‘Are you in the habit of giving offence?’
‘It is tempting. The number of eminent men in Edinburgh is greatly exceeded by the number who consider themselves so, and the latter tend to be the more thin-skinned.’
Raven could attest that the former could be thin-skinned too.
‘They speak to me like I am a silly girl, so I disparage them with subtleties they assume beyond me. They treat me as guileless and so I respond as though it were true.’
‘What do you mean?’ Raven had asked.
She gave that unrepentant smile once more.
‘I will not be so indiscreet as to name him, but for instance, there was one gentleman who availed me of the time he treated the visiting Princess Marie Amelie of Baden. I told him, “How I envy your wife, for she must get to hear that wonderful story over and over again.”’
Raven laughed.
‘My father worries that they will belatedly realise the insult on the carriage ride home, or when they sober up the next morning. I contend that he credits them with too much introspection.’
‘That poor woman, though.’
‘His wife?’
‘No, Princess Marie Amelie. She must have been dangerously ill, for half the physicians in Edinburgh claim to have treated her during her stay.’
Eugenie had liked that. Her laughter was joyous and unrestrained.
‘What is this Goethe novel about?’ he then asked. ‘Elective affinities sounds like a scientific term.’
‘It is. The book postulates that the relationships between human beings are comparable to the relationships between chemicals. That when you bring certain combinations together, a reaction is inevitable.’
They stopped in the north-east corner of the square and looked into each other’s eyes.
‘I think I know what he means,’ Raven had said.
Over the coming weeks they had met again and again; all the while the question of whether Dr Todd would welcome Raven’s attentions hung ever heavier. Edinburgh medicine was like the European courts of centuries past, as powerful men constructed alliances and fortified their positions through the marriages of their children. Dr Todd was diligently protective of his only daughter, whose mother had died giving birth. Hence their secret meetings: brief walks and surreptitious appearances behind glass.
Although discretion was warranted Raven was beginning to wonder how much longer they would be satisfied with meeting in this way. It felt like so much more than a dalliance, more than a flirtation, but he was unsure what their next move should be.
Raven tamed some stray hairs and smoothed down his jacket, then resumed his progress east in the direction of the square. As he approached the house, he glanced up expectantly at the first-floor window.
Eugenie was not there.
Instead he saw her father standing with his arms folded, looking out with the vigilance of a sentry. Their eyes met briefly, then Dr Todd withdrew, as though satisfied he had seen what he expected to.
FIVE
impson’s carriage rolled between the fields of the Grange, the cobbles of the south side long having given way to a dusty track beneath its wheels. Though it was almost seven o’clock in the evening, the sun remained as warm and bright as though it were the middle of the afternoon, which caused Raven to realise he should have anticipated Simpson’s mischief when they spoke at lunchtime. There was literally nowhere dark that he could have been heading on a clear June evening, not even in the Old Town, and they were far from its putrid labyrinth. At that very moment, the brougham was approaching Crossford House, wherein lived Sir Ainsley Douglas, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the Lothians.
‘Have you had the pleasure?’ Simpson asked, referring to their host. Something about the professor’s tone indicated that he was using the word euphemistically.
‘I have not, though I did encounter his son, Gideon, at university. He was a medical student too.’
Raven said nothing more, knowing his brevity was likely to convey enough. Gideon Douglas was the arrogant and detestable individual he had recalled that morning, whom Henry had complimented on his choice of parents. If it was true that the apple seldom fell far from the tree, then Raven could well understand Simpson’s subtle warning about Sir Ainsley. What was less clear was why the professor had accepted his invitation.
Such thoughts of fathers and their influence prompted a resumption of the uncomfortable reflections that had troubled Raven throughout much of the day. His mind kept returning to how Eugenie was not to be seen at her window that afternoon, and more significantly, how her father had been all too visible there instead. He had argued with himself back and forth over what he might reasonably extrapolate from a single passing moment. He had been later than usual, after all, and there were many reasons why Eugenie might have been indisposed. However, there seemed fewer reasons why Dr Todd would be loitering at his daughter’s bedroom window, and that look of vindication Raven had glimpsed upon his face was an image he could not erase. It felt like the end of something.
