The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  My dismay was twofold. You can imagine my lack of enthusiasm at being forced to dine alongside my fellow assistants and physicians. Their lack of warmth has extended into a chilly silence, and I was surprised to learn that my presence was required. Why would I possibly need to be there? Surely they would feel more comfortable if I stayed away, considering that most pretend my inexistence.

  And to force Hyde’s attendance? My usually good mood soured at the thought. It has come to my realization that I cannot force Hyde to do anything, and if he makes it a habit of not attending the annual dinner, then I was sure that this year would be no different. Why should that be my responsibility? I dreaded his response, and felt sure that it would make my own negativity pale in comparison.

  After much thought and debate, I scribbled a note to Hyde, and left it on his desk, atop my research suggestions and the post. The message was simple and honest.

  “Hyde. I have been instructed to attend the Doctoral dinner. I have been told to see that you do as well. I have no desire to attend. Chances are, I will be overcome with a great fever at around five o’clock, and will probably require a physician’s assistance that would adequately explain your absence, should you wish to decline the invitation as well.”

  I quickly became lost in the depths of my studies, my good mood returning somewhat as I surrendered to my deep love of research. I scarcely heard Hyde arrive in the office, and was roused from my immersion in medical texts by a sudden loud guffaw.

  Startled, I turned away from my worktable, only to see Hyde standing at his desk and pouring himself a hefty dose of whisky into a glass tumbler. His expression was impassive as he continued to flip through the post, all humor gone, but I did notice that my Doctoral dinner note had been pushed to the side. As usual, there was no conversation. No comment. No further laughter, and I forgot it entirely as we became involved in the usual research.

  It was not until the very end of the day that things took an unexpected turn.

  I am normally the last to leave the office. Hyde generally exits an hour before I do, sliding into his coat and gloves with nary a farewell. I tidy up the place and finish up whatever I am working on before I leave, but it is always well after Hyde departs.

  Tonight was different. I looked up from my table, expecting to see Hyde disappearing across the threshold, but instead, he lingered at the doorway. His expression was grim as he slid on his hat. He tightened a scarf around his neck, and then glared at me with clear expectation.

  “Well, come on then,” he said, when I hesitated. “I cannot wait all evening, Purefoy.”

  He tossed my coat to me, and surprised, I very nearly dropped it.

  “We are leaving?” I queried as I donned my coat. Hyde nodded, and turning on his heel, he stormed into the hallway. I scarcely had time to put on my hat and gloves before he was shouting for me to hurry.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, quickly locking up. Hyde waited impatiently at the end of the hall. My question seemed to annoy him further, but he did have the grace to answer me.

  “Dinner,” he said curtly.

  My good mood evaporated entirely, and I wished suddenly that I had remembered to pretend the illness. It was far too late now. Clearly, Hyde had rejected my idea, and in turn was ensuring my attendance. I felt resigned to a truly dismal evening, one spent amid the group I abhor. When Hyde is the more pleasant company, then it is indeed a dreary bunch.

  We set out into the chilly Edinburgh night. I began to see why Hyde had brought the scarf. The wind was sharper than I expected, and I pulled my coat tightly around me. The rain fell steadily, dripping down from nearby eaves and splattering the narrow bricked streets. The sun had already set, and we moved quickly through the enveloping darkness with illumination here and there by glowing streetlamps.

  I say “we” and I must confess that it was Hyde who moved with agility among the crowd. I do not know if it was his fierce expression that caused the other pedestrians to give way, or if his reputation preceded him. The pavement was a morass of people, and yet when they spotted Hyde, a clear alley was formed amid the busily advancing bodies. I have never before witnessed the power of such a scowl! I hastened to take advantage of it, and was forced to walk with incredible speed to keep up with Hyde at all.

  I was concentrating so greatly on not losing him amid the throng that I was surprised when he came to a halt. I blinked owlishly beneath the lamplight, and stared up at the somber building before us. I was expecting to find myself at the address the assistant had made me memorize, the location of the Doctoral dinner, but I saw that Hyde had brought us to a completely different place.

