Nolan was riding with his daughter, Shannon, in a hansom cab, in the middle of the afternoon, through the twisty, narrow streets of Chapel Hill. There were three things that were unusual about this. The first was that they were in a hansom cab. Normally, Nolan would have walked or ridden one of his own stock in the city, a hansom cab being an unnecessary expense—and too much of that sort of thing would break his finances in no time. However, Shannon was in much too fragile a state after her recent ordeal for her to walk or ride, and so he had paid for the cab. The second was that it was the middle of the afternoon. Nolan usually worked at this time, and even until well past dark many days. But Shannon had needed him, so he had delegated Phelan to do what he could for the trading business and postponed what matters his son could not handle.

And the third thing was that they were in Chapel Hill at all. It was not a place that Nolan frequented with any regularity, although he did have some business there from time to time. To the best of his knowledge, Shannon had never been there before; he had tried very assiduously to keep his children to the better parts of the city. But they were there today; the reason for it was because Shannon had wanted to visit someone down this way. Since she had not wanted to go any where or do any thing for the three weeks since her attempt to kill herself, Nolan seized at any chance to take her any where. He would have taken her to London that very day if she had said she wanted to go. He saw her sudden mobility as a positive sign, that maybe she was beginning to recover from her misfortunes.

Nolan actually had no idea whatsoever where they were going beyond the address; 8 Garter-street, Chapel Hill, Lindebo. He had no knowledge of who the fellow they were going to see was, except that Shannon had said he was some sort of doctor, and that she thought he could help her. Shannon had been suffused with a stream of visitors, many of them wishing her health and many more of them simply desiring to see the spectacle of a girl who had tried to kill herself. Nolan had turned them all away at the door when he was there, but two or three had managed to bully their way past Phelan when he was the one at the flat. Nolan had kicked them out as fast as possible when he arrived home in the evenings, but he figured that one of them must have mentioned this doctor in Chapel Hill.

A week ago, Shannon had started to have an agitated air instead of the apathy she had displayed after her suicide attempt, and two days later had begun to move about the flat instead of keeping strictly to her room. Then to-day, in the morning, she had asked if she might have some coin to go and visit a man of medicine she thought might help her condition. Naturally concerned for his daughter’s health (in this case more of her mind than physically, since thanks to Dr Marcs the wounds on her wrists were healing without infection), Nolan had said of course, but he would not hear of her going by herself. He would accompany her, and they would take a hansom cab so as not to put any undue stress on her. Shannon had tried to protest, but Nolan was adamant. He was afraid that Shannon might try to kill herself again if left alone; either he or Phelan had been pretty much constantly with her at all times since it had happened, and he didn’t think that her first time out of the flat afterwards was the best occasion to desert her.

The hansom cab arrived at Number Eight, Garter-street, and the Quartermaines got out. Nolan paid the cabby and the hansom clattered off, leaving the two of them standing in front of the building. It was situated in a neighbourhood of drab buildings that lined Garter-street with differing heights, from two to four storeys. Shannon somewhat nervously adjusted the scarf she wore around her neck to hide the hanging-bruise, and pulled the long sleeves of her dress even lower. Nolan put a hand on her back to support her, handing her up the narrow stairs to the entry-landing; he read the name-plates by the door. Shannon pointed one out—John Pascoe. Nolan thought it was a good, solid name; it seemed to fit a doctor. Taking a deep breath, Shannon rapped the knocker against its base. Nolan wrapped her arm through his and said comfortingly, “I’m sure Dr Pascoe will be able to help, don’t worry.” Shannon gave him a ghastly farce of a smile, clearly just as nervous as before, and the two of them waited for someone to come, Nolan hoping beyond hope that Dr Pascoe would be able to tell him how to help his daughter.

He had absolutely no idea that John Pascoe was, in fact, an abortionist, or that his daughter was pregnant.

