A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  Mina was initially reluctant to come – ‘A maternity hospital holds no interest for me,’ she had said – but Sarah knew only a few words of French and needed her to act as translator. Yet here she was now, striding ahead, with Sarah following a few paces behind, much as they used to. Mistress and servant.

  Sarah was trying not to be overly sensitive about these subtle demonstrations of status. She doubted that Mina was even aware of them. Without conscious thought Mina slipped back into their outdated roles, like putting on a comfortable old coat, reassuringly familiar yet in need of being thrown out.

  They were led through a series of labyrinthine passageways which linked various buildings to one another, Sarah doubting whether she would be able to find her way back to the front door without assistance. Eventually they were shown into a little parlour belonging to Madame Charrier, the sage-femme-in-chief. Sarah had been expecting something purely functional, akin to a monastic cell, but the room was stuffed full of all manner of things – chintz sofas, china figurines, crucifixes, paintings and embroideries. Mme Charrier, a stooped, wizened old lady who stood to receive them, seemed dwarfed by her surroundings.

  Formal greetings were exchanged, everyone sat down and then Mina launched into rapid French. It was impossible for Sarah to understand any of it. She had to resort to examining hand gestures and facial expressions to estimate whether Mina was making any headway in her request for information. She was left with the impression that things were not going well. Mme Charrier shook her head repeatedly, shrugged her shoulders and then spread her gnarled hands wide as though fending off Mina’s entreaties. Then she pointed to her left eye, frowned and shook her head again.

  Sarah looked at Mina, hoping that she would translate the gist of the conversation thus far, but she merely paused before launching into another incomprehensible torrent. Sarah gave up trying to follow and sank into her chair. She looked around the room again, marvelling at the clutter, a profusion of mismatched items.

  What would they do if they were not permitted to see Dr Blackwell after travelling all this way? Sarah had not considered this until now. The sole purpose of her journey had been to meet the woman who had achieved the seemingly impossible: storming the citadel, gaining entry into the exclusive gentleman’s club that was medicine.

  Initially Sarah had planned to pursue her quarry across the Atlantic, to track her down in America where Dr Blackwell had obtained her degree. She had the financial means to do so, however when she announced this intention, strenuous attempts had been made to dissuade her: it was too far, too dangerous, she was not strong enough for such a journey after her illness. In the end a transatlantic voyage became unnecessary because Dr Blackwell was no longer there. As with many a medical graduate looking to expand their practical experience, she had gone to Paris.

  Mina had volunteered to be travelling companion and translator, a role that she was now relishing a little too much, as it provided yet another means of demonstrating the gulf that still existed between them. Sarah may have married up, but she had not achieved equivalence, not in social standing or in education. Sarah’s parish-school achievements could not compete with those who had been blessed with more expensive and comprehensive instruction.

  Sarah became aware that Mme Charrier was nodding now and sat up a little straighter in her chair. Some progress had evidently been made. The old lady then stood and shuffled from the room.

  ‘Where is she going?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘To find the intern. Monsieur Blot.’

  ‘What about Dr Blackwell?’

  ‘She is no longer here.’

  ‘What? Where is she?’

  Mina shrugged. ‘Madame Charrier thinks that she may still be in Paris but cannot be certain. She believes that Monsieur Blot may know of her whereabouts. He and Dr Blackwell were on friendly terms when she left.’

  They heard footsteps in the corridor outside and a young man entered, followed by the ancient sage-femme. He bowed low and introduced himself – in English, much to Sarah’s relief.

  ‘I understand that you are looking for Dr Blackwell.’

  ‘We have a letter of introduction from Dr Simpson of Edinburgh,’ Mina announced before Sarah could say anything. ‘My friend and I are great admirers and are keen to make her acquaintance.’

  The mention of the Simpson name had the intended effect.

