Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Do you mean me?” asked her brother, who’d been watching the mezzo once again. “What have I done?”

  “Of course, I don’t mean you, James! No, it’s Ashdown. He played Cathy for a fool in Bombay, and it looks as though he’s doing it here as well—in front of all her friends! I shall cross him off my Christmas list, and I’m very glad I didn’t invite him to the party.”

  Fearing Tory might enter into a long diatribe on male failings, Salperton turned to Elizabeth for less discouraging conversation. “I’m glad you asked me here tonight, Beth. Did I tell you that I stopped by Fitzmaurice Place on the way here? I’d hoped to persuade Cordelia to come. Paul asked me to look in on her.”

  “That was thoughtful, but it’s too early for public appearances, Henry. Your heart meant well, but Delia needs time to grieve.”

  “Yes, I realise that, but she also needs distraction and distance.”

  “Distance?” asked the duchess. “From what?”

  “From her eldest brother. The new baron is the sort of fellow who’d fry you up for breakfast and then expect you thank him for the privilege. I rarely find a man with no redeeming traits, but he qualifies in triplicate. Put simply, I don’t trust him. I think Cordelia should leave that house as soon as possible, and until then, spend very little time there.”

  Beth found the sudden flush of righteous anger a little surprising coming from the ordinarily reserved alienist. “Do you say this as a man or as a physician, Henry?”

  “Well, as both, I suppose,” he said in his own defence. “I can hardly speak as a woman, now can I? I mean no disrespect to either of you wonderful ladies. It’s just that Delia lacks positive reinforcement. Connie Wychwright constantly belittles the girl, and her brother is an overbearing bully!”

  “Perhaps, bullying is the manner of a soldier,” Tory suggested.

  “Yes, perhaps,” the viscount replied. “I imagine soldiers live rugged and demanding lives that require a certain amount of pride and self-reliance, but it’s no excuse for treating a woman harshly.”

  “Not all soldiers do so,” countered the duke. “I served in Crimea, and Paul may not be a soldier according to the common definition, but he certainly serves on England’s front lines.”

  “Yes, that’s very true,” replied Salperton. “My father served in India, and though he can be temperamental and harsh, I’ve never seen him mistreat a woman. Of course, he sometimes misunderstood my mother, but he tried his best to be pleasant and protective. Why then, is Wychwright so damnably cruel to his own sister? Oh, do forgive my language, ladies. I forget myself sometimes.”

  “You are always forgiven, Henry,” the duchess whispered, tapping his hand and offering a bright smile.

  “Hush now,” warned the duke. “This etiquette debate must wait. It looks as though Miss Gévaudan’s about to sing another song.”

  The Lyceum’s pit orchestra conductor lifted a baton to commence the downbeat of the singer’s second number, one of Carmen’s most controversial arias. As she voiced the enthralling melody, her curvy hips swayed rhythmically, and she flounced the skirt to show off her left leg and ankle. It was the Séguidilla, a scene of open seduction, in which the gypsy cigarette girl, Carmen, makes musical love to the malleable gendarme Don Jose, hoping he will set her free.

  “Près des ramparts de Sévilla, chez mon ami, Lillas Pastia! J’irai danser la Séguidilla et boire du Manzanilla! J’irai chez mon ami, Lillas Pastia!” she sang huskily.

  Every male’s eye stared in transfixed fascination at the singer’s erotic movements. Back and forth and side to side, went Gévaudan’s erotic round hips. Even the viscount found it difficult to remain aloof. To break the spell, he reached for Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Duchess, might I exchange places with you? It’s grown somewhat warm in here.”

  Elizabeth leaned in to offer support. “Perhaps, we should escape the heat until the play begins, Henry. We could both use some water, I think.”

  He nodded gratefully and helped her to stand. “We’re going down for a little air,” he told the amused duke. The viscount gallantly led Beth down the carpeted staircase.

  “Where is your friend this evening?” she asked him once they reached the lobby floor. “I thought she’d planned to join us.”

