The Wages of Sin

by Kaite Welsh

  Princes Street Gardens were crowded with people taking in the crisp autumn air, although it was still tinged with ever-present hops from the brewery. The leaves had fallen from the trees in beautiful red and gold piles, sometimes gusting across the path in the breeze, and in the distance, an orchestra in the bandstand was playing. Above us, the castle loomed dark and gray, like something out of an Ann Radcliffe novel, but the paths were crowded with people enjoying the rare day of sunshine.

  My aunt engaged Elisabeth in conversation about Canada—which she appeared to have simultaneously confused with America, Australia, and the North Pole—and my uncle walked alongside Professor Chalmers in comparative silence interspersed by occasional grunts. I was desperate to get Elisabeth alone, but instead I walked obediently next to Aunt Emily, who had launched into a spirited account of the shooting party she had attended in the Highlands the previous year. I realized that my arrival in August had meant that they had had to forego the weekend shooting parties during grouse season, and for once I felt sorry for my relatives. My entrance into their life had disrupted it, and I had never properly apologized. Still, the thought of being dragged to a country house for the weekend, admiring the feathery corpses of my uncle’s expeditions with his friends, didn’t exactly appeal to me, and I was glad to have missed it.

  I wore my new walking dress for the occasion—my aunt, deciding that I had worth now that I had a suitor and tenuous connections with an earl, had taken me to her dressmakers, and I was clad in striped silk with a parasol to match. My lace fichu might have been a little itchy, and the corset tighter than I would have liked, but I knew that my teal-and-chocolate concoction was striking. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed turning heads. I reveled in the late-afternoon sun and the admiring glances—even my aunt’s tedious conversation was tolerable on such a day, although I was required to do little more than nod my head in agreement any time she or Elisabeth said anything that sounded like a definitive statement. In my aunt’s case, deferring as she did to the sister of a countess, that was rarely, and I found it hard to believe that Elisabeth could have an opinion on a matter over which I would ever radically disagree.

  “You must join my sister and her husband, when they host their next party,” Elisabeth was saying. “Their cook is wonderful, and I’m sure you’d find it most delightful.”

  “Do they know the Greenes?” Aunt Emily asked. My heart sank to my boots.

  Elisabeth feigned ignorance. “The Greenes? Oh, yes, the banking family.” Something in her voice made it clear that the Greenes were considered not quite the thing in her sister’s set. “Mm, I believe they are distantly acquainted.” She emphasized distantly, implying that her sister, at least, was very happy about that distance.

  Clever girl! I could have hugged her there and then. I might not have been able to produce a single good reason why I should not be pushed into a betrothal with Miles—“I don’t like him,” and “He slurps his soup” not being considered acceptable reasons to refuse a proposal—but Elisabeth had, with one arched eyebrow and well-chosen word, loosened the bonds of potential matrimony a little.

  “Ah.” Aunt Emily nodded, clearly unsure of how to proceed now that her attempt at name-dropping her society friends had failed. Luckily, at that point she spied a friend of hers and we were joined by another chattering society matron eager to hear all about Canada and—more important—Elisabeth’s sister and brother-in-law. I hoped that society gossip would never tarnish Elisabeth’s charmed life—if anyone had so much as cut her in public, I would slap them. Something about her made me feel terribly protective, and I realized that we were becoming fast friends.

  Ahead of us, the gentlemen paused, allowing us to catch up. As I watched Elisabeth smile radiantly at her husband, ignorant of his earlier infidelities, I could barely swallow. Professor Chalmers was hardly of the caliber my aunt preferred in her acquaintances, but his wife’s lineage gained him entrance in any dining room in Edinburgh. Had he married Elisabeth for her fortune and connections? I wondered. Up until today, I thought theirs had truly been a love match, but could love die so very quickly? I supposed it must, or half the brothels in the city would close down overnight. And yet he looked as devoted as before, but I thought I detected the merest suggestion of trouble in his eyes as he conversed. He was a charming man, if neither the handsomest nor the youngest Elisabeth could have attracted. Despite their initial misgivings, my aunt and uncle hung on his every word, and he was witty enough to quite make them forget how they knew him.