He only needed to look at himself to see why. He was dressed as smartly as he was ever likely to manage, and yet his appearance served merely to emphasise why he would never be considered good enough by the likes of Dr Todd, for he was conspicuously wearing borrowed clothes. Mrs Simpson had dug out an evening suit for him, one her husband had purchased at least three stones and a dozen years ago. It was as short in the sleeves as it was loose around the middle, and given Simpson’s indifference to sartorial aesthetics, Raven doubted it had even been fashionable in 1840.
The carriage rattled past the gatehouse and into the grounds of the estate, the track narrowing as it wound through aged woodland before emerging onto a grand avenue flanked by verdant lawns and lovingly tended flowerbeds.
‘There is a smell of cooked meat upon the wind,’ Raven said approvingly.
‘Indeed. And the hospitality will be unsparing, but to a specific end. Sir Ainsley hosts this summer soirée every year to call for funds towards the several hospitals on whose boards he sits.’
As the carriage stopped to discharge its passengers, Raven could not help but observe that the proceedings were very much underway.
‘Are we . . . late?’ he ventured.
‘I may have misread the time on the invitation,’ Simpson said with a casualness suggesting that his habitual tardiness for social engagements was not always the result of his clinical caseload.
They stepped down onto the drive and began strolling towards the throng. There had to be two hundred people here, standing in groups next to tables laden with food and wine. Raven searched in vain for someone as poorly dressed as himself. Even the staff looked smarter.
Simpson placed a hand lightly on his arm as they approached.
‘From here on in, we must imagine that we are on a fever ward.’
‘How so?’
‘In that duty obliges us to make our rounds, but in so doing, it is imperative that we do not expose ourselves long enough at any station as to be infected by the poisons borne on the miasmic ether.’
Simpson was hailed by a member of a nearby gathering, one of whom was distinguished among companions in evening suits by the garb of a church minister.
Raven immediately recognised another of the group as James Syme, Professor of Surgery, and as Simpson made introductions, he was grateful that Syme did not in turn recognise him. While studying under him, Raven had once vomited during an operation, overcome by the heat of a crowded and unventilated theatre. Syme had picked on him mercilessly thereafter.
Simpson and Syme were seldom on good terms either. Syme was constantly militating against Simpson’s intrusions into surgical territory that he deemed forbidden to the physician-accoucheur. Raven wondered whether his role here was to restrain his mentor should their ongoing disagreement come to blows.
As well as Syme, the group comprised Professor Malcolm Eustace of the Royal College of Surgeons, Charles Dymock of the Society of Writers to the Signet, and the
Reverend Lochlan McLean, all of whom served on the board of the Royal Infirmary, as did their host.
The hostility that Raven was anticipating did not come from the expected source. Simpson was perfectly civil to everyone and Syme was his usual taciturn self; it was the Reverend McLean who emanated a distinct froideur towards Dr Simpson whenever he made a contribution to the conversation. He had the haughty air, common among senior churchmen, of individuals unused to being disagreed with. Simpson lived for disputation and the free exchange of ideas, so it was not difficult to imagine from whence derived the reverend’s displeasure.
‘Am I to infer that you and the reverend are in dispute in some way?’ Raven asked as soon as they had extricated themselves.
‘Our differences derive from when I was a visiting physician at the Lock Hospital, which as you know is largely concerned with the treatment of venereal disease. As a charitable institution, its ostensible mission to keep young girls off the streets has always come with an unwelcome dose of piety. My position there became untenable after I publicly criticised the trustees for heaping on the moral and religious instruction at the expense of the medical help.’
‘Lizzie was a patient there, was she not?’