  “Miss Stuart? Changed her mind, I’m afraid. Another pity, in my opinion. I’m sure she’d enjoy getting out for a change, but she’s afraid of crowds, I think. She spends nearly every moment cooped up in her apartment, which will only cause her to grow all the more insular.”

  “Henry, when did Miss Stuart become your patient?”

  He paused to think. “Let’s see. It was just about the time the prince first called on me. All that is rather a blur, you know. But a happy blur,” he said, touching her hand affectionately. “I cannot imagine life without you in it, Elizabeth.”

  “You saved me that day, Henry. No matter what, we shall always remain the closest of friends. I wonder, if she’ll start to remember who she really is?”

  Henry crossed one leg over the other as he considered this, his right hand close to hers. The world always took on a peaceful sheen whenever he spent time with the duchess. As though everything fell into balance. “That’s an interesting question. You don’t believe she’s a Stuart?”

  “She may have the name, but I doubt she’s family. I’ve never heard of any Stuart cousins in America, and Violet isn’t one of our usual family names. It’s lovely, but non-historic, and we’ve a habit of repeating names. Though, I do remember Paul once saying he’d like to name a daughter Abigail Violet Rose, and that we’d call her Violet.”

  “I assume he referred to a child he’d share with you?”

  She nodded, and a quiet sort of regret flashed through her dark eyes. “He and I used to make all sorts of plans when I was younger, and it felt like make-believe in many ways. Did I tell you that I very nearly accepted his proposal this summer?”

  “I thought he proposed to you in October. Am I mistaken or misinformed?”

  She reached for his hand, absentmindedly stroking the cuff of his shirt. Henry had noticed her do this with Sinclair now and then, and he wondered if it had some psychological root with her father. “It’s been a difficult year in many ways. I seldom talk to anyone about it. Even Charles doesn’t know everything, but you’re my dearest friend, Henry. I feel as if I could tell you anything.”

  “You may open your heart anytime you wish. Why has it been difficult?”

  “As you know, Paul spends a great deal of time in other countries. He visited me last Christmas at Branham, and then was sent to Belgium on some emergency for the War Office. Afterwards, he spent nearly two months in Ireland. I never ask the reason for his absence. Government assignments are secret, you know. Most of them, anyway. I wrote him dozens of letters during those months and received only one in return.”

  “I’m sure he thought of you, Beth, I know Paul very well, and he’s not exactly open with his feelings. And his assignments must make him a very poor correspondent.”

  She smiled. “That’s true. I turned twenty last April, and usually Paul makes sure to come home for my birthday, but it was May before I saw him again.”

  “You were in Paris then, correct? At Tory’s house?”

  “Yes, the Château Rothesay. It’s a lovely, storybook sort of castle with lots of spired towers and slate roofs. Dolly and Sir Richard Patterson-Smythe live nearby, and they hosted my birthday party that year. When Paul finally called at Tory’s in May, I already had two visitors. One was Prince Rasarit Grigor. I’ve already told you about him.”

  “And the other?”

  “Do you know Lord and Lady Salter?” she asked.

  “Only by reputation. They’re antiquarians, if I remember rightly. Generally out of the country in some arid sort of place, digging up old bones. Did they pay a call to Tory’s home?”


  “No, it was their son, Seth Holloway. He’s actually the Viscount Paynton, but he seldom uses the title. I think he prefers the company of ordinary people, rather than peers. He and I’ve been friends for over ten years. His sisters Gemma and Ruth are my age. Gemma’s a year younger, and Ruth a year older than I. Their family seat is Torden Hall, close to Branham in Faversham. We three girls spent nearly every summer riding together back then. We called ourselves the Kent County Riding Club. Seth used to accompany Gemma and Ruth on the train whenever they’d visit. At first, I think he saw me as just another annoying girl, and then one day in ‘84, he asked if I might walk alone with him—away from his sisters. From that day forward, we became very close.”

  Salperton grew very ill-at-ease with the direction of her confession. “Beth, perhaps, this is better told to your husband.”

  She sighed. “Yes, but may I tell you first? No one else knows this story, not even Paul. I’d like to see your reaction before I tell Charles. He’ll be meeting Seth soon, and I shouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

  “Regarding what?”