  This was a nicer building than mine own, set between a grocer and a haberdashery. It was several stories tall, with two chimneys. Smoke curled invitingly out from a cluster of clay chimney pots. Light illuminated the windows, and against the glass I could see the foggy imprint of steam. My heart leapt at the thought of such warmth.

  Above the door hung suspended a smart sign whose lettering was clearly visible beneath the nearby lamplight. WHITCOMB BROTHERS. REPUTABLE WINE MERCHANTS.

  Reading it, I could not stop myself from laughing aloud. In my mind, I entertained the thought of an un-reputable wine merchant. The image of that particular sign was a source of great humor. Who would select such advertising?

  Hyde spared me a quelling glance, and then he was opening the front door.

  Intrigued, I followed him across the threshold. The sudden burst of heat upon my chilled skin caused me to sigh aloud.

  Hyde grimaced. “Do try to not advertise your every thought, Purefoy. For God’s sake, you should procure yourself a warmer coat, or eat enough to thicken your blood. Otherwise, I expect you to turn to ice, come December.”

  As usual, I ignored his caustic comments. I was too fascinated by my surroundings. Row upon row of shelving surrounded me, broken only by the presence of an oversized fireplace, set in the far corner. The shelves were filled to capacity with such an assortment of wine! Bottle after bottle! Champagne. Burgundy. Bordeaux.

  A long, curving countertop was centermost in the store, turning gracefully amid the shelves. This too was covered with a wide assortment of bottles and a neat stack of paperwork.

  An impossibly round man stood before the counter, and he turned at our entrance. He was dressed resplendently, displaying a ridiculous vanity that caused me to struggle against laughter. Long sideburns framed a portly face. At first, his expression was haughty and grim, but it lightened considerably as his gaze settled upon us.

  “Dr. Hyde!” the man called out. He ran stout, stubby hands against the front of his incredibly florid waistcoat, and then approached us in quick, mincing steps. “I have been expecting you! I see that you have brought a friend to dinner as well. Good, good. Any friend of Hyde’s is a friend of mine.”

  “This is Mr. Alistair Purefoy,” Hyde said. “I work alongside him. Purefoy, this is Mr. Michael Whitcomb.”

  I was startled, Miss Campbell, I must confess. I had decided that Hyde was making a necessary stop at a wine merchant, in order to fortify himself for the horrors to come at the Doctoral dinner. Instead, we were dining here? At a shop?

  And then, to truly confound the situation, Hyde admitted to working with me. Alongside me! I was rendered completely speechless with shock. He did not argue the description of friend? I was confounded.

  “Splendid, splendid,” Whitcomb said, with an oversized grin. “I will call for another place to be set. My sister will be so pleased for the additional company. We were already short a companion tonight. My brother, Clarence, is in France, procuring our next shipment of champagne.”

  A few necessary informational tidbits shifted into place in my mind. I remembered MacDougal, in our first dismal meeting, mentioning something about Hyde courting a lady in town. A sister of wine merchants. It all began to make perfect sense, although
I remained confused as to why Hyde had seen fit to bring me along tonight. I have never before fulfilled the position of chaperone, but then again, the idea of Hyde being an ardent swain was almost inconceivable. I certainly am not considered a friend of his. A fellow worker? But why dinner?

  I followed the two of them deeper into the shop. There was a curtain pulled back against a tall archway. We walked beneath it, and traveling up a neat flight of carpeted stairs, I found myself in what must be the private residence.

  My coat, hat, and gloves were taken then, and I found myself ushered into a pleasing parlor. The warmth of this place was shocking. Not even my office was as pleasant, thanks in part to Hyde’s continued insistence on keeping the windows open.

  There was, indeed, a glowing fireplace. A cheerful arrangement of chairs was set before it, and I saw that one of them was occupied. A young lady rose to her feet just as we entered, setting aside an embroidery hoop.