‘Yes. As was the new girl, Christina. In each case, a colleague discreetly brought them to my attention, seeing potential in them.’
‘And the Reverend McLean was vocal among these trustees, I assume.’
‘Passionately so, though one might say he was merely a willing and enthusiastic piper. But he who pays the piper calls the tune.’
Raven was about to ask the obvious question when he realised Simpson meant none other than the man they were approaching. Sir Ainsley Douglas was the wealthiest and therefore the most powerful member of the many hospital boards on which he sat.
He was holding court, attended by no less than Austin Mansfield, provost of Edinburgh, and Auberon Findlay, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. Also present was William Sanderson, editor of the Edinburgh Evening Courant, and a gentleman Simpson evidently did not know, introduced by Sir Ainsley as his nephew Teddy Hamilton.
This last sparked the realisation that Raven had not seen Gideon, but as it had been three years since they last met, there was no reason to believe he might be here. He would have graduated by now, and for all Raven knew could be practising anywhere from Glasgow to Galashiels.
‘Dr Simpson!’ Sir Ainsley greeted the professor. ‘Congratulations on your growing renown. I am told the discovery of chloroform is truly transforming the practice of medicine throughout the world.’
‘There are still pockets of resistance, particularly in the field of childbirth, but I believe we are prevailing.’
‘Who could possibly object to such a boon?’ asked Teddy, genuinely incredulous.
‘There are those who believe that pain in childbirth is divinely ordained and that to prevent it is in defiance of God’s will,’ Simpson replied. ‘This largely derives from a mistranslation in Genesis. The verse states: “In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children,” but the Hebrew word in fact means toil.’
A stern-faced butler replenished Sir Ainsley’s glass but did not offer anyone else a refill from the same bottle. There were lesser members of the household staff charged with dispensing refreshments to everyone else. It was an unsubtle assertion of status, not that Sir Ainsley needed such attentions to emphasise his importance. He was an imposing enough presence, tall and sharp-featured, a severity about his face that conveyed formidable strength of will. Raven estimated him to be in his late fifties, but suspected he had always looked much the same, finding it difficult to picture him as a younger man.
‘An important distinction,’ Sir Ainsley agreed, ‘though unfortunately there are legions who regard toil itself as a source of sorrow. It is why idleness is the cause of such misery among the poor, as I have been toiling to explain to my nephew. His mother sent him to study the law in London and it appears he has fallen in with radicals. Before you arrived, he was questioning the benefits of the new Poor Law. I fear his cosseted existence has shielded him from the slothful and slovenly ways of the underclasses.’
Teddy had developed the flushed look of one who knew he had no choice but to patiently endure his uncle’s patronising manner. He looked to be around Raven’s age, though he carried himself with the certainty of an older man, evidently not shy of holding forth in esteemed company.
‘My concern is that the law provides insufficient support for abandoned women, leaving mothers to shoulder the burden of child-rearing alone,’ he countered, directing his explanation towards Simpson and Raven in the hope of finding allies in the newcomers. ‘And so, the only public aid she might receive is conditional upon her submitting herself to the poorhouse.’
‘You are talking of unwed mothers,’ Sir Ainsley clarified with open distaste, ‘to whom the infant at her breast is rightly her stigma and her punishment for the sin of fornication. Abstinence and self-discipline are the desirable qualities demonstrated by those who refrain from relations outside wedlock. If women lacking such virtues are not made to atone for their wickedness, then what kind of example is set for our daughters?’
Raven was rapidly appreciating the truth behind Simpson’s jest: this was indeed a dangerous place, one that had to be navigated with a care for neutrality. Any allegiance one might make would also garner corresponding enemies. This was why he had preferred the route of trying to establish his own practice rather than seeking a position at the university. Such reflections made him think again of Eugenie, but that in turn made him think of Dr Todd, and he feared he had most definitely garnered an enemy there.
