The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  I turned to Jenny. “Thank you for your help. We must continue our conversation another time. There are some things you should know which will make it easier for you.”

  The rosy flush returned immediately. “Thank you again, Dr. Doudet Vernier.”

  “I am flattered you are willing to confide in me, my dear. We women must help one another. And now I really hope my medical duties are finished for the day.”

  Violet’s smile had faded away. She looked pale, her eyes curiously vacant. She slipped down off the table. “Can you fasten me up? And do my stays—but loosely.”

  I frowned. “I’m afraid I have made a mess of things, but I did not want you to suffocate.” Since I had cut off most of the laces, I had to unthread the top part so I would have something to tie. “And half the hooks on your dress are gone. I don’t know how we shall get you decent again.”

  Jenny said, “I know there are some safety pins.”

  “Oh, do get them.” I shook my head. “I think you would actually have more room in the dress without the corset.”

  “I stand before you a convert. Remove it, Michelle.”

  I pulled out the laces, then with some effort, slipped her corset out of the dress and folded up the hard, nasty thing. Jenny returned, and she held the dress together while I pinned it. When I had finished, I stepped back and nodded at Jenny. “Not half bad.”

  “I wouldn’t try to bend over,” Jenny said, most seriously. But then a laugh slipped out.

  “I shall be wearing a coat over the dress, so decency will be maintained,” said Violet. “Collins and the coachman must have given me up for lost. Please, let us go. Jenny, we shall give you a ride home.”

  “Oh, I can take a cab.”

  “No, no. You and Michelle have saved me from a hideous death. A ride home is the least I owe you. Come, gracious ladies, fellow angels of mercy—I am spent.”

  I am worldly enough that the vulgar meaning of “spend” flashed through my mind. I gazed curiously at Violet, but she was unaware of the innuendo.

  The old man who mopped the floors tipped his hat to us, his smile revealing several missing teeth. Next to him was the young constable who watched over the clinic. “Night, ladies,” they both said.

  “Good night, Mr. Platt, Constable Owens,” I replied.

  Outside it was drizzly, the air cold and heavy. The brick buildings across the street from the clinic were drab and dingy, the advertisements soiled or defamed, and the men on the street all wore dark shabby jackets and caps. Even the cobblestones seemed soiled. Violet’s carriage, a luxurious four-wheeler with the footman and driver up top, had recently been painted blue, green, and gold. It was magnificently out of place, and I was happy to see it. I was always glad to leave the clinic, and tonight I was exceptionally weary.

  Collins jumped down, opened the door and pulled down the steps. His grin revealed a gap between his two upper front teeth. He was formally dressed, but was spared the wig, the eighteenth-century jacket, and buckle shoes, which some of the pretentious wealthy insisted upon.

  “Sorry for the delay, Collins,” Violet said. “We were detained.”

  I let Jenny go first, then followed. Collins, as I had noticed before, enjoyed viewing the backsides of ladies while assisting them into the carriage, but I did not begrudge him this simple pleasure.

  Violet leaned out the window. “Tell Blaylock we shall be taking Miss Ludlow home first. Reynolds Street, I believe.”

  The carriage swayed as Collins climbed back up, then we heard the crack of the whip and the clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. I sighed and sank back into the cushioned seats. I knew from experience that the carriage was very comfortable, its springs providing a gentle ride, and I briefly wished that I were alone so I could take a nap. It was a busy time of day; outside we heard other carriages and the cry of voices.

  “So you have been a volunteer nurse for some six months,” Violet said to Jenny. “I admire your stamina. The work is difficult.”

  “It must be done,” Jenny said. She was seated beside me, and I reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.

  Violet smiled. “Ah, but most people are content to leave the work to others. And do you dream of being a physician like Michelle some day?”

  I stared curiously at Jenny. Although it had taken considerable effort, I had avoided asking her that question. She was staring down at her hands: they held her gloves and were white, her fingers long and shapely. Most men would have claimed she was far too lovely to be “wasted” as a doctor.