  She possessed a pretty face, with wide brown eyes that were the exact shade of her hair. I assumed this was the sister, the object of Hyde’s affection, but she seemed such a shocking contrast to what I would have expected that I hesitated to make that assumption.

  She was delicate, with a fragility that was the opposite of her brother. She seemed as if she might blow over beneath a high wind, and utterly lacked the stout constitution of her brother. She reminded me of a perfectly formed china doll. Her skin was so pale it was near transparent, and the few steps she took toward us resulted in an instant flush to her cheeks. The effort obviously exhausted her. Instantly, Hyde was by her side and ushering her back to her chair.

  Perhaps he truly was the love-struck swain. For all his conciliatory manner, it still seemed unlikely. In my experience, swains simper and placate, and have a least a modicum of cheerful expression. Hyde was none of these things.

  My fascination was boundless.

  It was strange, watching them together. The lady was diminutive beside Hyde. Her demeanor was far more pleasant than Hyde’s usual. She had a quick smile and merry twinkle to her eyes as she regarded him, and was apparently oblivious to his frown, which he did not bother to mask.

  I instantly wanted to shield her from Hyde’s beastly nature. The idea of his being his usual self around such a delicate creature was abhorrent.

  The lady sighed audibly as Hyde helped her to her seat, and then she turned her smile to me.

  “This is Mr. Purefoy,” Hyde said. “Purefoy, this is Miss Olivia Whitcomb.”

  “How delightful to meet a friend,” Miss Whitcomb said. “Please. You must stay for dinner, Mr. Purefoy. I insist that you do.”

  I found a glass of sherry pressed into my hand. Michael Whitcomb spoke quickly to their butler, I suppose informing him to set a place, and then he began a cheerful barrage of questions. His conversation lacked any hint of malice at all, a refreshing change from what I had experienced amid the Doctoral Council. In no time, I found myself easily conversing with him, as we wandered amicably toward the bank of windows.

  He was not visibly affected by my English heritage, and was politely interested in my work alongside Hyde. We sipped sherry and spoke of many pleasant topics, but I must admit that most of my attention was focused on the pair beside the fire. My worries were for Miss Whitcomb, but I should not have bothered. She sat, speaking quietly to Hyde, who still hovered near her. Something he said made her laugh, a nice pleasant sound, and I could see no trace of agitation in her expression. Hyde appeared as thunderous as usual, but Miss Whitcomb seemed to find his presence tolerable. A fantastic concept!

  Mr. Whitcomb spoke in a low tone. “We originally intended for our sister to have acquaintance with Hyde’s brother. A fine man, a very fine man indeed! But, alas, Dr. Hyde has not seen fit to include his brother at any of our dinners.”

  “Do you have them often?” I asked, taking a sip of sherry.

  “Weekly. It is a usual thing for us, having Hyde in to dine. My sister enjoys his company, and we keep on believing that at some point, he will see fit to make introductions to his brother. Mr. Trantham is very well respected in Town, and it would do my family much good to be in association with both him and Hyde. But it seems not to be, and I suppose being associated with such a fine physician has its own merits, although I am still holding out hope with regard to Mr. Trantham.”

  “Trantham?” I asked, confused. I must confess, Miss Campbell, that until now I had held very little curiosity about Hyde’s personal life. It never occurred to me that he would have any family. Whimsically, I have come to believe that he materializes out of the dawn mist, appearing in the office with his dark frown and dislike of all things cheerful. To learn of his courtship? His weekly dinner? His brother? What an illuminating evening!

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Simon Trantham. He has a very fine town house in New Town, as well as a formidable country estate not far out of town. Elder brother, you know, who will inherit the title of baron at any moment, if gossip is to be trusted. The father is continually on his deathbed, more’s the pity,” Whitcomb said, without a trace of sorrow. “And a baron would be a far more preferable catch for my sweet Olivia, but . . .” He broke off with an expressive sigh. “It is what it is.”

  I wished to inquire over the different surnames between the brothers, but I feared it crass. Needless to say, my curiosity was piqued. Trantham is an English name, which lends itself to its own line of questioning. And then to be a baron . . . well, Whitcomb was a veritable font of information, with regard to Hyde.

