Mr Lockhart still has a great many visitors and his parlour, where the patients wait, is always full, but he is still dissatisfied. It is the quality of the patient which vexes him. He longs for the Lady Anstruthers of the town, but has to make do with drapers and pharmacists. The latter paid in laudanum which Mr Lockhart let me sample. It was a most pleasant effect but I felt woolly-headed and stupid the next day. I didn’t care for that, but Mr Lockhart has prescribed a regimen. He asks me lots of questions and writes down the answers in his book. It’s the closest we have ever been, I believe, and he is hoping to prove that laudanum is superior to chloroform. He says it is far safer than pursuing a new substance and that his experiments are for the greater good of the poor suffering surgical patients and the ladies crying out when they birth their babies, but I believe he wishes to humiliate Simpson. To usurp his position and take it for his own.
His friends urge him on and encourage these flights. I took the back stairs and passed the drawing room where they were drinking whisky after dinner and I could hear Mr Campbell, who has the biggest booming voice, telling Mr Lockhart that his patients did not appreciate his genius and that he ought to close his doors to all except the worthy. ‘You must be firm,’ he shouted, ‘and turn away the lower classes before the higher ranks will cross your threshold.’ I wanted to open the door and tell that man that he was talking nonsense. Mr Simpson saw patients at the Edinburgh Infirmary, and on the same day he was appointed physician to the queen, he attended to a fishwife in the ferry. Besides which, how will we live if Mr Lockhart turns away his patients?
Your loving Jessie
P.S. My last question was not an idle one and I crave your answer. However improper it may be, I seek your counsel.
Stella passed Jamie’s office and called a cheery ‘hello’ to the closed door, knowing that he probably would not hear her. He would likely have his headphones in, meditating or listening to an audiobook or going through documents via the speech reader while he did his morning stretches, the lunatic. She felt herself smile at the thought and quickly wiped it from her face. She was not going to become charmed by the crazed man-child. Absolutely not.
The kitchen smelled of amazing coffee and Esmé was nowhere to be seen. Stella poured a generous cup of caffeine and considered breakfast. Jamie hadn’t eaten yet, so there was no lingering odour of black beans or tuna fish to offend her nostrils. No carbohydrates either, though. Esmé had clearly been overruled, as the bread bin was empty and the cake tin had one small piece of fruit loaf. Stella didn’t want to be the one to finish it so she picked an apple from the fruit bowl and turned to go to her office, eager to open the archive box which had been couriered from the library, when she saw a figure in the doorway and jumped, slopping hot coffee over the side of her mug.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’
Stella recognised the voice immediately but it took her a beat to reconcile it with the physical presence.
She had imagined Nathan in great detail after countless phone calls. In her mind, he was big as a bear and had a cigar gripped between his teeth. He wore an enormous coat and had slicked-back hair, grey at the temples, and a perma-tan.
The real-life version turned out to be barely taller than she was, and as thin and youthful-looking as a teenage boy. He had light-brown hair, which was artfully tousled, and wide brown eyes like a deer.
‘You’re here. When did you arrive?’ Stella said, still trying to adjust her mental picture to cope with reality.
‘Last night. Or the day before. Or tomorrow. Jetlag’s a bitch.’ He was openly appraising her as he spoke, his gaze travelling up and down, a small smile on his lips. ‘Lovely welcome makes up for it, though. Do you always look this good first thing in the morning?’
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Stella injected as much professional detachment into her tone as was humanly possible, but Nathan’s smile just widened.
‘That accent is adorable. Not as cute as Jamie’s, of course, but he’s the star.’
‘Leave me out of it,’ Jamie said, pushing the door open and heading straight for the fridge.
‘I’ll leave you to your beans,’ Stella said. She hoped Nathan would move out of the way but he didn’t, forcing her to turn to one side and sidle past.