  “Perhaps. I do not know if I have the skills or the aptitude.”

  I smiled and gave her hand another squeeze. “You would do very well.”

  Violet had slouched back in the corner of the seat, and she regarded us through languid eyes. “And have you discussed this matter with your fiancé?”

  “Yes. He does not... forbid it.”

  Violet’s mouth formed the familiar mocking smile. “How gracious of him.” The irony went over Jenny’s head.

  Violet continued to question her. She had visited the London Women’s College of Medicine, and quite wisely, had sent her skeptical father to talk with Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Britain’s first qualified woman doctor.

  While they talked, I closed my eyes. Visions of my patients drifted briefly through my head, all those wasted, diseased bodies and pale faces, those eyes full of suffering, but the gentle swaying of the carriage and the sound of the horses’ hooves was soothing. I drifted, I floated. When the carriage came to a stop I jerked my eyes open and sat up abruptly.

  “Thank you for taking me home,” Jenny said.

  Violet nodded. “You are quite welcome.”

  “Good evening, Jenny,” I said.

  She hesitated an instant, and then smiled at me. “Good evening, Michelle.”

  Collins opened the carriage door and helped her out. We waited briefly while he saw her to the door.

  Violet put her fingertips over her mouth and yawned politely. “Would you care to dine with me, Michelle? Donald is off at some wretched business meeting.”

  “I hate to abandon Henry.”

  “Oh, he will do quite well without you for one evening. We shall go to Simpson’s and fortify ourselves after our busy day with some rare and bloody roast beef, hearty British fare. It is just the thing for languishing females.”

  “Simpson’s?” My eyes widened. “Just the two of us?”

  “Yes. Actually I wish we were men and could go to a pub and drink strong dark stout and eat chips and thick sandwiches on black bread with horseradish, but that would not be ladylike. More to the point, we would not be admitted. So what say you to Simpson’s?”

  “Very well, but I prefer my roast beef well done.”

  “So be it.” She thrust her head out the window. “Collins, Dr. Doudet Vernier and I shall be dining at Simpson’s.”

  The horses resumed their clopping. Violet sat back and watched me through half-closed eyes. “Jenny is a sweet girl, and you have obviously made a conquest. She worships the ground you tread upon. The poor child—one can only imagine all the insipid nonsense she has had to endure, tales and poesy of romantic love and marital bliss... Have you been married long, Michelle?”

  “No. It will be two years next spring. I was well past five and twenty, that age of confirmed spinsterhood. My medical education took so long, and I had not thought men worth the trouble until I met Henry. All the same, ours was not a conventional courtship.”

  She smiled. “Why am I not surprised? Yes, Jenny is lucky to have met you. Tell me, though...” She bit briefly at her lip, a certain wariness showing in her eyes. “I could not help but overhear some of what you told her at the clinic.”

  I frowned in puzzlement.

  “Her question of a personal nature which she never quite managed to ask.”

  “Oh, that.” I shrugged.

  Violet continued to watch me warily. She seemed to be willing me to speak, but I said nothing. “I suppose...”
she began. “So you really do find it... pleasurable?”

  I was so tired it took me a while to comprehend. I laughed. “Yes!”

  Her mouth twisted into a smile, but her dark eyes had a blank look. “I suppose I should not be surprised, although most of my acquaintances—those who will discuss the subject in the first place—find it tolerable at best.”

  I frowned slightly. “And you?”

  She drew in her breath, her lips stiffening. Her gaze shifted out the window.

  “Forgive me, Violet—what a presumptuous question on my part! I don’t know...”

  “No, no—we are friends, are we not? Let’s just say... I doubt I am the first to find my husband... uninspiring. Boorish, even.”

  My lips parted. “Oh.” I had only met Donald Wheelwright twice. I had not much cared for him, but I had assumed Violet must... Since I was a woman and a physician, some of my female patients had revealed that they could not bear their husbands’ touch. Their disgust always saddened me. To think that what was for me one of life’s great joys, for them was only bitterness. My head had begun to ache again, and I closed my eyes.