At the moment Shannon Quartermaine rapped on his door, John Pascoe was indisposed to answering it. He was currently encumbered with a stack of medical books, most of them in various states of decay, in the upstairs closet that served as a kind of library. Pausing in his curious, wobbling attempt not to upset the stack, he listened, trying to ascertain whether or not the noise had come from without the house. He had just decided it had, and was in the process of setting the books aside, when footsteps that were coming from within the house told him he had been beat to the chase.

"I'll get it, Doctor!" Moll Harding was a middle-aged prostitute and a former client of the doctor's who had been unable to pay him for his services. In lieu of monetary reimbursement, John had suggested she help him keep his house. In honesty, there was little to be done around the house by way of cleaning, as John had few enough possessions. Moll, however, had proved to be of the proud specie of pauper. She had been extremely offended when John offered to wave payment, and so it came to pass that every Monday, Moll spent two hours attempting (futilely) to coax the furnishings into gleaming.

Despite her superfluity as a housekeeper, John was thankful for her presence. Her habit of nattering away any time he was in hearing range, and of moving about the house like a small elephant, was strangely comforting. It was doubly pleasant considering that his normal 'company' was limited to the tight-lipped, petrified women who came to him for what services he could provide.

Petrified women and the occasional creditor, of course.

"Thank you, Ms. Harding!" He lost control of the books, and Experiments and Observations on Different Kinds of Airs slid from it's position on the top of the stack, striking him squarely on the face in it's descent. "Confound it!" Setting aside the rest of the books, he stooped, with difficulty, and retrieved Experiments and Observations from the floor. The mouldering binding had not survived the fall, and the volume had cleaved neatly down the center. He straightened, not much more easily than he had bent, and deposited both halves on a shelf, to be dealt with later.

Ms. Harding, meanwhile, had done as promised and answered the door. Dressed as she was in a workaday dress, without any of the garish effects of a girl 'on the make', she cut a respectable figure. So, she noted with interest, did the man and woman on the step. She was unsurprised by the girl but a little less prepared for the gentlemanly figure at her side. Their clothes and bearing were of particular interest to her; it was obvious that they were comfortable, if not wealthy.

"Can I help you?"

Nolan watched as the door to the place opened and a woman appeared in the gap to ask, “Can I help you?” Having no maid himself and living in a slightly better part of town it didn’t occur to Nolan for a moment that Dr Pascoe might have one, and so he was confused as to exactly the reason why this woman was answering the door. Was she his wife? Her dress, a respectable if poor woman’s garment, was not exactly that of a maid. But then he realised that of course a doctor, even one living in Chapel Hill, would be better off than a struggling horse trader in Durdon. Dr Pascoe would have a maid, but he wouldn’t have a liveried maid, which explained Nolan’s confusion about the woman’s position. Tipping his hat, Nolan said to her, “Good afternoon. I am Nolan Quart—“

He got no further than that before Shannon cut him off with, “I’m here to speak to Doctor Pascoe.” Nolan turned to her in surprise. It was impolite to be so short to the woman, and that she had interrupted him to do it only added to the obviousness of her curt reply. Shannon was dressed in her best long-sleeved dress, and Nolan in his best clothes also, so as not to embarrass themselves in front of the doctor by appearing in their rather worn everyday clothing—Nolan had got the idea that all doctors, whether wealthy or not, were respectable folks who had nobby sensibilities and would not appreciate two people that looked as poor as church-mice showing up at their doorstep. Thus, their best clothing was to disguise their rather low social status (just so, Nolan also lived in the tiny flat in Durdon instead of a bigger place in Bramwell or Shropsea, simply so that he did not have to say that they lived in the poorest parts of town).

But Shannon’s rudeness would make them seem not only low-class but ill-mannered as well. The maid might forgive the first, but probably not the second. It was imperative to keep on the doctor’s good side, in case he refused help to those that did not; therefore it was also important to remain on the maid’s good side. Nolan tried to smooth over the awkward situation by giving the maid a friendly smile and explaining. “Yes, Sh—“
“I have heard he is excellent in his field. I think he may be able to help my illness.” Shannon interrupted him once more, and this time her voice was heavy with strain.
Finally Nolan understood why Shannon was being so odd. Of course she did not want to admit to the maid that she had tried to kill herself. No one would want to admit that. Perhaps she would be more comfortable speaking directly to the doctor. He smiled wanly at the maid. “Is he in? May we see him?”

