by Kaite Welsh
“I told your aunt you would be back for luncheon,” Elisabeth said. “Randall says you can rest now—do you think you can sleep for a few hours?”
I was tired, more tired than I had ever been in my entire life, but more than that—I wanted to get away from Gregory Merchiston in the hope that I could leave behind in the dining room the emotions he stirred in me. I think I knew even then, that it would not be that easy.
I followed Elisabeth upstairs.
“I think I might have to invite you both over for afternoon tea this week,” she said, a note of teasing warning in her voice.
I just shrugged, beyond caring about the promised interrogation, and pulled the cool, crisp sheets over me, asleep before she had even quit the room.
When I awoke, birds were singing. I went downstairs only to be met with the sight of Merchiston pulling on his greatcoat.
“I apologize,” he said in a low voice, “if it appeared earlier that I was about to take advantage of your weakened state. I can assure you that nothing was further from my mind.”
I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that I had been neither weak nor been taken advantage of, but I sensed that he knew that perfectly well, and that his subterfuge was as much for him as it was for me. There was, however, one last thing I needed to say to him.
“Professor, I am afraid I have judged you very harshly these past weeks. I believed you guilty of some of the worst crimes imaginable, and I never once allowed you to defend yourself to me. I know what it’s like to be convicted in public opinion when you know that there is more to the story than is being discussed over afternoon tea all over the city.” I smiled bitterly, and he covered my hand with his gloved one. “I owe you my life, Professor Merchiston, but more than that—I owe you my forgiveness. Please, accept it along with my friendship.”
I had seen him smile before, but it had never reached his eyes. I felt that this was not an offer he was accustomed to getting, and was all the more precious for it.
“Miss Gilchrist,” he said formally, taking my hand and shaking it firmly. “I would be honored to consider you a friend. But I must warn you”—he looked at me with an echo of his former sternness—“that I did not save your life only to have you fail your winter-term examinations. May I have your word that you will stay out of trouble—for the rest of this term, at least?”
I found myself smiling harder than I remembered smiling in a very long time. Despite the nightmarish events of the night before, I was somehow very happy.
I held out my hand once more, trying to push to the back of my mind just how eager I was to have this contact.
“I promise,” I vowed with a smile. “In fact, I can safely say that my days of investigating are firmly behind me.”
He raised an eyebrow quizzically but took my hand all the same.
“You will forgive me, Miss Gilchrist, if I do not entirely believe that. In fact, I distinctly remember myself saying the same thing to Dr. Bell once.”
I stared at Merchiston as realization dawned.
“Dr. Bell? Dr. Joseph Bell? The man who inspired Conan Doyle to create—”
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sherlock Holmes, yes. Bell had some unusual ideas about the detection of crime and, as a student with an interest in pharmacology and poisons, our paths crossed. He provided some much needed assistance early on in my career. In fact, he was the one who suggested I work with the local constabulary; he thought I had a flair for it.”
I gasped. “You investigated a crime with Sherlock Holmes?”
“I asked Dr. Bell’s advice on a particularly tricky strangulation case,” he replied sharply. “I assure you, Miss Gilchrist, no pipes, violins, or hounds were involved.”
The carriage drew up on the street outside.
I raised an eyebrow. “After you, my dear Watson.”
Over the gray stone buildings, the midday sun was shining brightly, having burned off the last of that morning’s mist. As the rays poured into the room, they cast a spotlight on Gregory Merchiston’s tired face.
“We should go home,” I whispered softly, taking his arm. He looked surprised at the touch but not displeased. He nodded wearily and tucked my elbow beneath his, steering me to the row of hansom cabs that lined the street. Careful of my shoulder, still throbbing with pain, he helped me in, and, for one microscopic moment, I thought that he was going to kiss me. But the moment passed, as those moments tend to do, and he simply climbed into the cab after me. I wasn’t disappointed, but I wasn’t frightened either. I knew that the look in his eyes had less to do with lust and more to do with a kind of respect I had never known before.
“What will your aunt and uncle say?” he asked as we jolted forward.
I shrugged helplessly. “I wish I knew. It’s doubtful they’ll want me to leave the house again, let alone practice medicine. Or perhaps they’ll throw me out onto the streets.”
“They could surprise you,” he said softly.
I smiled. “Perhaps. I haven’t exactly proved myself to be a perfect judge of character lately.”
“I’ll speak for you.”
“They’ll assume you’re my lover.” I sighed tiredly. “If it gets out that we’ve spent any time together outside the lecture theater, most people will.”
His fists clenched, but his voice was even. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does. But I can’t control how people see me, and I’m tired of living my life as though I’m ashamed of things that aren’t my fault.”
“I’ll still speak for you,” he repeated. His words, and the uncompromising tone in which he said them, brought a smile to my face. He was damning his own reputation by standing by me, but he didn’t care. Perhaps I reminded him of Lucy, or perhaps he would have been a man of principle either way. Perhaps there was something else, something neither of us were ready to name and might never be.
Whatever the reason, I was grateful for his support, and as we passed over the slums of the Cowgate toward the New Town, where life was less hard and vastly more complicated, I felt a renewed surge of confidence.
Whatever the future held, of one thing I was certain—I was going to become a doctor, no matter what it took. I could only pray that when I succeeded, I had even a fraction of the courage of the man standing next to me.
I had no idea then of just quite how much courage I was going to need.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the support and input of some very wonderful people:
Lola, whose support, enthusiasm, and faith in me has kept me going through difficult times and has been a source of continued delight through the good. Writing this book is only the second best decision I’ve ever made.
My father without whose medical advice, motivation and good scotch this book may never have been written.
The all-powerful Newby matriarchy (and David) are the dictionary definition of family (and probably a few other more colorful words as well).
Thanks to Ruth, Lis, Karen, and Cathryn for all the advice, passion fruit daquiris, corsets, and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman marathons; to my writing coven, Lucy Ribchester, Lynsey May, and Kirsty Logan, and to Cat Valente, Deanna Raybourn and Lilit Marcus for providing excellent writing role models
I owe a huge debt of thanks to Laura MacDougall, agent extraordinaire, and to my terrific editor Iris Blasi. Thanks to everyone at Pegasus Books for making this such a wonderful experience.
Above all, this book is about sisterhood. If I know anything about that, it’s thanks to Clare, who has always had my back.
THE WAGES OF SIN
Pegasus Books Ltd.
148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 Kaite Welsh
First Pegasus Books edition March 2017
Interior design by Maria Fernandez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-68177-332-2
ISBN: 978-1-68177-386-5 (e-book)
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