  ‘Ah, Simpson of Edinburgh. Chloroform,’ Blot said, smiling. Then he frowned, passing his hand through his hair and causing it to stand up in untidy tufts. ‘Unfortunately, Dr Blackwell is no longer with us. She has . . .’ He paused for a moment, searching for the appropriate word. ‘She is . . . departed.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Sarah asked, the words coming out in a rush. She imagined Dr Blackwell falling from a great height or crushed under carriage wheels, a nascent career ended before it had a chance to begin.

  Monsieur Blot took in their shocked expressions and hastily explained.

  ‘She has left the city. Has gone to Grafenberg to seek treatment.’

  ‘Grafenberg?’

  ‘There is a famous spa there. She has gone to take the water cure in the hope that it will help her eye.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Sarah asked again.

  ‘Purulent ophthalmia,’ Monsieur Blot replied. ‘A bad case. I . . . we, did everything that we could but the vision in the eye is not what it was. She could not continue her studies here.’ He looked down at his clasped hands. ‘I am not sure that she will be well enough to continue her studies anywhere.’

  SEVEN

  aven watched Sir Ainsley make slow progress towards the platform, being stopped and greeted by every group he passed. The ostensible purpose of the evening was to raise funds for the Royal Infirmary, but Raven suspected that Ainsley’s principal incentive was the opportunity to bask in the glow of his own importance.

  He was currently being glad-handed by Professor Henderson, who a few months back had falsely accused Simpson of causing the death of a patient. Henderson had been part of a clique spreading rumours in person and in the press, motivated by fury at Simpson’s ridiculing his belief in homeopathy. Raven turned to warn the professor of his presence, but Simpson seemed to have vanished. Instead he found that he had crossed the path of someone he was altogether less pleased to see.

  ‘Gideon,’ Raven said, striving to keep surprise from his voice.

  Though he was younger than Raven, Gideon looked the more mature, perhaps because of the bespoke cut of his suit and the air of being in an environment in which he belonged. Standing before him, Raven’s borrowed clothes felt all the more conspicuous, his very right to be here also borrowed from his employer.

  Gideon gazed upon him with a pronounced puzzlement intended to convey irritation at being importuned by someone with no such right.

  ‘You have the advantage of me. Have we met?’

  His skin was darker than Raven remembered, sun-kissed in a way that suggested he had not wintered anywhere near here.

  ‘I am Will Raven. I knew you as a student.’

  Gideon continued to look blank. Bored, even.

  ‘University feels like such a long time ago. I recall little of it.’

  Something burned in Raven that this man could choose to erase him from his own record. He did not wish to rise to the insult, but nor was he going to indulge Gideon in the convenient fiction that they did not know one another.

  ‘I was your personal tutor for a month. Are you honestly telling me you don’t remember?’

  Gideon gestured across the lawn, to where staff in black uniforms were replenishing platters.

  ‘Servants come and go. I seldom have reason to remember their names.’

  Raven took a moment, swallowed.

  ‘I understand. It was perhaps this limited capacity for recollection that so caused you to struggle in your studies.’

  There was a satisfactory flare of outrage in Gideon’s eyes before their attention was drawn by the ringing of a bell. The butler w
as sounding it to call the assembly to order as Sir Ainsley finally ascended the little stage.

  It took a few moments for everyone to fall silent, then Sir Ainsley began to speak, at a lower volume than Raven had been expecting. It was not the booming projection of one used to addressing crowds or even raucous debating chambers, but the even register of one used to being heard.

  ‘I want to thank you all for joining me here this evening, in some cases for your ongoing generosity, but as importantly for your shared commitment to the health of our city. I have always been a believer that the health of one is the health of all, that the health of the individual and the health of society are inextricable. What corrupts one of us, corrupts every one of us.’

  He took a moment to receive the calls of ‘Hear, hear!’ that rose in response, then resumed.

  ‘Immoral behaviour is a blight upon our city, which is why I am proposing an ordinance regarding certain contagious diseases, and I am pleased to have the support of the provost in pursuing this. Such infections are the physical manifestation of a moral corruption, which is why I contend that any woman found to be spreading such disease should be put in jail, where she can do no further harm.

