Although, it would have been something to see Hyde through the periscope’s screen! Or to see his footmen carrying the trunk of pilfered texts!
I am of strong belief that anything observed out of the ordinary would involve Hyde himself. The interesting things to watch, from the lofty strange tower, would probably be Hyde, going about his daily tasks. I would love to see the scattering of the pedestrian traffic as he walked! I would delight in seeing the damage his walking cane inflicts upon those foolish enough to not make way for him!
Many of my evenings are spent, not at the bookshop, but in the garden. I find myself drawn there, again and again. At first, I took Cooper’s novel with me, or the General Surgery book, but I learned quickly that reading amid such splendor is simply impossible.
The greenhouse is more striking the longer one spends within it. I am still amazed at the temperature, at the humidity! I am stunned by the presence of definite tropical plants and trees. I am amazed by the birds, by the hundreds of tiny finches that tweet and flit from branch to branch.
I like to sit beside the gurgling brook. The sounds of nature soothe me. I look up through the glass, at the starry night sky, and think about how grateful I am to find myself here. It is a far cry from my subterranean abode. It is leagues away from the cramped antechamber of the police station.
Sometimes I am joined by Simon Trantham. His conversation is pleasant and cheerful, which reminds me that he is nothing like his brother. He likes to sit and smoke his pipe beneath the trees. He has taken great interest in my studies, and his light questioning with regard to my progress is an igniting force to double my efforts.
More usually, I am joined by Hyde. He spends most of his time observing several types of flowers and then making copious notes within his journals. He makes great show of studying the trees. He writes down everything, occasionally measuring different things with various strange instruments. When I inquire, or offer my assistance, he merely says that the garden and its upkeep is none of my concern and that he built it for quiet, which I ruin with my infernal questions.
I have Trantham to thank for providing an explanation with regard to Hyde’s obsession with the garden. He told me, late last evening, while the two of us were seated on those folding wooden seats, that he believes Hyde’s endless concern, his unceasing labor, is an attempt to create a truly tropical climate. That climate is an effort to fortify poor Miss Whitcomb, and to strengthen her constitution.
The truth was immediately apparent, and I hated myself for not realizing it on my own. Of course, Hyde has constructed this paradise with her in mind. That is why he is intent upon perfecting it. Studies do show that a warm climate can be healing. Trantham informed me that travel to such a climate would be impossible for the lady, due to the fact that she is simply too delicate for the necessary transport. The stress of the journey might hasten her death, and so such a trip cannot happen.
Instead, Hyde is struggling to bring the Tropics here.
I asked if Miss Whitcomb had been here yet, but Trantham shook his head. Hyde refuses to show it to her, until he has satisfied himself with its construction. Trantham is of the opinion that he has long since perfected it, but is reticent to invite her, lest she dislike it. I am inclined to agree, considering that most of Hyde’s rudeness masks a sensitive nature. I asked Trantham then what we should do to remedy this predicament.
Trantham arched a brow, his smile quick. “I possess no desire to face my brother’s wrath. If he does not wish to show off his triumph to his lady, then it is his own foolishness.”
“Balderdash,” I said, which caused Trantham to laugh uproariously.
I came upon the idea then that he should have a dinner. Trantham should invite the Whitcombs here, and perhaps then Hyde would see fit to introduce the Tropics to his lady. I did not expect him to latch on to the suggestion—it was meant as a thought only—but Trantham accepted it without delay.
“I have some family I need to visit with anyway,” he said. “Perhaps an All Hallows’ Eve feast? That might be macabre enough to hide my brother’s ill social skills. You are a brave man, Alistair Purefoy,” he said, his strange eyes twinkling with mirth. “I must warn you that I will give you full credit for such a dinner, especially when questioned by my brother.”
And so, I find myself with another social engagement. The arrangements have been made for Wednesday evening, the invitations accepted.
I think Hyde was startled to learn that Miss Whitcomb and her brothers are to be in attendance at his brother’s table, but he did not put up much of a fuss. His lack of temper implies a pleasure in having his hand forced.
I can only hope he does, indeed, direct her into the garden. Otherwise, I shall have to devise a reason for him to do so.
All my best thoughts are directed to the Highlands and to you. . . .
Regards.
Chapter Twenty
October 31
New Town
Dear Miss Campbell,
I am ensconced in my suite, having just finished the All Hallows’ Eve dinner. It was a massive success, and I cannot wait until morning to tell you about it.
I have answers, my sweet girl. So many things have been explained to me!
I scarcely know where to start.
I suppose that I should begin with the dinner, tell you all about the decorations and the myriad courses offered. All were impeccable, but keep in mind, this was not Hyde’s party but his brother’s. Simon Trantham was a warm and affable host, and I shudder to think what would have happened should the dinner have been held at Hyde’s adjacent home. Needless to say, it would not have been half as pleasant had Hyde been responsible.
There was turtle soup, and roasted lamb, and so many other delicacies that it was, indeed, a true feast. The wines were exquisite, and there were fall bouquets arranged between gilded golden candlesticks, and while I know that you are probably interested in such things (as Miss Whitcomb assures me that you are) I find myself unwilling to waste space on mere descriptions when there is so much more to talk about. Why waste time admiring a china pattern, or commenting on the succulence of the lamb?