Stella hid in her office and worked on her research while Jamie took Nathan out for a walk around the estate. Stella hoped he would step into a puddle or two. Maybe fall into the burn. She had so been looking forward to her morning, to the opportunity to dive into the bundle of letters, but her concentration was off. The Victorian scrawl seemed utterly impenetrable.
My dearest Mary,
I do not care for it here and wish to come home. There are evil spirits in this house . . .
And then there was another indecipherable squiggle. The next bit that Stella could read sounded more alarmed than ever, and Stella felt her heart rate increase in sympathy. The pen scratchings themselves appeared panicked and wild.
Mary, I cannot speak of what they brought into the house. It is most ungodly and the souls of us all are in peril.
‘There you are. Hiding.’ Nathan had pushed open her door and was leaning against the frame.
‘I’m not hiding, I’m working,’ Stella said. Her dislike for the man was not improved by familiarity.
‘I need you.’ He turned and left, clicking his fingers.
Stella didn’t get up.
A few seconds later, he was back. ‘I don’t think you understand how this works. This’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘means you follow.’
‘I work for Mr Munro, not you,’ Stella said. Years of temporary work in a variety of offices and with a glittering range of managerial styles had left her with very definite rules of engagement. ‘I have never responded to somebody clicking their fingers and I don’t intend to start.’
Nathan looked delighted. ‘You are adorable, you know that, right?’
Stella opened her mouth to respond but Nathan just barrelled on. ‘I gotta talk to you, though. And if you have his best interests at heart, and I know that you do, you’ll listen to me. Come on, I prefer to walk and talk. Gotta get my cardio in. Don’t want to drop dead at thirty-five.’
Stella picked up her jacket and walked out ahead of Nathan. She wasn’t going to follow him, but if he cared to walk with her, she’d hear him out. She pulled on her boots by the back door in double-quick time and headed outside.
He caught up with her on the path which led from the back door next to the old pantry and the wash house. Stella was buttoning her coat against the ever-present wind when he took her arm, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow like an old-time gentleman. Stella pulled away, quickening her pace. ‘I’m waiting,’ she said, trying to hide being flustered behind clipped words.
‘For what?’
‘An explanation of your behaviour and attitude. Failing that, a brief description of what you’re doing here and what you want from me.’
‘I need you onside,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘Jamie’s obsessive, you may have noticed, and is much worse when he’s writing. He trusts you and so I need you to handle him for me at this difficult time.’
‘Why is it a difficult time? It’s just a deadline.’
‘You don’t understand.’
Stella waited for him to explain.
He opened his mouth, but then swore loudly, instead of anything more illuminating. His foot was up to the calf in mud, a deep rut which had been hidden underneath a covering of wet orange leaves. ‘Oh, dear,’ Stella said. ‘Your shoes are ruined.’
‘Bloody country. I hate Scotland.’
‘Do you not have mud in America?’
‘Not in New York.’
‘Poor you,’ Stella said sweetly. ‘I love the mud. And the rain.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why are you obstructing me? We both want the same thing.’
‘Do we?’
‘For Jamie to finish his book and have another awesome success and to make
another boatload of cash and to buy you something pretty to say thank you. Or are you hoping for more than that?’
‘I’m not hoping for anything of the kind. I’m just doing the job Mr Munro pays me to do.’
‘I could have you fired, you know.’
‘I doubt it,’ Stella said, with no idea if she was right. She didn’t particularly care one way or the other.
‘He listens to me. You think he trusts you and he does, within reason, but he hardly knows you. We’ve been friends for years and years.’
‘How nice,’ Stella said. ‘Good luck finding a replacement.’ The most wonderful thing about being dumped by the love of her life and leaving her home and moving in with a complete stranger was that she found she no longer cared about anything very much. She felt invincible in lack of emotion. Bring. It. On.
‘You know he went off the deep end last year? You must have read about it in the papers?’
‘No,’ Stella said.
‘Oh, come on,’ he said, wiping his shoe ineffectually on a patch of grass.
‘I don’t read gossip. Hadn’t even heard of Jamie Munro before I got this job.’