  Violet sighed. She seized my wrist. “You are too good-hearted. We will not discuss anything more of a serious nature. Men, especially, are to be a forbidden topic!”

  My laughter sounded hollow. “Oh, very well.”

  By then we were riding along the Strand, one of London’s busiest streets. Various carriages, four-wheelers and hansoms, packed the way, and men and women crowded the pavements. We drove past many theaters, some of the marquees all lit up with new electric lights. The traffic stopped briefly before a building front plastered with signs: haircuts within for four shillings, shaves for two; and in bright, capital letters:

  Violet raised a gloved finger and pointed. “I would not touch it,” she muttered, “let alone eat it.”

  At last we came to our destination. Above the ornate facade of the first floor were metal letters a good three feet tall, SIMPSON’S, and alongside, only slightly smaller, TAVERN & DIVAN. The carriage door swung open and Collins helped us down. A blustery wet wind wound its way through the people and carriages, knocking a hat or bonnet astray here and there.

  “Give us two hours, Collins. I am sure you and Blaylock would like to take some refreshments yourself.”

  Collins grin blossomed as he tipped his top hat. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Simpson’s was warm inside and brightly lit. Violet walked past some waiting people to an oaken counter. Although her height was only about five foot two or three inches, a half-foot shorter than I, she seemed to feel tall. The authoritative man behind the counter had an enormous mustache and a completely hairless head, its dome glowing under the lights.

  “Good evening, Oswald. We are ravenous. Can you seat us soon?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Wheelwright. And Mr. Wheelwright?”

  “He should be along shortly, if he is not detained.”

  Fetched by Oswald’s nod, a waiter in a black suit appeared. “Give them a table on the second floor,” Oswald said.

  Violet gave him a radiant smile, which breached his stern exterior. “Thank you very much.”

  I frowned. “I thought you said Donald had a meeting to attend.”

  Violet smiled halfway up the stairs. “He does.”

  The dining room upstairs was quieter, but no less spacious and inviting. Chandeliers with gas-lit globes hung from the ceiling; spotless linen, sparkling silver, and glasses were at every table. The quiet murmur of voices and utensils in action was pleasant after the noisy street.

  The waiter gestured at a table. “May I take your coats, ladies?”

  It was quite warm, and I nodded.

  “Certainly,” Violet said, turning her back to the waiter.

  I stiffened, then suddenly lunged for Violet’s coat, seizing the lapels even as the waiter tried to slip it off. “No!” I exclaimed. Violet looked as if she doubted my sanity. I mouthed the words “your dress!”

  She tipped her head back. “Ah.” She turned away from the waiter who was staring at us. “I am rather cold, after all, but my friend has a robust constitution. You may take her coat.”

  “Oh, I shall wear mine, too.”

  “Do not be foolish, Michelle.”

  The waiter approached hesitantly, waiting to see if I would again change my mind, then helped me out of my coat. He seated first Violet, then me, and set a menu before each of us. “I’ll be back in a moment ladies.”

  “We know what we want,” Violet said, glancing at me. I nodded.

  “Very well, ladies.” He took out a small notepad.

  Violet pushed the menu aside. “I shall have the large roast beef special, rare.”

  The waiter’s forehead creased. “The large, madam?”

  “Yes. I have a tapeworm and must eat for two.” She said this so seriously I could not repress a laugh. I covered my mouth.

  “And you, madam?”

  “The regular roast beef, well done—preferably an end piece.”

  “And I would like a pint of the house stout,” Violet said.

  Usually I drink claret with roast beef, but I said, resolutely, “And I shall have the same.”

  The waiter’s forehead wrinkled again. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded and fled. Another laugh slipped from my mouth. An elderly couple at the table next to ours regarded us warily.

  Violet placed one hand graciously over the other. “Why, Michelle, whatever is the matter?”

  “I had no idea dining at Simpson’s with you would be such an adventure!”