  “Although Hyde is, undoubtedly, the finest physician in all of Edinburgh,” Whitcomb continued. “Quite possibly, all of Scotland. I have yet to hear of anyone who has his credentials, and his medical prowess, as well as his scientific knowledge, is without equal. You must consider yourself very lucky, Mr. Purefoy, to be so closely associated with such a man. It can only help you, you know, working alongside the illustrious Hyde.”

  “I have heard of his unusual credentials,” I ventured. I still watched Hyde, but he was oblivious to anyone save the chattering Miss Whitcomb. His smile, as he stared down at her, was positively gruesome. I feared for the lady’s delicate constitution.

  “Ah, yes. His Crown approval. Well, that can only have to do with his family associations. The Tranthams have always been in the King’s pocket, which again, is extremely advantageous to a business such as mine own. At least, I intend for it to be.”

  Mr. Whitcomb was an interesting subject to study, and you must forgive me, but I have the decidedly bad habit of treating everyone I meet with the same care I undertake in a new scientific project. Whitcomb was no different. My skills at observation began to focus, and I could not help but make mental notes as to his character and personality.

  He is a wine merchant, and from a quick glance at the gold – and green-accented parlor, he was a successful one (and, as advertised, reputable; I still find it impossible to not laugh!). The sherry was sublime. He spoke with the urgency of a brother who wishes to see his sister advantageously matched. He also used a condescension of tone that I could imagine would grow tiresome, given time.

  Mr. Whitcomb fits perfectly into a group I have already observed and which I refer to as the Upper Merchants. He runs a successful business, and through this, he has established impressive social contacts. Unfortunately (and, please, know that this is only my opinion and my own private thoughts) he is of a mindset that vaunts himself higher in society than his station allows. He possesses no title, but believes that his substantial income provides him access to those who do. He constantly intones the names of important persons with whom he claims close acquaintance. He selects conversational topics that are intellectual and political, and often poorly researched. His determination to launch himself upward, to move his family and position higher, is palpable, and he judges everyone he meets and decides if they possess enough influence to aid his lofty ambitions. All friendships are based upon that
judgment.

  I sound harsh, and upon rereading that paragraph, I almost struck it entirely. But I am determined to show you my innermost thoughts, and the Upper Merchants (as I call them) are often on my mind. I frequently find myself in their presence, and believe they possess a distinct lack of character usually exhibited by those who might be of lowlier ambitions. Listening and watching Mr. Whitcomb, as he vacillated from one opinion to another, without any real surety of his own beliefs, was a troubling thing to observe.

  I far prefer the company of those who know their own thoughts. Who have no care for their relentless climb up the social ladder. I like whomever I like, based upon their personality and such, and I am of the firmest belief that there is nothing on this Earth that can truly satisfy a member of the Upper Merchants. If one could actually reach the top of the ladder, what then? Would they cast their envious eyes upon Heaven itself?

  Now I sound blasphemous. You must forgive me. It must be the sherry and the wine and the incredible dinner I have just enjoyed.

  I must say that Miss Whitcomb was the absolute opposite of her brother, and I would hesitate to paint her with the Upper Merchant brush. She was a charming hostess at dinner, keeping the conversation light and disallowing any pomposity. She took great interest in me, inquiring all about my previous postings and wishing to know my opinions about her city.

  The meal itself was exceptional . . . A thick broth that was both hearty and delicious. Lamb with mint sauce. And a pudding that made me recall the pleasures of fine dining! And wine, so much wine! I could scarcely refuse, and was amazed to watch the pleasantry that resulted in Hyde, the more glasses he consumed. He was practically civil, and I was startled to realize that his laughter of earlier was not an apparition.

  Hyde is definitely softened when it comes to Miss Whitcomb, showing an excess in manners and courtesy that I did not believe he possessed. She is certainly frail, and I feared that even the gentle exercise of eating was strenuous for her, but she was a valiant and winsome hostess.