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Stella whimpered one last time, withdrew her hand from Mrs. Murray’s, and covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes huge and teary.

Dr. Sterling’s hands froze for a moment, but his eyes never left his patient’s wound. As he resumed stitching, he said calmly, “Stella, on this account, I’d encourage you not to listen to your grandmother. You have nothing to fear from Mr. Blackmore. He is not only the one paying for this very clinic, but he’s also one of my closest friends. He may have his faults, but he most certainly doesn’t eat children.”

Mrs. Murray grunted, her lip curling up. “He may not, but he ain’t no angel. He refused my daughter when she went to Elysium askin’ for a position. Now she’s dead. And look at the result.”

She scoffed at the little girl, and Chastity decided she had had enough of this woman bullying her child. The girl’s very existence clearly caused resentment in the woman, but what kind of emotional scars would that leave on the child? Chastity knew all too well the wounds left by a parent who was never satisfied with their children.

“The result is a beautiful little girl,” said Chastity, looking into Stella’s frightened eyes, “who did nothing wrong and is not to blame.”

Mrs. Murray’s eyes hooked into Chastity. “Excuse me, Your Ladyship,” she said with a crooked smile. “Easy for a rich lady to talk down to us simple folk when ya ain’t gone hungry a day in yer entire life.”

Embarrassment at the truth of Mrs. Murray’s words slapped Chastity. What did a duke’s daughter know of life in Whitechapel?

“What are ya doin’ here anyway? Is yer husband tryin’ to buy his way into the Lord’s good graces by helpin’ us poor sods? Well, he could’ve done better and sent money instead of ya.”

The jab was another blow straight into Chastity’s gut, and sadness weighed in her chest. She’d never have a husband, never have the unconditional love and connection her brother, Dorian, and his wife, Patience, had. She’d lost the first boy she ever loved, her brother’s best friend, Lucien. And yet, she had to endure seeing him weekly. She knew from an early age she needed to keep her heart locked up to protect herself from the cruelty her father inflicted on her, Dorian, and their mama. Papa showed her very well she could never be loved for who she truly was.

“Mrs. Murray,” said Dr. Sterling, still concentrating on his surgery, his voice calm, his fingers steady. “I will ask you to leave this room if you continue to bully your granddaughter or Lady Chastity. Who, I’ll have you know, offers novel approaches to surgery that will significantly reduce the risk of infection and rot. And all for free.”

Mrs. Murray’s eyes narrowed. “Nothin’ is free. Not in Whitechapel.”

More embarrassment hit Chastity, this time combined with anger. “When I went with this research to St. Thomas’s Hospital, they refused me.”

Mrs. Murray scoffed. “Yer here because the finest hospital in London didn’t want ya? And we’re to trust yer methods, then? Ain’t that somethin’.”

“It wasn’t because they doubted her methods that they refused her,” said Dr. Sterling.

“Why, then?” asked Mrs. Murray.

Chastity remembered the faces of the Court of Governors of St. Thomas’s, all of them men, most of them over fifty. Only one younger gentleman, Lord Wardbury, appeared as if he might help her—he had the kindest eyes out all of them—but after she finished her presentation, those eyes crinkled with barely contained amusement as the president told her, his voice dripping with condescension, “While your…enthusiasm is admirable, surely you understand that the medical profession is no place for a female.”

Something with which her father would have very much agreed.

“Because I’m a woman,” said Chastity, her cheeks burning from the memory.

Mrs. Murray sighed. “Ah. That.”

Chastity nodded, her lips curving downwards. “If polite society rejects my help and my ambitions on account of my sex, I don’t see any harm in rejecting polite society in turn. Mr. Sterling does more good here without charge than those posh doctors from St. Thomas’s could ever imagine.”

Even though her work here would be useful, it would be unrecognized by the scientific society…recognition she wanted so much it hurt. Perhaps she could speak to Lord Wardbury away from the rest of the Court of Governors. He would be at the Duke of Pryde’s upcoming month-long house party. An event she couldn’t avoid attending due to her brother’s connection to the duke.

A lady confident in her social skills would see this as an opportunity to befriend Lord Wardbury and—ideally—change his mind. Recruit him to her purpose. Convince him to give her a chance in St. Thomas’s Hospital where the very best of the scientific community would see her work. Where she could gain scientific influence and, as a result, help even more people.

Instead, Chastity would spend the whole month at Pryde’s estate attempting to become one with the wall and demonstrating her unsurpassed skill of avoiding eye contact.

“You’re risking your reputation and your safety by coming here,” said Dr. Sterling quietly as he tied the last piece of the thread. “Unchaperoned. In secret from your brother.”

He dipped a clean cloth into alcohol and wiped the sewn scar. “All done, Stella,” he said and smiled warmly at the girl. “You did very well. I’ll just bandage this. Do try and rest for the next few days. And, Mrs. Murray, please bring her here tomorrow and again in one week. I’d like to see how it’s healing.”

A few hours later, after Stella was discharged and Chastity and Dr. Sterling had exchanged notes and observations, Chastity left the surgery. The mud of Petticoat Street slurped under her feet as she walked. She would need to continue for a few blocks before she reached the corner where the occasional hackney waited to be hired.

She maneuvered around street urchins, burly men carrying rolling barrels, a fishwife with a basket of malodorous pilchard, a group of washerwomen carrying baskets of laundry and gossiping loudly, and a costermonger pushing a cart of bruised apples and calling out to passersby. A pickpocket lurked in the alleyway. Street vendors shouted offers from the market that ran along the middle of the street.

Two men leaned against a grimy wall. One wore a patched coat that hung loosely on his frame, the other wore a threadbare shirt. Both of their faces were weathered and ruddy, and their hands rested near bulges in their pockets in a manner that made her wonder if they were carrying weapons. One of them looked familiar. Perhaps she’d seen him in the street earlier. As she passed, their gazes locked on to her. Her dresses stood out whenever she visited the clinic despite her preference for brown and gray fabrics, simply because of how new and well-sewn they were, and her hair, though plain, was always immaculate, her bonnets new and clean.

Everyone could see she didn’t fit in.

She clutched her reticule and hurried on. She was undoubtedly a tempting target and could easily be mugged.