‘Lady M tells me that you are on your way to meet the lovely Miss Blackwell,’ he said, standing so close to Sarah that she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘Dr Blackwell,’ Sarah corrected him.
‘Yes, yes. The lady MD. I met her when she was here last summer. Delightful little thing. Something of a surprise.’
‘That she had succeeded in obtaining a medical degree?’
‘Well that, yes. But we were all expecting someone, you know, more physically robust. Broad-shouldered. Brawny.’
‘Masculine?’ Sarah suggested.
‘Quite.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I applaud her achievement and all of that, but it is not really a profession suitable for the fairer sex, is it?’
He smiled at her as though this was a self-evident truth. ‘I mean, who in their right mind would consult with a lady physician?’ he continued, oblivious to Sarah’s growing irritation.
Sarah could feel her face flush. She looked again at the crimson stain on the gentleman’s shirt front. It reminded her of the blood-spatter seen after a dental extraction. Or a punch to the face.
She heard a titter from Mr Cadge and wondered if he would say anything in reply, something that would atone for the other man’s remarks, but he seemed amused rather than appalled and Sarah was left with the impression that he shared this view even if he would perhaps have put it a little more delicately himself.
She desperately wanted to say something pithy and devastating that would change the minds of those around her, but in her anger was struggling to find the right words. What words would possibly change the minds of those so entrenched in their views? Mere rhetoric would never be enough. Action would be required. A clear demonstration of their misapprehension.
She saw Mina coming towards them at speed, clearly unhappy about something. That Sarah had failed to deliver her wine? Or that she had commandeered her dining companion? She was welcome to them both as far as Sarah was concerned.
She had to remind herself, not for the first time, that she was indebted to Mina. Without her, she would never have been here at all.
‘I think it’s time we took our leave,’ Mina announced, a tight smile on her lips. She did not wait for introductions or proffer any explanation for her sudden need to depart. ‘Get the coats, will you, Sarah?’ she added as she turned and made her way towards the door.
FOUR
ith Dr Morris having been left short-handed for so long, the clinic had overrun, though in truth it would have been more remarkable had it not. Raven went to the kitchen and grabbed a leftover chicken leg by way of lunch, Mrs Lyndsay’s admonishments ringing in his ears as he ascended the stairs to the front hall. He needed something he could eat on his walk to the Maternity Hospital, a consideration she seemed unprepared for, despite its regularity.
He was on his way to the front door, narrowly avoiding collision with one of the children, when he heard the professor’s voice. Simpson was descending the stairs at his usual rapid clip. He was a man in a permanent state of hurry, as though every moment was already allocated to a task, but he had forgotten to account for the time required to transport himself from place to place.
‘Will, I’m glad I caught you. Do you have plans for this evening?’
The unspoken answer to this question was always ‘Not any more’. Raven had been intending to seek out Henry in one of their preferred taverns to enquire about attending the post-mortem on the Leith baby. He would have to send a note instead.
‘I am at your disposal as ever, professor.’
Simpson was an impossible man to say no to, and not merely because he was Raven’s employer. As his long-term mentor, Raven felt a constant need for the man’s approval and a desire to impress him. Nor was this an entirely passive compulsion. Simpson had an energy about him that was as inspiring as it was addictive, like a fuel that made one burn all the brighter, though it could be utterly exhausting.
‘Is it an evening consultation?’ Raven asked, hoping there might be some rich patient lodged at a Princes Street hotel. Raven was always looking to make an impression so that his own name might come to mind should the professor not be available in future.
Jarvis appeared with his unfailing stealth and handed the professor his familiar hat, one that would drown a lesser head.
‘No,’ Simpson replied, giving Raven a conspiratorial look. ‘I should warn you that it is not your clinical assistance I wish to draw upon. My duties tonight require me to traverse dark and treacherous straits, wherein I would feel better knowing I have able reinforcements.’
‘Of course, professor.’
Raven had occasionally wondered how much Simpson might suspect about his experience of violence. This request confirmed that, as in most matters, it was wise to assume the professor knew all. But what such a man might be fearful of was a matter of intrigue and, Raven would have to concede, some concern. Simpson was respected, even beloved in the grimmest and most disreputable parts of the Old Town, having interceded so often in the homes of the poorest without taking a penny in payment. Ever recognisable in his hat and coat, Raven had assumed there was nowhere the professor could not walk unmolested even on the blackest night.
As Jarvis held open the front door, Raven observed that Simpson’s carriage had been summoned, his trusted coachman Angus at the reins.
‘I would offer you a ride, but I am bound for Newhaven and thus headed in the opposite direction.’
Raven was not sorry. He was already late enough for it to make little difference, but more importantly he had a reason why he would prefer to walk. His journey to Milton House was becoming one of the highlights of his day, because it was a chance to see her.
He finished the last of the chicken leg as he turned on to George Street, cleaning his fingers on a handkerchief before checking his reflection in the window of a gentleman’s tailor. He was looking presentable enough, but his eye was drawn to the scar on his cheek. He had been considering growing a beard to cover it, as he had done when he first received the injury. First impressions were an important consideration for prospective patients, and Raven remained fearful that it made him look like the kind of man who got slashed in a back alley as a warning from a money lender.
