CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Saturday morning came and went. The points of Snow's pens were so worn down that his writing left uncouth smears across the paper, but he couldn't be bothered to fix them. In another two hours or so he'd be finished with the first draft and he could get to work drawing the tables.

Through the squeak of his pen he heard a cab stop at his door and then the receding clatter of hooves on cobblestones. He tried to pretend he didn't care who it could be, and forced himself to keep writing. But his mind filled with Lillian and he smiled. His bell rang once, and again. He imagined her standing at the door, waiting, maybe tapping her foot.

Mrs. Jarrett seemed to be out so he went downstairs himself, trying to look unconcerned and indifferent.

It was the first time he had seen her in black. She brushed past him up the stairs, looking distracted, even angry at something.

When the two stood alone in his study there was a long silence. Snow felt himself physically drawn to her in a way that reminded him of standing at the edge of that pit in the street yesterday. When he approached her it was with the feeling that he could fall into a long, dark descent. But she pulled away from him and began to pace the room, taking short breaths and staring at her feet.

"What's all this about?" he asked.

She stopped walking and looked at him. Still distant. "As you already know, Sir Philip Constable died yesterday." She gave a harsh, short laugh that grated on his ears. "I'm a little surprised you didn't think to tell me."

Snow fought his irritation. After all, she was the one who had insisted there was nothing between her and the man. "I did try to see you, as a matter of fact. But you weren't exactly available. After that I was thinking only of the cholera cases, to see if they slowed. Your note said that they had."

She obviously didn't intend to tell him why she had refused to see him. "Yes. You were right about the pump. It doesn't surprise me. Congratulations." Her tone was flat, as if she were a stranger thanking him for a seat on a train. "But in the past twenty-four hours things have come to light. Remember when we saw Constable's name in connection with the Southwark and Vauxhall Water company, and The Great Western?"

"Of course." The image came to him of the buckets, shovels, and abandoned equipment in the tunnels, with "Great Western" proudly stamped all over them.

"His death brought it all out. The company was a fake. Constable set it up and pulled in a few big names to give it the stamp of approval, he connected it with the renovations, and took the investors' money." Her air of detachment didn't change while telling this story. She still talked as if to a stranger. "Constable's debts were apparently enormous, forcing him to do something like this sooner or later. If he had lived he would have been ruined. As it is, dozens of investors will lose their fortunes."

"And you? What does this have to do with you? Or us?" He tried to get Lillian to sit down, but she refused.

"Dr. Greeley persuaded Olympia to invest every penny she had. And to put an end to their chattering pressure on me, I put in a little too."

Snow had never once thought to wonder about her money. He assumed she had enough to live well; Brook Street wasn't cheap. But, except for the night of the ball, she dressed so modestly, with little jewelry. And she befriended him, a doctor dependent on his trade. "How much did you lose?" he asked, bluntly.

"Only five thousand pounds. A tenth of my fortune."

Snow breathed slowly, trying to take it in. His own income, until he had quit treating patients that summer, had been eight hundred pounds a year. This summer, except for the occasional anesthesia job, it had been nothing. No one was paying him to tramp the streets in his cholera search. He was living on his savings.

"I had no idea —" He faltered. Forty-five thousand pounds. She still had more than most heiresses one read of in the society pages.

She finally smiled at him. "No, you had no idea. That's one of the things I loved about you." Her smile faded. "But I have terribly important business to attend to. I must go."

She left without kissing him, her manner still withdrawn. It wasn't until the door shut behind her that he remembered, with a chill, that she had said "loved" instead of "love."

Then he began to slowly realize that if he hadn't meddled with Sir Philip's doings, she'd still have every bit of her money. So would all the other investors. He tried to tell himself that the company would have crashed sooner or later, anyway. Investing in these doubtful, mushrooming companies carried its own risks and was disastrous for the economy. But he still felt guilty.

He sat for a few minutes, trying to summon his strength to continue writing. Finally he moved to his desk and began to work again.