Shannon said, right on the heels of his question, without giving the maid a chance to speak, “I would prefer to see him alone. Is that possible?”
But that was something that Nolan was leery of. He smiled at the maid and said, “Please excuse us a moment,” before drawing Shannon as far away from the maid as he could on the landing—all of three steps. In a low voice, he asked, “Shannon, you sure that is a good idea? We don’t know this man, and I certainly will hear nothing I do not already know. You do not have to feel ashamed of yourself; it makes no difference to my love for you, whatever you do. I am your father. Besides, I was the one that nursed you back to health when… the doctor can hardly have anything to say that I cannot hear.”

Shannon looked up at him with a pale face, and Nolan felt guilty for doubting her, but could not help it. She had—well, she had tried to kill herself. Her judgement might still be off. And since he was not personally familiar with this John Pascoe, and had never met the man, he was nervous of letting his daughter be examined alone. But Shannon said, “I’m sure. Please, father. This will be… it is… I should like to do this by myself.”
Nolan looked at her a moment longer, and then embraced her gently. “If you’re sure.” After all, he would be in the same building, and would hear Shannon if she cried for help. What could the man do, really? And it was very likely that the man was exactly the respectable upstanding sort that doctors usually were. He would be overprotective to not give way on this.

Turning back to the maid, Nolan asked, “May she see him? Is there somewhere I can wait in the meantime?”

Ms. Harding's opinion of the man as a gentlemanly sort was reinforced by the tipping of his hat. She appreciated him at once, and felt a burst of sympathy for whatever his cause happened to be."Good afternoon. I'm Nolan Quart-

“I’m here to speak to Doctor Pascoe.”

“Yes, Sh—"

“I have heard he is excellent in his field. I think he may be able to help my illness.” She eyed the pair curiously, puzzled at the dynamic. The girl seemed absolutely determined to present her cause alone, without the interference of her companion, and Mr. Nolan Whoever seemed disinclined to allow her. Finally deciding that none of it was any of her business, Ms. Harding nodded her head in assent. Opening her mouth with the intent to confirm the validity of the Doctor's reputation, she was compelled to close it again as the man began to speak.

"Is he in? May we see him?"

Again, she was prevented from speaking, this time by the girl.

“I would prefer to see him alone. Is that possible?”

“Please excuse us a moment." They descended the steps.

"Of course." Unsure of what to do at this point, she lingered for an awkward moment in the doorway. Then, sensing the man's fervent desire for privacy, she did them the small courtesy of withdrawing a step back from the door. Against a backdrop of intense conversation, which Moll willfully ignored, she tried to piece together a relationship between the two. While her initial impression, and impressions since then, had suggested that the man was the girl's father, she thought it very odd for him to have delivered her here. Her already heavily lined brow creased at meeting with this new concept, and creased further when she considered that he did not seem at all the sort to approve of this.

Before she had sorted out the whole business, the pair, who had reached some manner of consensus, ascended the steps.

“May she see him? Is there somewhere I can wait in the meantime?” Pausing a moment with the unconscious intent of giving the girl a chance to interject her own, conflicting sentiment, Ms. Harding finally nodded.

"Yes. He's in now, and will be agreeable to seeing you, I should think. And you may sit in the parlor." The last she addressed to the man.

(OOC: Sorry it took so long! I was like… *stare* “what to do?” for the longest time. Also if you mind the mod of Mrs Harding or my description of your parlour, let me know and I’ll edit the post. :) )

"Yes. He's in now, and will be agreeable to seeing you, I should think. And you may sit in the parlor." The maid did not let on what she thought about them at all, and Nolan had to concede that the doctor had employed a very well-trained domestic indeed. Even the servants of the wealthier people he did business with were wont to let something of an opinion show in their faces—usually a superior look out of the corner of an eye or something similar. But this woman was unreadable to him. His estimation of Doctor Pascoe, already high from Shannon’s certainty that he would be able to help her, rose another notch. The fellow was clearly a gentleman of good taste.