  “What do you think of this new influx of lassies in your lecture halls then, Chalmers?” Uncle Hugh asked.

  “I would hardly be here if I disapproved, Mr. Fitzherbert,” Randall said. “As your niece has proved, women have just the same capacity for learning as men.”

  “Nonsense!” Uncle Hugh snorted. His temper, I noticed drily, was not quite roused enough for him to lose the semblance of jocularity. It seemed Aunt Emily was not the only one entranced by the prospect of meeting the nobility. “Hasn’t it been proved, Chalmers, that women’s brains are weaker?”

  Randall gave a pained smile. “Not conclusively, Mr. Fitzherbert.”

  Uncle Hugh looked put out. “Could have sworn I read it somewhere,” he mumbled.

  “Perhaps you were thinking of horses,” I suggested acidly, knowing full well that Uncle Hugh never read so much as a postcard unless it mentioned racing. He glared at me, and I regretted my sudden bravery. They wouldn’t thank me if I embarrassed them in public as well as private. Elisabeth looked the picture of propriety, but I could tell from her sparkling eyes and pinched lips that she was longing to laugh. This was, I realized, the most fun I had ever had at one of my aunt’s social outings. I hoped that she would consider making the Chalmers a permanent fixture in our lives.

  “No, this is a new age,” Randall said. “Women are independent now, they’re getting a chance to spread their wings.”

  “Well I for one don’t hold with it,” Aunt Emily said crisply, her friend nodding approval.

  Randall frowned. “And yet you allow your niece to study medicine?”

  I caught my breath. I wasn’t sure how much, if anything, Elisabeth had revealed to her husband about my past.

  “Sarah’s parents were . . . persuaded,” Aunt Emily said. “Luckily, they felt that if she were going to persist in such a modern notion, she should at least do it with adequate supervision. Did you know that in some universities”—she said the word as though she meant gambling den or brothel, which, in all probability, she did—“they allow women to live entirely unsupervised?”

  Like most of Aunt Emily’s remarks about women pursuing higher education, this was nonsense.

  “The residence halls are very well chaperoned,” I offered timidly, not seeking to annoy them any further.

  “But hardly comparable to being at home with their families, which is where they belong.”

  “Sarah is so fortunate that she has the two of you to keep her on the path of righteousness,” Elisabeth said sweetly.

  Had she been any closer, I would have kicked her, but I contented myself with shooting daggers at her with my eyes.

  Eventually, Elisabeth and I managed to separate ourselves from the group and speak in lowered tones.

  “I’m afraid Randall hasn’t been terribly forthcoming about Professor Merchiston,” Elisabeth murmured, raising a gloved hand in acknowledgment of yet another acquaintance but angling her parasol to act as a buffer between them. “We saw him at a faculty dinner the other night, and you’re right—something is wrong. He looks terribly tired, and older somehow. I wish I could help him.”

  “Well, I don’t!” I snapped. My voice must have been louder than I intended, and Aunt Emily shot me a sharp look, reminding me to act like a lady. “You may defend him all you like, Elisabeth, he’s mixed up in all this somehow, and I intend to find out how.”

  “As do I,” she said soothingly, “but you’ll find that you’ll catch far more flies with hone
y than with vinegar.”

  “I’m not going to charm him,” I muttered obstinately. “Even if I wanted to, he wouldn’t be seen within a yard of me without a chaperone.”

  “And nor should you!” she chided laughingly. “But be serious for a moment, Sarah. Whatever we do now, you must be careful of your reputation above all things. I can’t afford to lose you as a friend, should you get sent away.”

  I was touched. “Elisabeth, you have the widest circle of friends of anyone I know. Everyone simply adores you!”