He had desisted because she said she liked the scar, and because it held a certain significance between them. Raven nonetheless remained concerned about the significance it might hold for her father.
He pulled out his pocket watch and saw that it was almost two o’clock. Some days she contrived to be out walking in St Andrew Square around the time he was on his way to the Maternity Hospital. Other days she would simply arrange to be at her bedroom window so that they might see each other as he passed. That was as much as he could hope for today, but he would treasure it all the same.
Raven had reconciled himself to not marrying Sarah, but that did not mean he had been looking elsewhere for a wife. If so, he would not have wanted for prospects, albeit none that were particularly tempting. For some time, oblivious of his feelings towards Sarah, Mrs Simpson’s sister, Mina, had been casting about on his behalf. Raven took it as an indication that Mina had all but given up on finding a spouse for herself that she was pouring boundless enthusiasm into procuring one for him. He felt pity for her, which was why he tolerated it, pretending not to notice that she was arranging ‘chance’ meetings with those she deemed suitable candidates.
Raven had sought to build a career longer than he had sought a partner to share it. He knew it was expected of a doctor that he be a family man with a wife who appeared and behaved according to certain standards. This was particularly true in the field of obstetrics: Simpson freely admitted that he had asked Jessie to marry him in part because it would improve his chances of securing his professorship. Being a bachelor was considered an insurmountable impediment.
As in many things, he looked enviously towards the professor and the relationship he enjoyed with his beloved Jessie. As second cousins, they had corresponded for years, trading
confidences, worries, observations, aspirations, and sharing a profound love of books. Consequently, they were two people who truly knew each other’s minds, each other’s souls, long before they knew each other as husband and wife. But for that, Raven did not think they could have endured some of the tragedy and heartbreak that had befallen them.
Mina’s prospects were all pleasant girls, doubtless more than happy to assume the role of wife to a doctor and mother to his children, but it disappointed Raven that these were the only roles they wanted. They were sweet, pretty and eager to please, but they were raised to be acquiescent. Compliant. Guileless.
The very properties that supposedly made Sarah an unfitting wife were now the attributes that he had come to most value in a woman. Perhaps fittingly, then, it was no machination of Mina’s that led to his good fortune. Rather it was the request of the professor that he attend the house of Dr Cameron Todd, who wished to observe the effects of chloroform on one of his patients suffering from intractable neuralgia.
It had been a crisp spring morning, a little over six weeks ago, when Raven presented himself at the St Andrew Square address. Dr Todd was one of the richest practitioners in the city, a man whose inherited wealth meant that he had no need to supplement his earnings with income from teaching at a hospital.
When Raven pulled the doorbell, he had marvelled at how the sound echoed within. The maid who answered directed him to a capacious drawing room, where he was left to admire the oil paintings which adorned the walls. He was contemplating a dramatic landscape full of brooding clouds, crags and waterfalls when he realised that he was not alone. A young woman was reclining on a sofa by the window, an open book on her lap. She was staring at him and continued to do so for far longer than was strictly polite, as though appraising him in some way.
‘I’m sorry. I thought the room was empty,’ Raven said.
‘And who might you be?’ she enquired.
‘My name is Dr Will Raven.’
‘A medical man, then. I had assumed something else. Something more exotic and interesting.’
She still made no attempt to stand up and introduce herself properly. Raven wondered if she was an invalid of some kind, though she lacked the pallor associated with the chronically sick and was fashionably dressed for someone who spent all their time indoors. The more he looked the more he realised that she was possibly the healthiest-looking invalid that he had ever come across. In fact, she was not merely healthy, she was truly striking, though he could not gaze long upon the beauty of her face with her eyes so unflinchingly fixed upon him.
Before he could ascertain who he was speaking to they were joined by an elegantly dressed gentleman who introduced himself as Dr Todd. He was a thin man with a full head of grey hair and neatly trimmed whiskers. He was clad in a black frock-coat and trousers, starched white collar and necktie. His clothes exhibited neither stain nor crumple, suggesting a man whose practise of physic was presumably of the old-fashioned sort where the physician rarely made physical contact with the patient. There was a precision and a meticulousness to his attire that engendered an aura of sleek professionalism, something that Raven hoped one day to emulate. He looked down at his own coat and trousers, well used and weather-beaten. He did not compare favourably and struggled to find anything about his appearance that had caused the young woman in the room to think him exotic.
Given the strangeness of his interaction with the woman thus far, Raven was grateful for the interruption, but Dr Todd looked far from pleased at having found them together.
‘Eugenie! What are you doing in here? I was told that you had gone out.’
‘Well, quite evidently I did not.’
Todd ignored this remark and turned to Raven.
‘Dr Raven, I presume,’ he said, shaking Raven’s hand. ‘Do please forgive my daughter. Her manners frequently desert her.’
He then addressed his still-recumbent offspring.