The maid stepped aside to allow them entry to the place, and they nervously went through the door, Shannon first and Nolan following. Shutting the door behind them, the maid quickly stepped to the front and proceeded to lead them through a short corridor to a room scattered with a few chairs and one smallish table—clearly the parlour she had mentioned. There was a hesitation for a moment as no one seemed to know what to do, and then Nolan turned to Shannon. “Well.”
Shannon gave a faint smile, almost hidden under stress. “Yes father, well. I shouldn’t keep the good doctor waiting.”
“No, of course not,” Nolan said. He wanted to say something else, but couldn’t think of the words to say it, and besides, the maid was right there. So instead he gave his daughter a smile almost as faint as the one she had given him, and then watched as the maid led her out again.

After Shannon had left, Nolan stood for a moment before taking off his hat and overcoat, holding his hat in his left hand and throwing his coat over the arm. Then he folded his great height into an armchair that was just slightly too short for it, and tried to compose his thoughts. Shannon was here to see a doctor she thought could help. But what if he couldn’t? What if the desire to kill herself returned—if it had ever left, he couldn’t be certain about that at all—and she took a knife to her wrists again? Or swallowed a poison or something else? For that matter, how exactly did the doctor plan to help her? Nolan tried to think clearly and unemotionally, as he had done many times since the incident; his thoughts seemed to wind in useless circles and double back along unnecessary tracks. He hoped the doctor could do something for Shannon.


Shannon followed the maid as the woman led her through the place. She seemed to know where she was going… of course she knew where she was going, Shannon told herself irratably. She was the maid here. It was Shannon who didn’t know where she was going. Only what she was doing, and trying not to think about that. But she could not have a baby. It would take up even more of father’s hard-earned money, since Shannon no longer had a job, and it would be misery for nine months and then further misery to care for it, and besides, no father would acknowledge it—it would be tortured for that every day of its life, and Shannon knew very well that she would not love it at all, so there would be nothing to make up for its torment. And the poorhouse was out of the question; it would only be unhappy for a few days before dying anyway, and Shannon would die with it, there. It was much better that it should never live in the first place. It was her body and her child, she could choose what happened to it. And no one would ever find out, since Dr Pascoe would be in as much trouble as she was if he told. Except… Shannon hesitantly spoke to the maid as the woman led her wherever she was going. “Ma’am?”

The maid turned back with an inquiring look, and Shannon said, almost in a whisper, “My father… he doesn’t know. Don’t tell him?” If father found out, he would… Shannon didn’t know what he would do, so it was best not to find out at all.

The father deposited in the parlor, Moll indicated that Shannon should follow her through the doorway that led into the narrow hallway separating the sitting room from the dining room and kitchen. From there it was up a narrow flight of stairs and- “Ma’am?” She was interrupted midway in her progress up the steps and looked back over her shoulder. Whatever resolve was in the girl's expression was overshadowed by her obvious (and understandable) discomfort. “My father… he doesn’t know. Don’t tell him?"

"Oh, don't he? Well." She refrained from further comment but remarked to herself that this bit of information went a long way towards explaining the circumstances. She gave a little nod, and turned her face forward once again, waiting until she had ascended the stairs completely before giving a proper response. "I don't think it any of my business, Miss, whether you tell him or no." This was no polite circumspection. Herself a fallen woman, Moll didn't consider it her place to moralize. She also had a nagging suspicion that the revelation of certain facts would result in unpleasant consequences for all involved, herself and the doctor included. Leaving it at that, Moll continued onward.