‘Of course not.’ Nathan curled his lip. ‘You’ll be well above the rest of the poor schmucks with their gossip rags and reality TV.’
‘Don’t be offended, it’s just not my area of interest.’
‘Well . . .’ Nathan looked around as if checking for listeners hiding among the trees. He lowered his voice. ‘He had a breakdown. Couldn’t leave the apartment. Agoraphobia. Panic attacks. Depression. You name it, he had it.’
Stella bit down on the urge to say ‘nonsense’, not believing for a second that Nathan was telling the truth. Jamie Munro had the strongest mind and discipline of anybody she had ever met.
‘Now, I’m only telling you this so that you understand the situation fully. If he doesn’t release a manuscript to me in the next week, he’s going to miss his slot in the publishing schedule. Then Christ knows when it’ll come out. The publicity I’ve got lined up, the television slots, the promotions, it’ll all go to hell. And the book will flop and then I don’t know—’ He broke off, passing a hand across his eyes as if overcome with emotion.
Stella was impressed by his acting skills. The man would clearly go above and beyond for his fifteen per cent. She steeled herself not to get dragged in, though. Nathan was a master manipulator, she had no doubt. After a moment, he looked at her and Stella had to dig her fingernails into her palm in order to stay strong and not reach out a comforting arm. He looked genuinely upset. ‘I don’t know what he’d do.’
Despite her best intentions, Stella felt a trickle of sympathy. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ll see how things are going and get an update on the book. I won’t push him, though. That’s not my job.’
Nathan went quiet for a few minutes, and Stella thought the conversation was over. She increased her pace, taking the path through the woods which led in a winding circle around the promontory. There were still a few autumn leaves on the ground, but they were black with rain and rot, and the bare branches of the trees creaked in the wind. The air smelled of wood and salt.
She could hear Nathan following as the path narrowed, and when she stopped to get her breath and to let him pass her if he wished, he stopped, too, and began digging in his pocket. He produced a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’
She shook her head. There was a bird calling plaintively from a nearby tree, and a gleam of sunlight lit the edges of the clouds. Stella took one of her deep breaths. Not because she felt unwell but because she could and because it felt so good.
‘I just don’t think this is the healthiest place for him to be,’ Nathan said, blowing out a plume of smoke.
‘I disagree,’ Stella said. ‘The fresh air is magical.’
‘I don’t mean the entire country,’ Nathan said, irritated. ‘Although—’
‘What do you mean?’ Stella stuck her hands in her pockets and looked at him directly.
‘We’re friends, now, right?’ Nathan said, taking a deep pull on his cigarette. ‘Whatever you might think, I haven’t come here to be a pain in the ass. I think we can both agree that Jamie has lost the juice for Living Well Forever.’
‘That’s for him to—’
Nathan ignored her. ‘And while I would prefer he worked on the contracted book, I am also his friend. I would rather he played hooky with you than he spend any more time buried in those musty old papers. Turning over the past isn’t doing him any good. We should all look forward, not backward, but that is especially true for Jamie.’
‘Why?’
Nathan glanced at Stella, as if trying to work out how much to say. ‘How much do you know about Jamie’s childhood?’
‘I know he spent a lot of it away at school.’
‘And thank God for that,’ Nathan said. ‘Some people shouldn’t have children.’
Stella swallowed.
‘What I don’t understand is what he’s doing here. If he’s going to have a breakdown or a holiday’ – Nathan put the word in air quotes – ‘why do it here? It’s classic self-sabotage. He needs to go back to his shrink.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Nathan finished his cigarette, grinding it out with his shoe. ‘We met at boarding school, you know. I spent my last two years at Merchiston’s, and Jamie was always really quiet before every holiday. Most boys wore their metaphorical shields to school, but you could sense Jamie putting his on before he went home.’
‘Were his parents that bad?’
Nathan shrugged. ‘He never said.’
‘And then they died.’
