessons and I could barely whistle a tune. My music teacher suggested that I take up the most traditional of Scottish instruments, the bagpipes, because no one could tell if I was in tune or not.’