  “My affections.”

  He laughed. “My darling friend, Charles Sinclair would never doubt your affections! Not in a million years!”

  “Oh, but he might,” she whispered. “Henry, I spent years imagining my life with Charles, but in truth I don’t know him very well yet. I’m still learning about his moods, just as he’s learning mine. I find myself jealous of his friendship towards other women; one in particular, which he finds irritating, I know. What if he becomes jealous of Seth?”

  “Has he reason to be?” the viscount asked boldly.

  She was about to answer, when an usher appeared with two flutes of champagne and offered them to the pair.

  “We didn’t order these,” Henry told the young man.

  “From a gentleman who asks to remain anonymous, my lord.”

  “Well, that’s very kind. Please, offer our thanks, then,” he answered. “Do go on with your story, Elizabeth.”

  She took a sip of the wine. “This is quite good, but perhaps, you’re right. I shouldn’t burden you with my worries.”

  “Nonsense, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it? Beth, I am happy to listen for hour upon hour, if you like. We could skip the play and remain down here.”

  Her expression grew serious. “Do you know a woman named Lorena MacKey?”

  Henry’s eyes widened. “Good heavens, how do you know her?”

  “Then, you have met her?” asked the duchess

  “I should think so! I was one of her instructors. London Medical College for Women. I teach nervous diseases there each spring. MacKey had a brilliant mind but always seemed distracted towards the end of the term. She’d have made an excellent alienist. I think she finally specialised in herbal remedies. Homeopathy, they call it. Why?”

  “No reason,” she answered, clearly relieved. For if Henry knew MacKey, then surely this ‘Violet Stuart’ was someone else. “I hear applause. I think the mezzo’s performance has ended. The play will begin shortly. We should finish our champagne and go back up.”

  He took her hand. “Elizabeth, if you’re holding something back—if you need to talk, I’m here for you. Forget the play, you’re much more important.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said softly, and then, without warning, kissed his cheek. “You’re such a dear man. Promise you’ll take care with your heart.”

  “My heart is yours alone,” he answered, his eyes glistening. “Though, if I ever do marry, I’ll be sure you approve of her first.”

  “Is there someone? You’ve an air of secrecy about you, Lord Salperton,” she teased. “Might you be interested in this mystery patient?”

  “Interested in Miss Stuart? I hardly know her, Beth, and as you say, she might have dark secrets beneath her memory loss. She might even be married. I’m concerned for her health, of course, but not interested in her romantically.”

  Beth laughed and then stood to go. “Men seldom realise when they’re falling in love.”

  “Love?” he gasped, standing as well. “Really, Beth, it’s nothing like that, I assure you! Nothing like that at all! I’m merely concerned for her mind.”

  “If you say so. Perhaps, I’m wrong.”

  His mouth tightened. “How is caring about someone a sign of intimate affection? Why, someone might make the same claim about us! You and I are dear friends, but we have no romantic affiliations, do we?”

  Elizabeth studied his face, observing the obvious signs of confusion and deep affection—but for whom? This patient, or for her? “Forgive me, Henry. If I’ve struck a nerve, I’m very sorry.”

  “Of course not. You’ve nothing to apologise for,” he said, gulping down the champagne. “My nerves are sound as a penny.”

  “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. Truly, I didn’t.”

  “I presume women have keener insight into their own hearts?” he complained, wondering just why her comment bothered him so very much. “Did you realise you’d fallen in love with Charles right away, or did it take time for the truth to sink in?”

  “My relationship with Charles is complicated. And I’m very sorry for offending you.”

  “No, I’m the one should apologise. You caught me off-guard; that’s all. Perhaps, I have a blind spot to my own heart.”

  “If so, then Paul has a similar blind spot. He doesn’t see the great changes awaiting him either.”

  “Which are?” asked MacAlpin as a tall man with dark hair bumped into his right elbow, causing him to drop the empty glass onto the carpeted floor. “Good heavens!”