‘Poverty is the product of idleness,’ chimed in Sanderson, the newspaper man. ‘And children born out of wedlock inherit the wickedness of their mothers. This is why it is imperative to discourage such moral laxity, lest it multiply.’
‘It is not idleness that prevents an unwed mother from being able to fend for her child,’ Teddy argued. ‘How is she to work and care for an infant at the same time?’
‘These are the very questions we would want young women to ask themselves before they contemplate temptation,’ Sanderson responded.
In his exasperation, Teddy looked towards the provost.
‘I would have thought I might find an ally in yourself, Mr Mansfield. I was under the impression you had been an opponent of the Poor Law.’
Mansfield looked uncomfortable, suddenly red around the ears.
‘Mr Mansfield has lately overcome the folly of his previous position,’ Sir Ainsley said.
Mansfield cleared his throat, a contribution clearly expected of him.
‘Just as the prostitute in the street serves as a warning to a housemaid, lest she become insolent or shiftless, harsh consequences serve to inculcate good morals.’
His tone was flat, indicating his reluctance to get involved. Nonetheless, Sir Ainsley seemed pleased enough. He placed a hand on the provost’s shoulder.
‘Well spoken, sir. And I am sure the provost would also agree that each woman who makes herself the occasion of sin makes herself the instrument of a good man’s downfall.’
He stressed this with a significance that Raven did not follow.
‘But none of this addresses the issue of the children,’ said Teddy. ‘They should not be damned for the sins of their mothers. Who is to care for them when their mothers are not provided with the means to do so?’
For a moment it appeared no one had an answer. But Sir Ainsley was merely biding his time.
‘Perhaps Dr Simpson might suggest a solution,’ he said.
The professor’s face remained impassive, but Raven had known him long enough to recognise what passed silently beneath the surface of his expression. Simpson was involved in the fostering of children, finding good homes for the unwanted offspring of the upper orders. In this matter, discretion was paramount, so by even alluding to it Sir Ainsley was being gravely disrespectful.
Evidently Simpson’s outspoken dissent over t
he Lock Hospital’s policies several years before had been neither forgotten nor forgiven.
Teddy looked expectantly towards the professor, but before he was obliged to speak, their host intervened.
‘But this is not the occasion for such disputations,’ he announced cheerily. ‘Duty obliges me to say a few words, and I have happy news to announce, so please, eat and drink. Have your fill.’
With that, he took his leave, headed in the direction of a small platform that had been erected on the western edge of the lawn, where the sun would be at his back when he addressed the assembly.
The group dispersed immediately thereafter, as though Sir Ainsley was the only force strong enough to hold such disparate individuals together.
‘That felt . . . delicate,’ Raven ventured. ‘I have sympathy with Mr Hamilton’s sentiments, but I confess I was too cowardly to voice them.’
‘Sometimes discretion truly is the better part of valour, Will. Poor Mansfield had the look of a man humiliated.’
‘Quite. For a fellow whose position requires oratory, he did not sound convinced of his own words.’
Simpson nodded. ‘There are those who are happy to enjoy Sir Ainsley’s patronage and do his bidding because they are in concord with his beliefs: the Reverend McLean for one, and Sanderson for another. Sir Ainsley owns the Courant, and Sanderson is his placeman. Sir Ainsley appreciates their fealty, but I believe he derives greater pleasure from the corruption of those who previously opposed him. He revelled in Mansfield making a display of his enforced volte face, no doubt the price exacted for his assistance in some private matter, financial or otherwise. I fear Sir Ainsley has bought the provost, as he has bought many others before him.’
SIX
Paris, two weeks earlier
arah followed Mina down an echoing corridor, the sound of their footsteps reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. The floor was of polished brick, both uneven and slippery, causing her to look carefully at where she placed her feet, much as she had been doing in the street outside. Evidence of the building’s former life as a convent was everywhere – a cloistered courtyard, images of saints and angels carved into the plasterwork.
A Corruption of Blood Page 4