The corridor to the door of the doctor's office had two more turns, and Moll remembered that her first impression of it had been that it was needlessly convoluted. She wondered, but did not inquire, as to the girl's opinion of the place. The building was a somber place on its own account, saying nothing of the grave purpose it served. The girl was young and Moll didn't doubt that this was her first abortion. She felt a twinge of pity, but this was soon replaced by the thought that she and countless others had been in the girls' shoes. Some, herself included, had survived the experience again and again. This girl would doubtless emerge shaken but intact within the hour, soon to have the unpleasantness of the experience fade from present to past.

These considerations resulted in Moll growing unreasonably impatient with the girl by the time they reached the door that was their destination. She rapped sharply, as if to convey her disapproval. "Dr. Pascoe, it's a young lady to see you."

The door to the improvised library just down the hall from the office swung open and Moll started. "Yes, thank you Ms. Harding." John had emerged into the hall, a very standard looking medical text tucked beneath his arm. Excusing himself in a series of sub-auditory mumbles, he edged past Shannon and Moll, and opened the door to his office, setting the book on table directly within the room. Hurrying to light the gas lamps on either side of the door, he called with turning from the task at hand, "Come in, won't you?"

(OOC: Sorry if it’s not long, but I’m running just under bingo fuel, posting-wise. :/)

“Oh, don’t he? Well.” The woman’s less than sympathetic reply set Shannon on an even sharper edge than she already was. What did that mean? Was she going to tell him? Shannon could see it all now. He would not approve, she already knew that; it was why she hadn’t told him herself, and why she never would. But if the maid did… Shannon would come downstairs and find her father dead of a heart attack. Or maybe he would be raging, he used to rage back when he drank, back when she was little. Would this be enough to break him back to that? Or maybe he’d just be gone. That would be the worst. If he just left her, cut her out of his heart. Would he do that? Shannon was just about to try and appeal to the maid again, when the woman said, “I don’t think it any of my business, Miss, whether you tell him or no.”

“Thank you,” Shannon said, and felt a portion of her worry drop away. At least father would not know.
They continued together down a winding corridor, and finally the maid knocked on a door, rather shortly. Was she angry? She didn’t sound that angry when she announced, “Dr. Pascoe, it’s a young lady to see you.”
A door opened down the hall, and a benevolent old man came out. Was that the doctor? He wasn’t as… well, as frightening as she had expected him to be. She had pictured a gipsy healer, or maybe a Byronic half-mad figure. Not this robust, kind-looking old man who said, “Yes, thank you Ms. Harding.”
Finally having a name for the woman she assumed to be Dr Pascoe’s maid, Shannon touched the woman’s arm briefly in gratitude for her prior indifference. She whispered an echo of the Doctor’s words, “Thank you, Ms Harding.”
The Doctor turned up the lamps in his office, inviting her inside, “Come in, won’t you?”

A glance at Ms Harding provided no help of the sort that Shannon had wanted, and she stepped inside with a timorous, “Thank you.” Feeling it necessary to say something, to greet him, she said, “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Pascoe. I’m Sha—” She cut herself off. Maybe she was supposed to keep anonymity here. Or maybe she was supposed to greet him like a regular doctor. She hadn’t done this before, so she had no idea. Was he going to be offended? He must have met with many young women who didn’t want to be known, though? In his trade, there had to be a lot of them. Or maybe not, since he also relied on word-of-mouth for custom? Trying to think of what she should do, Shannon began to stammer, attempting to either finish her greeting, explain herself, or ask for advice—she herself wasn’t even sure. “Um, doctor. Um. Um, um, I-I, um.”

What was she supposed to say? The unadorned truth? I had an affair with a man, because I thought he was going to marry me, but it turns out he wasn’t, so then I had another spot of bad judgement and tried to kill myself, and I realise I shouldn’t have done either, and please don’t let that influence you when you’re deciding if I’m a good candidate for your services, and yes, I really did think it through and this pregnancy would only be a disaster for everyone involved, so it’s better if it never happens. That wouldn’t go over too well. He’d probably laugh her out the door. Meaning to think of something impressive, or at least decided, to say, Shannon opened her mouth and out came, “Doctor, can you help me?”