  The man took no pains to stop or apologise. Instead, he pushed through the crowd, but to Henry’s astonishment, no one else took notice of his passage. In fact, his feet didn’t even touch the floor!

  Salperton recovered the fallen glass and handed it to an usher. “Wait here,” he told Elizabeth, leaving her alone as he chased after the rude wraith. “You!” he shouted. “You there! Stop!”

  MacAlpin quickly reached the man’s position and took him by the shoulder, turning him round. To his utter shock, it was Anthony Gehlen, the London Hospital physician who’d taken care of Beth and Delia Wychwright.

  “Gehlen!” the viscount managed to sputter, thoroughly perplexed. “Do forgive me, I must be mistaken. I thought you were someone else.”

  “So it seems,” the doctor answered, his dark eyes glinting in the chandelier’s soft glow. Henry noticed the distinctive smell of whisky. “I’m often mistaken for someone else. Perhaps, it’s a trick of the light. Or maybe just a trick. I do love tricks, don’t you? Enjoy the play, Lord Salperton—and the beautiful company,” he whispered. “She’s a lovely bit of flesh.”

  Outraged at so crude a comment, Salperton opened his mouth to answer the inebriated physician, but Beth’s soft touch on his arm diverted his attention. He turned, finding her looking very pale.

  “Please, Henry! It’s growing cold down here. May we go back up? I left my wrap on the chair.”

  “Of course.” He took her arm, intending to leave Gehlen with a flea in his ear, but to Salperton’s utter shock, the man had completely vanished.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  8:15 pm – Surgeon’s Lounge, London Hospital

  “As you can see from the tallies, gentlemen, the number of dead now tops thirty, and the wounded nearly four hundred. I believe I speak for all the staff here when I say this has been the worst fire in our borough’s history since 1666.”

  Frederick Treves looked as though he might collapse as he finished his report, and he steadied himself against the wooden table.

  Charles Sinclair stood to shake his friend’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Treves. I’m afraid you’re right. People here in the East will talk of this for generations. They’ll speak of the dangers, the tragedies, the terror; but also the selfless ded
ication and bravery of the police, the fire brigade, and everyone here at the London. Now, go sleep for a few hours, my friend. You’ve done enough for one day.”

  Treves wiped weary tears from his dark eyes. “I can remain if you need me, Your Grace.”

  “All we need presently is privacy and coffee, which you’ve kindly provided. It’s generous of you to allow us this room for our discussion. Go sleep, Fred. You’ve earned it.”

  Once the chief surgeon had gone, the meeting commenced in full force. Present that evening, aside from Sinclair, were: Paul Stuart, Arthur France, Edmund Reid, Fred Abberline, Hamish Granger, Martin Kepelheim, and Ed MacPherson, who’d brought a guest.

  “Gentlemen, before we begin, Dr. MacPherson has brought a friend to help us in our endeavours. Ed, if you’d make the introductions?”

  The surgeon’s lounge occupied the northwestern corner of the ground floor. Night had long since fallen, and gas lamps along Commercial cast an eerie luminescence into the room. Hansom cabs, omnibuses, charabanc coaches, fancy broughams, and humble dog carts passed back and forth before the two windows; but no one seemed in a rush to travel. All of Whitechapel lay in mourning, and a heavy gloom mixed with the smoke that hung about the grief-stricken streets.

  Ed stood. His thinning grey hair was slicked back with scented pomade, and a pair of pince-nez sat upon his prominent nose. He looked tired and aged; years older than the man Sinclair had first met in early November.

  “This is a day that will stain London’s history for ages to come, I fear,” he told his friends in a heavy voice. “But we who meet tonight in this room are probably the only group aware of the true cause of this monumental heartache. Need I say the name?”

  Paul Stuart hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours, and even his usual positivity had waned. “Redwing,” he muttered gloomily. “How I hate that word!”

  “It’s become a curse, hasn’t it, Lord Aubrey?” replied MacPherson. “A seven letter, two syllable, cipher for evil. I know we are all of us tired this night. I shall not temper my words nor truncate my pronouncements. My colleague knows all about our purpose and our history, and he shares our concerns for this diabolical collection of devils.