  “They adore me, yes,” she said, “but they don’t see me. They think I’m pretty and perfect and fragile, they indulge every way, but they don’t stop to wonder what I think about things. Only you—and, of course, Randall.” She blushed, and I was struck all over again by how thoroughly besotted she was with her husband. “My sister might have longed for a title, but I came over to Scotland because I wanted adventure. I thought I was going to have to content myself with charity work and living through you girls, but this—now this is living.” She frowned. “Is it terrible to think that way? I don’t mean I’m glad that that poor girl was murdered, but it feels so damned good to be doing something useful for once!” She laughed at my shocked expression. “Oh, Sarah. I’m not so prim and proper, you know.”

  I realized that I didn’t just have a friend, I had a coconspirator. The thought warmed me considerably. I had made the mistake of seeing her surface and not the witty woman beneath the good manners and pretty dresses. I only hoped that she would be strong enough to withstand what I had to tell her.

  The next day—a cold, sunny Sunday—marked my first public appearance with Miles Greene on my arm. The church was by no means the closest to our house, but its location in the finest part of the New Town meant that the crème de la crème of Edinburgh society crammed in there once a week in their Sunday finest, coming more to show off than bow their heads in solemn worship.

  We had contrived to sit in the row across from the Greene family, so it was natural that we should all walk out together. The first bite of winter hung in the air as we exited the church, but the cold was not yet unpleasant. Since the day was sunny, if crisp, it was inevitable that we should promenade in the beautiful gardens beneath the craggy outcrop that housed the castle, and even more so that Miles should smile awkwardly and take my arm.

  The fact that both sets of adults were a good few feet behind us did not escape my attention, and I dragged my heels as discreetly as I could in order to minimize the privacy he clearly hoped for. I prayed silently that a proposal would not come today, not before I had come up with a way to refuse that made it sound like it wasn’t my idea.

  He had returned from his tour of Europe little over a year ago, and I greedily listened to his descriptions of Italy and France. I had never been to the Louvre or to the canals of Venice, and his description of the Eiffel Tower, the architectural marvel erected a few years earlier made me sigh with envy. I hoped my interest in his travels would not be confused with interest in the man himself. I would not give up my liberty for anything, not even the chance to see the world if it meant that I must do so on my honeymoon.

  And I had to admit to myself, my feelings were not unmixed with bitterness. For when Miles was gallivanting across the Continent, meeting with princes and poets, I had been in Dorset under the dubious care of Dr. Norris. A beautiful part of England, but although the country air had been intended to revive me, in the end I had tasted little of it. I shivered as the memory of the sterile white rooms and probing cold hands of the physicians assailed me.

  “Are you cold, Miss Gilchrist?”

  “A little,” I confessed, although telling him that I had spent the spring in what was little more than a genteel madhouse for ladies of good breeding and unstable temperaments would doubtless have cooled his ardor. I wondered how much longer we would be out and if I could plead a headache or some other ladylike complaint in order to escape. I knew that such a ploy would result in my being confined to my bed the next day, however, and I had no intention of sinking further in Professor Merchiston’s esteem.

  Just the thought of the surly doctor made me scowl. I did not like the man. Nor, for that matter, did I trust him. And yet my fate was bound inextricably to his—he had made it crystal clear that any besmirching of his reputation regarding Lucy would be met with the complete and final dismantling of mine. Seeing my only other option smile down next to me, unaware of the blob of egg on his cravat or the clamminess of his palm sweating through our gloves as his hand pressed briefly against mine, I knew that I had little choice in the matter. What had happened to Lucy was regrettable, but I could not allow the loss of a stranger’s life to ruin my only chance of happiness.

  Guilt tightened inside me, acrid and inescapable, but I forced myself to ignore it. Instead, I prattled gaily about my studies and described the dissection of the liver in such precise detail that my companion turned quite green. I asked him, although the closeness of our heads implied that our conversation was far more intimate, what he thought of the talk of women’s suffrage. At this he blanched, and asked if I really believed that ladies had any head for politics. I replied, in tones that were they overheard could pass as coquettish, that if we could handle surgery then matters of state could not be so far beyond our reach.

  I couldn’t repress a gleeful smile as Miles handed me into the carriage with considerably less enthusiasm than he had shown taking my arm an hour earlier. From the conspiratorial—and not remotely subtle—smile my aunt gave me, it was clear that she thought the morning had been a success. It had, but not in the way she had imagined.