Ms. Harding shut the door behind her and retreated back down the corridor, making no particular effort to do either very quietly. Having lit the lamps, John turned his full attention toward the girl, who he thought looked rather faint. "Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Pascoe. I’m Sha—" That she cut herself off mid-introduction did not surprise him. Many of his previous patients had spent their appointments in clammy silence, save for a few monosyllabic responses when absolutely necessary. He debated whether or not to begin the interview, but she looked as if she was about to speak again. “Um, doctor. Um. Um, um, I-I, um.”

His hand went to his breast pocket where a handkerchief was folded. The still anonymous young woman, however, defied his expectations and did not cry. After a brief but awkward hesitation, she spoke again. “Doctor, can you help me?”

"I would be a poor doctor if I couldn't," he said lightly, attempting to gloss over whatever unspoken reticence she had. Pausing for a moment to gather his own thoughts, he wondered whether she would be more comfortable if he addressed the elephant that had set up camp in the corner and was even now considering starting a family.

He waved a solicitous hand in the direction of a chair. "Please, sit down." While he waited for her response, he set about busying himself with a flurry of small tasks; first to open the clasp of his bag, then to put his handkerchief to use with the wiping of his glasses, and then to a second chair, which he placed opposite the first. Lowering himself carefully into it he looked, once more, at the girl. "Now, miss." His glasses sufficiently polished, he tucked the handkerchief back away. "This is perhaps the most important thing; can you tell how far along you are?"

“I would be a poor doctor if I couldn’t.” Of course, Shannon thought, he was a poor doctor in the eyes of the law. An illegal one. She was engaging in illegal activities too. What if she was caught? What if he wasn’t the right doctor, what if he wasn’t the right Dr Pascoe? Or what if he was a law-enforcement plant, to catch people like her?
“Please, sit down.” No, he couldn’t be a plant. He wasn’t going to insist on her name. That would be the first thing, if he was with the law. Instead, they were just going to get on with business. Oh good. The sooner this was over, the better.
“Now, miss. This is perhaps the most important thing; can you tell how far along you are?” Why was that the most important thing? The most important thing was; was anybody going to rat her out?

Then there would be no way she would be caught on this end. Oh. Except father had started to tell Ms Harding his name, but then again, she had cut him off before the last name had been fully given. What if Ms Harding went back to talk to him though? Shannon wasn’t there to guard the conversation, and of course the first thing that father would do if Ms Harding talked to him would be to introduce himself. But, they couldn’t get away with exposing their clients, could they? They themselves would be called into question if they did. No, she wouldn’t be caught on this end. She had been very careful in getting here. Father’s taking her would allay suspicions, too, because anyone who knew father would not even consider that he would take her to have a baby aborted. She hadn’t told anyone. Phelan didn’t know. Father would be kept in the dark, since she wouldn’t tell and neither would the doctor.

There was no way she would be caught. So why was she feeling so nervous? It must be just the threat of the punishment that would ensue if she did get caught. Forced hard labour for the rest of her life was not her cup of tea. The only relief in this whole thing was that even if she was caught, no one would go down with her. Except maybe the doctor, but she would not give him up. Not when he was the only one who could and further would be willing to help her with this. Trying to shove the edge of fear away, she thought about the doctor’s question instead of her predicament. But when she went to answer it, she was too embarrassed. “Um… I…”

She looked away, blushing. Was she supposed to just discuss feminine bodily workings with this man? As if it was nothing? Well, yes. She was here to get her baby aborted. He was probably even going to have to look… down there. But it was one thing to think of telling him coherently and another to do it. Her vice was still hesitant as she said, “I, um, I-I only just missed… about a week ago. Um. So. Um. I-I could be two weeks to a month and a week.” And then a horrible thought occurred to her. Panicking, her breath going shallow, she gulped out the question.

“Is it too late to help me?”