  ‘We are all of us here tonight good people, decent people. But if we shrink from imposing our will, then the will of the indecent will surely prevail, and that will be a judgment upon us all. So, let us work tirelessly that the will of the decent should define our great city.’

  This precipitated a round of polite applause, during which Raven turned to take in some of the responses. He spotted Simpson and observed that he – perhaps strategically – happened to be holding a glass and was thus impeded from all but a cursory gesture generating no audible percussion. More conspicuously he noticed that Gideon was standing with his arms folded, a look on his face Raven was singularly qualified to recognise. It was the simmering gaze of a man who despised his father.

  Sir Ainsley gestured as though to damp down the applause, a technique Raven had witnessed from showmen on the stage, one actually intended to emphasise the adulation.

  ‘We are all looking towards a bright future together, so it seems appropriate that I share with you some news of coming brightness in my own future. As you all know, I lost my dear wife, Margaret, mother of my children Gideon and Amelia, these ten years ago now, and I have mourned her every day since. The burden of the widower must be borne alone, but in recent times I have found it eased by the acquaintance of someone who shares my grief in having lost a spouse. I have been blessed with the companionship of Mrs Lucille Chalmers, and it is perhaps the worst-kept secret in Edinburgh that we are soon to marry. We ask you all this evening to join us in celebrating this happy news.’

  A woman ascended the platform to stand alongside Ainsley. She was striking both in her appearance and in that she had to be half Ainsley’s age. Twenty-five at most, Raven estimated. The lawn erupted in another round of applause, this time accompanied by the chink of glasses and calls of congratulation. Raven was interested to observe Gideon’s response to the announcement of an intended stepmother only a few years older than himself, but he had moved away. As Raven searched the crowd, he was arrested by a sight that instantly purged all other thoughts from his mind. Smiling at him from but a dozen yards away, amidst a throng of excited chatter, was Eugenie.

  His heart soared for precisely as long as it took the person next to her to investigate what had suddenly captured her interest, placing Raven for the second time that day in the stern gaze of Eugenie’s father.

  EIGHT

  s the evening wore on, Raven found it difficult to pay close attention to what anyone was saying. His eyes flitted surreptitiously about the throng, seeking another sight of Eugenie, whilst always mindful of where her father might be. Every glimpse of her was to be treasured, but with it came the tantalising sense of being so near and yet so far.

  Having long since lost track of the professor, he found himself in the charge of Mrs Winnifred Beaumont, who was delighted to introduce him as the young gentleman who had administered chloroform while Simpson delivered her third child. Raven only vaguely remembered the woman, but her recollection of the encounter was understandably more vivid. ‘A miraculous experience, incomparably preferable to its two predecessors. Dear Simmy is known to us all, but it is this young man’s face that I think of dearly when I recall that confinement. It was the last thing I saw before I drifted off, only waking to see my wee Ronald being placed into my arms.’

  Raven had no sooner been approvingly presented to the other ladies when Mrs Beaumont’s face lit up as she beckoned someone over Raven’s shoulder.

  ‘Amelia, do come and join us.’

  He assumed this was Sir Ainsley’s daughter, Amelia Bettencourt. Simpson had pointed her out earlier, informing Raven that her husband, a cavalry officer, had been thrown from his horse and killed while she was pregnant with their first child. Amelia was dressed in the black of first mourning, rendering her distinct amongst so many ladies in bright summer colours.

  As she approached, disengaging from another group, Raven observed with a combination of delight and mild alarm that she was accompanied by none other than Eugenie. Moments later they found themselves finally face to face, but having to act as though they were being introduced to each other for the first time.

  It was frustrating that there was no opportunity to converse alone, but there was an unexpected intimacy in their being complicit in this deception. They shared secret glances, all the more exquisite for being covert and fleeting.