  Violet smiled, and took a sip from her water glass. “I must confess to feeling rather silly. Donald is always so stuffy when we dine out. While the cat’s away, as they say.”

  “You seem to have recovered from your faint. You gave me something of a scare.”

  Violet’s smile withered. “Oh, that. I was such an idiot. I do not approve of fainting.”

  “I am glad you feel better.” I took a bite of a bread roll. “Oh, I am starving.”

  Our waiter reappeared, set two large glasses of stout on the white tablecloth, and again fled. Violet took a hearty swallow, while I sipped. The liquid was almost black. “It is very... substantial,” I said.

  Violet took another swallow. “I like stout. My father and I used to drink beer together.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes. We used to drink beer together because Oxford dons and their daughters are not supposed to drink beer.” She took a roll from the basket. “Thank you for coming with me.” Again she smiled, but then, as she looked about, the corners of her mouth fell. “I fear we are not to banish men this evening after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your husband was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, and now he and another man who somewhat resembles a human ferret are headed our way.”

  I turned and saw Henry approaching, Sherlock Holmes behind him. Henry seemed amused, and I wondered how long he had been watching us. Sherlock appeared thinner than I recalled, his gray eyes curiously wary, his mouth stiff.

  I smiled at Henry and briefly took his hand. “Here I was, thinking you were at home starving to death or eating cold and greasy mutton.”

  “Sherlock invited me to dine with him. We have just finished and were enjoying the amusing spectacle of the two of you being seated. You seem to be having a splendid time. Perhaps we should be leaving—we don’t wish to intrude upon your meal.”

  Holmes nodded brusquely. “Yes, this is obviously meant to be a festive evening, one reserved for the female of the species.”

  Violet was surprised. She stared up at them, reflected for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, do sit down for a moment.” She laughed. “I am not an utter churl. I shall give you five minutes or so, and then you will be banished.”

  I put my hand on Henry’s arm. “You know my husband, Henry. This is his cousin, Sherlock Holmes.”

  Violet dropped her roll, and her nostrils flared.
“The Sherlock Holmes?”

  Obviously pleased, Holmes bowed from the waist. “The same.”

  “This is my friend, Mrs. Violet Wheelwright.”

  Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. His nostrils also flared. He pulled the chair out, sat, and crossed his legs.

  Violet tore a small piece from her roll. “I have followed all your exploits with great interest, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Indeed? Then I must warn you that Watson’s narratives are mostly fiction.”

  “Oh, I am glad to hear it. I feared we were in for some tedious deduction.”

  Holmes’ dark eyebrows rose. “Tedious deduction?”

  “I must confess I find all the deductions less than convincing. No doubt that is the fictional part to which you refer.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “That is the only part he has right.”

  “Oh dear, then I suppose we are in for some deducing. You will no doubt know where Michelle and I have been, on account of the unusual mud on my skirt.”

  Holmes’ mouth twitched briefly into a smile. “You are skeptical of the art of deduction?”

  Violet put another piece of bread in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Moderately skeptical.”

  Henry toyed with the end of his mustache. “Have a care, Violet. You are hurling down the gauntlet.”

  Holmes shook his head gravely. “No, no, good taste forbids.”

  Violet gave him a quizzical look. “Good taste?”

  “It would be indelicate to refer to your dress being so awkwardly damaged or the state of your undergarments.”

  Violet dropped her knife; it clattered loudly on the plate.

  “And I am sure a woman such as you would not like to be reminded of any feminine weaknesses.” Her eyes widened, then her mouth opened. “Such as fainting.”

  Violet stood up, knocking over her chair. She pointed a finger at me. “You told him!”

  “I swear I did not! We have been together all day, Violet. Whatever is the matter with you?”

  She sighed, then realized everyone in the immediate vicinity was staring at her. She shook her head, picked up her chair, and sat down. “Do forgive me. This is the second display of feminine weakness today, Mr. Holmes. I hope the stories were correct in that you will now explain how you arrived at your remarkable conclusions.”