  Over luncheon, I was subjected to a postmortem more intense than anything my tutors could throw at me—what did he say, did I speak to much or too little, did he look at me with admiration? Seeking only a quiet life and the chance to escape the usual afternoon of religious contemplation and self-flagellation in favor of a good hour or two with my physiology textbook, I played my role of demure young lady being wooed to the hilt. It must have been successful, because I was to be left to my own devices that afternoon. She pressed my hand as I was leaving the table.

  “I’m writing to your mother this afternoon. Margaret will be so proud.”

  My throat felt thick and I managed a watery smile before closing the door behind me. I had no intention of accepting a proposal from Miles Greene, even supposing he offered, though the thought of disappointing my parents again hurt more than I could bear. But it was more than just the thought of my mother’s reaction. Aunt Emily looked radiant, delighted that her wayward charge was being invited back into the fold, and by such an illustrious shepherd. She looked more than pleased that her plan was coming to fruition—she looked genuinely happy for me.

  I sank down on my bed, lost in thought, my longed-for hours of study forgotten. Aunt Emily was concerned about my welfare, my immediate physical needs and the state of my immortal soul, but it had never before occurred to me that she might love me. Rather than acting on my mother’s instructions, Aunt Emily was showing off. In her own way, she genuinely believed that marriage to Miles was the best way of securing my future happiness.

  I couldn’t imagine anyone who was married to Uncle Hugh being so convinced that marriage was a fairy-tale ending. I had seen Aunt Emily look at him with lips pinched so thin they barely had any color, but staying faithfully silent. I had never wondered before if she loved him, never really considered whether she had strong feelings for him. I suppose if I had thought about it at all, I had always assumed that she loved Uncle Hugh, in that romantic way children have when they assume their parents married for love rather than social position, money, or respectability. It had never occurred to me that, as I did, there were times when she simply did not like him. Was he her choice? I wondered. Had my grandparents arranged it? I doubted it. From my mother’s disapproving mien whenever Uncle Hugh’s name entered conversation, it sounded as though Aunt Emily had rebelled against our family to marry him. Certainly she had left her entir
e life behind, what little life she had as a debutante decades ago.

  The younger, wilder sister to my mother’s prettier yet more practical eldest daughter, she had surprised everyone by marrying Hugh Fitzherbert, a wealthy if partly self-made gentleman from Aberdeen whose canny investment in the brewing industry accounted for his position in Edinburgh society more than his lineage. Despite his professional connections to the demon drink, or perhaps because of it, he was staunchly religious, and my aunt had undergone some sort of conversion in the ballrooms when he had come to London in search of a bride with sufficient breeding to compensate for his lack of the same. I had a faint suspicion that while they had not actually eloped—I had seen their wedding portrait displayed in the parlor, although neither of them looked particularly happy in it—they had come perilously close. I could not imagine Uncle Hugh doing anything so scandalous, nor Aunt Emily something so spontaneous, but family lore was not to be argued with.

  I wondered what the letter would say. The thought of making my mother proud, of seeing something other than shame and disgust in her eyes, made my heart leap. Until that fateful night in the library, I could not have imagined anything that would bring me so low in her estimation, despite her disapproval of my modern ideas and radical sensibilities. Then again, Aunt Emily’s ideas of what was best for any of her nieces and nephews had always differed from Mother’s. It was a measure of the extent of my disgrace that Mother thought her puritanical younger sister a beneficial influence.

  I felt unnervingly as though I were a gift for my mother—Aunt Emily was returning her tarnished daughter tidied up and polished. My disgrace would become a mysterious history from before I married, only to be discussed in hushed tones whenever I was out of earshot. My fanciful ideas of practicing medicine would become an amusing anecdote for dinner parties, and I would join the ranks of the respectable married ladies who turned heads in their wilder younger days, just as she had done. I shuddered at the thought. I had burned my bridges as far as respectability was concerned—it would be hypocrisy of the tallest order to return to that world now, after I had rejected everything I had been raised with.