‘Leave us, would you, my dear? We have important matters to discuss.’
Eugenie closed her book and rose slowly from her chair.
‘Important matters that I wouldn’t understand, or indelicate matters not to be spoken of in front of a fragile creature such as myself? You must be careful, Dr Raven. Say the wrong thing and I will faint clean away and you will be forced to revive me.’
She sashayed across the room in a swirl of mazarine silk. The scent of rosewater hung in the air as she passed. She took her time, in no hurry to leave. Then as she reached the door she halted and looked back.
‘That is quite a scar, Dr Raven. How did a respectable man such as yourself acquire it?’
Raven was taken aback by the directness of the question but did not have the time to answer before Dr Todd chastised his daughter and sent her from the room.
‘My apologies once again for Eugenie’s lack of decorum. Please understand that her impertinence was not intended as a mark of disrespect towards you but towards me. It amuses her to torture her father sometimes.’
‘It is truly of no matter,’ Raven assured him.
‘How you came by such a scar is entirely your own business.’
This last was intended to sound like polite sensitivity, but Raven could not help detecting a certain judgment to it. It was not the kind of thing you said if you suspected a scar had been sustained falling from a thoroughbred while riding with the hunt. Rather, back alleys and criminal associations were what Todd wished to spare Raven from acknowledging.
It was once his business was concluded and Raven was about to leave that Eugenie reappeared in the hall. She had evidently chosen her moment, waiting until her father had retreated back into his study.
‘Do you have an answer for me?’ she asked.
It took a moment for Raven to recall what she meant. His fingers went automatically to his cheek.
‘It is a sabre cut,’ he said. ‘I sustained it in a duel.’
‘Defending the honour of a wronged woman,’ she responded, indicating how seriously she took his answer. A game of sorts was underway.
‘Did you win?’
‘Nobody ever truly wins a fight, Miss Todd.’
‘So you lost. Hence the scar.’
Raven thought of the alley, the blade, the criminal associations.
‘Oh, I most definitely lost.’
‘You are assistant to Dr Simpson, are you not? I have heard many a rumour.’
Raven shook his head. ‘Pay them no heed. For when it comes to Dr Simpson, the truth is always more remarkable than anything the New Town gossips might dream up.’
She fixed him with a lively gaze, her smile playful, albeit in the way a cat plays with an injured bird.
‘I wasn’t talking about Dr Simpson.’
These two fleeting encounters had cumulatively lasted only a few minutes, but over the following days, Raven had been quite unable to stop thinking about Eugenie. He caught himself daydreaming as clinic patients droned on about minor symptoms, straining to remember the curve of her jaw, the smell of her, and the glint in her eye as she spoke. There was a tantalising promise of misbehaviour about her, a hint of mischief in refreshing contrast to Mina’s insipidly acquiescent young ladies. Eugenie seemed spiky but not cruel, amused but not scornful.
He began speculating about how he might engineer another meeting with her, but she beat him to it, presenting herself under circumstances that seemed even more contrived than one of Mina’s stratagems. Eugenie appeared at 52 Queen Street with a letter for the professor from her father. She said she had offered to bring it as she was on her way to visit her aunt in Randolph Crescent, and would therefore be passing. Raven did not for a moment imagine she was in the habit of delivering post amidst her perambulations.
And that had been the start of something quite unexpected.
It had also been the start of something necessarily clandestine. They arranged to meet in St Andrew Square two days later, Raven’s eager anticipation of the rendezvous heightened by a frisson of danger. The choice of location le
nt plausibility to why they might have happened upon one another, but it also added to the likelihood of their being seen by someone from her household.
He had felt an exquisite anxiety as he walked along George Street that day, uncertain whether she would be there, there being so many reasons why she might not. This gave way to a surge of exhilaration as he saw her waiting for him.
He asked her how she had spent her morning, forestalling any enquiries about his own. He had no desire to spend this precious time discussing sores and rashes.
‘I was reading a book,’ she replied, ‘a novel translated from the German. It is called Elective Affinities.’
‘By Goethe.’
‘Oh, you have read it?’
‘No,’ he confessed. ‘But I often heard his work discussed when I studied in Prussia.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Where did you study?’
‘Berlin. Among other places. I spent a year travelling Europe.’
‘So I was right: you are indeed more exotic than an ordinary medical man. Did you live among artists and bohemians?’
Raven thought he had best steer away from this topic. Tales of his association with a fugitive aristocrat-turned-artist might delight Eugenie under other circumstances, but it would hardly strike the right tone to discuss a past affair with an older woman.
‘You find medical men uninteresting?’ he asked, trying not to sound concerned for the implications.
‘Not as a rule, but the problem with medical men is that their conversation is often too much of one thing: and by that I don’t mean medicine – I mean themselves.’
‘I assume that through your father you have been exposed to more of them than you would care.’
She had given him a curious smile, the look of someone confessing a sin of which they did not repent.
‘Father likes to show me off at social gatherings but has to balance that with the risk that I might give offence. It is amusing to watch his trepidation.’
A Corruption of Blood Page 3