‘Exactly.’
Stella couldn’t settle to work for the rest of the afternoon. Nathan being in the house made her jumpy and she could understand why Jamie had wanted to isolate himself. It was easier to concentrate when you knew you were alone, that there were no surprises lurking behind doors.
She went outside to walk around the gardens, hoping that more of that amazing air would calm her mind and that she would be able to power through the day’s emails afterwards. Esmé was on the lower lawn, throwing a ball for the dogs using a plastic contraption which flung it further.
She nodded as Stella approached.
‘Is he staying long?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Esmé said, and Stella liked the way she didn’t pretend not to know who they were talking about. It made her feel accepted in some small way.
She sought to consolidate the connection. ‘He wants me to put pressure on Jamie to finish the book.’
Esmé glanced at her. ‘You must do what you think is best.’
‘I think he should leave.’
‘That’s up to Jamie,’ Esmé said.
‘I don’t know why he puts up with him. Isn’t there something we can do?’
‘Nathan is an old friend,’ Esmé said, not looking at Stella.
‘That’s what Jamie said, but he’s not a friend, it’s business.’
‘They were friends first,’ Esmé said. ‘And you can’t interfere.’
Stella felt herself told off.
Esmé’s expression was grim and she threw the ball for the dogs with more force than seemed necessary.
‘Right, then,’ Stella said. ‘None of my business.’
‘Just do your job,’ Esmé said.
Stella tried to do exactly that. She pushed aside Nathan’s warnings and settled down in an armchair to read another of Jessie Lockhart’s letters. She kept a notepad and pen by her side, so that she could take notes, but found herself falling into the world of nineteenth-century Edinburgh, as if into a dream. It reminded her of the escape of reading when she was a child, and the long hours in hospital waiting rooms she had transformed through the pages of a book.
11th June, 1848
My dearest Mary,
I have very little time for letter writing today and will have to send this poor excuse. It is very poor indeed, especially after your fine description of fai
ther’s birthday dinner, but all I can do is promise to send a better effort next time. The house is in a state of uproar as Mr Lockhart bade our housekeeper dismiss our remaining scullery maid. He said the parlour maid (who is a quite lovely girl and very hardworking) must make do and divide her labour, and the cook (who is not at all lovely) is in a fearsome temper.
Meanwhile, my Mr Lockhart remains utterly blind to the domestic chaos as he has discovered a new fancy. Worse still, his faithful patients sit in the parlour, their faces drawn with heavy lines of pain and fear and they wait and wait and wait – longer than ever.
Mr Lockhart’s latest ‘grand idea’ is the publication of pamphlets. I don’t know how popular they are in dear Haddington, but here in the city they are quite the thing. Seemingly, Mr Lockhart is always in the middle of writing one. He says that J. Y. Simpson is the same and, as ever, he seeks to emulate the man. He brought me a sheet from his travels yesterday. It is called ‘Woman’s Rights’ and I cannot help but feel my husband is dissatisfied and seeks to instruct me. The poem begins ‘The right to be a comforter, when other comforts fail’ and ends with ‘The right to comfort man on earth, and smooth his path to Heaven.’
I am trying to be a comfort, Mary. I truly am.
Your loving Jessie
The light had died and the small window was a black mirror, throwing back images from the room and hiding the outside world. The lamp she had clicked on an hour earlier to illuminate her chair was an oasis in the gloom. Stella stretched, feeling the bones in her neck protest, while her mind still belonged to Jessie Lockhart. Jessie’s desire to be a good wife, to help her husband, leaped from the page and straight into Stella’s heart. It was as if Jessie had written the words in an email just that morning, not countless decades ago.
They made Stella confront something in herself; she had always liked being helpful, but there was something about Jamie Munro that made that urge much stronger. She wanted to be a comfort, as Jessie put it. Which was worrying. Stella thought that she had escaped her old life, but perhaps she was just trying to recreate it here, with Jamie Munro in the role of Ben?
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