  Inevitably, talk soon turned to the happier of Sir Ainsley’s announcements, a subject on which Amelia was conspicuously noncommittal. It was as though she was tolerating such discussion out of an understanding that it was of interest, but did not share everyone’s excitement. Perhaps it was difficult to think of nuptial joy when you were recently a widow.

  It turned out she was not the only one. ‘I’m told Mrs Chalmers’ late husband died of a sudden illness,’ Mrs Beaumont remarked. ‘Something he was thought to have contracted in India, or possibly on the sea voyage home.’

  ‘They were married for only a year,’ said someone else.

  ‘She is very handsome, is she not? Youthful,’ Mrs Beaumont suggested, delicately but inquisitively broaching the issue most likely to be troubling Mrs Chalmers’ future stepdaughter.

  Raven watched with interest to see how she responded.

  ‘Indeed,’ Amelia said. ‘Of child-bearing age.’ She wore a thin smile, a subtle tartness to her expression.

  ‘The poor thing lost her first husband before she had the chance,’ Mrs Beaumont ventured.

  Eugenie flashed Amelia a smile. ‘She might soon bear your young Matthew an uncle or an aunt,’ she said.

  There was knowing mischief in this, which told Raven there was a rapport between them.

  ‘And won’t that be lovely for all of us,’ Amelia replied, a statement from which each listener derived a different meaning.

  Moments later, Amelia made her apologies.

  ‘You are not staying overnight?’ asked Eugenie, disappointed.

  ‘No. Matthew did not travel with me as he was poorly this afternoon, and I could not rest under another roof if I did not know he was well.’

  ‘Of course you must go,’ agreed Mrs Beaumont. ‘I heard the poor lamb was terribly ill in the spring, which must have given you such worry.’

  Amelia swallowed before speaking, troubled by the memory.

  ‘After losing Hilary, the fear of losing our son too was intolerable. Thank the heavens, though, he rallied. But now I am anxious whenever he is out of my sight.’

  ‘It is a pity you cannot stay,’ said Eugenie. ‘We have not spoken in so long. I haven’t seen young Matthew since he was but a few weeks old.’

  Amelia nodded sincerely. ‘As I recall you were quite overcome. I was moved to see it.’

  ‘Who could fail to be. He is such a beautiful child.’

  ‘You will have one of your own in good t
ime.’

  A look of uncertainty clouded Eugenie’s face for a moment before she masked it with a smile. Raven thought she had looked almost tearful. He wondered what her father had said to her today, what hopes might have been dashed.

  Was this evening to be a symbol, the essence of their relationship from here on in? Occasional glimpses from afar, and encounters in which they were forced to disguise that they knew each other, all the while haunted by the memory of what feelings they might once have had?

  ‘You two are fast friends, then?’ Mrs Beaumont asked Eugenie, once Amelia had departed.

  ‘Yes. Since we were children. I used to come here frequently, my father being Sir Ainsley’s physician.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Dr Todd.’

  ‘It is such a beautiful house, is it not?’ Eugenie said. ‘I haven’t visited for such a long time. I may take a turn around the grounds before the light fails.’

  She briefly eyed Raven as she spoke. He gave the gentlest of nods to acknowledge that he understood. He felt his pulse quicken, a sensation immediately followed by the thought that her father’s eyes might be upon him. He was unable to look around for the man without it being conspicuous, so he would have to ensure they were not seen leaving together.

  Raven made his excuses, saying that he had to catch up with Dr Simpson to check when his carriage was leaving.

  ‘Of course. But we must talk further,’ said Mrs Beaumont.

  ‘And soon,’ said Eugenie.

  Raven slipped through the crowd and onto a path at the edge of the lawn, where he asked one of the staff where he might find the water closet as a pretext for proceeding towards the house. It took fortitude not to glance back to check whether Eugenie was following, a fortitude he turned out not to possess. He did not see her. He reasoned that for the purposes of discretion she was likely to wait a few moments before following. He opted to take a circuitous route, around the stables to the east of the house.