The guests, my dear girl, are what interested me. The Whitcombs were present. But more interesting, the MacBeans were in attendance at Simon Trantham’s table!
I will admit to an unexpected excitement when it became apparent that I was to be introduced to a member of the Chevalier Cabinet. Excitement and nerves. Although I am barely interested in political and social matters, it is still something to actually meet one of such import. The Chevaliers are an extremely vaunted group here in Edinburgh, and I was excruciatingly aware that tonight’s introduction was not a normal occurrence for a lowly physician’s assistant.
I am also aware that Gordon MacBean was involved in procuring my freedom from the clutches of the police. I intended to thank him but was concerned with somehow breaching a social boundary by doing so. I wished I knew more of what he had done, and wished that it would be possible to ask Hyde! If Hyde were a normal friend, I would be able to discover more of what had occurred behind the scene, in regard to my unfortunate arrest and subsequent freedom.
But Hyde remains anything but normal. In the past few days, he has not possessed any interest in discussing the traumas. When I do bring something up, he scowls ferociously and tells me that I have better matters to occupy my mind than reliving old dramas.
I consider it hardly an old drama, the worst of it having occurred only a few days ago. For all of the comforts I am now experiencing, the luxurious suite of rooms and the impeccable dining, I have yet to truly recover myself. For the past few nights, I have awoken in a blind panic, my dreams full of the horrors I have both witnessed and been subjected to. And while even these most pleasant days are passing in calm and quiet, there is still the lurking fear that traipses through my mind while I am lost in sleep.
&
nbsp; And so, I felt increasingly alarmed about the impending introduction.
The relief I felt, at finally meeting MacBean, was intense. He was amazingly friendly, calling out to me as I entered the Trantham foyer. The warmth of his tone put me at ease, as did his wide, friendly smile.
I was startled that he knew me, that he recognized me at all, but then I saw that he was holding a familiar cane. Obviously, he is one of the Gentlemen. I found myself glancing at his dinner jacket, knowing full well that, in all likelihood, he was secretly armed to the teeth.
Not a particularly comforting thought, and I will admit that I immediately wished that I had brought my own weapons. I had decided it would be rude to wear them, considering that Trantham is my sponsor and tonight’s host. But Gordon MacBean spoke so graciously and warmly that I ceased believing that he intended to run me through for an unintentional social gaffe.
MacBean was as “dashing” as August Smithson, with the same obvious taste in fine clothing. Trantham’s aged housekeeper murmured that he was considered handsome, with his dark red hair and green eyes. That statement made me quite regret my idea for this party.
The idea of Hyde suffering romantic competition did not sit well with me. Especially if I was the cause of it. What if MacBean took a liking to Miss Whitcomb? What if he looked past her frail constitution and decided to announce himself as a rival for her affections? Would Miss Whitcomb be swayed by his alleged handsomeness? By his status? His close association to the King?
And more important, should that happen, would Hyde place the blame upon my shoulders? The thought chilled me.
It was with an immense relief that I was introduced to MacBean’s wife. I liked her immediately, just because she had effectively erased my difficulties, all by pledging herself to the man.
MacBean would have been a terrible foe to face, should he have been available or interested in the delicate Miss Whitcomb. For all of his friendliness, it was impossible to ignore his absolute comfort with regard to his own power. His aristocratic features, although usually lightened by a smile, still are perfectly capable of a harsh coldness. He, like every other Gentleman I have met, radiates an aura of ruthlessness and strength, which no amount of pretty manners or warm conversation is able to mask.
If MacBean had been a romantic competitor to Hyde, I fear that my doctoral friend would be destroyed, without much regret or care for familial ties. Woe to Hyde. Eternal gratitude to the wife MacBean.
MacBean’s conversation with me, however, was friendly, and he immediately inquired if I had adequately recovered from the unfortunate trauma of the week. Emboldened, I thanked him for his invaluable help with my predicament.
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Purefoy,” MacBean assured me. “It is how the Gentlemen operate. We look out for our own.”
“I find I have a great many questions about the Gentlemen, sir,” I said, wildly hoping that my questioning did not cause offense. “And I sincerely hope that one day they shall be answered.”
MacBean laughed. “Dog Benge said there was much to like about you, Mr. Purefoy. Mostly your insatiable curiosity.”
We were interrupted then by the arrival of the Whitcombs. You can imagine the excitement of the two brothers, to be invited to such an illustrious dinner. I had forgotten entirely their desire to see their sister matched to Trantham, but I remembered it with dull despair as introductions were swiftly made.
Michael Whitcomb was nearly bursting with pride to find his sister introduced not only to Trantham but to Gordon MacBean as well. His gaze was calculating as he regarded MacBean, shifting into one of swift disappointment as MacBean’s wife was introduced to him. But then, when MacBean’s brother Hamish was announced, with no wife in sight, all of his enthusiasm was restored.
Again, you can imagine my dismay when Michael Whitcomb pulled me aside to offer his heartfelt gratitude. It seems that Trantham was true to his word, insisting to everyone that I was to thank for the dinner. Whitcomb murmured that he owed me a very great debt, that I was solely responsible for the much-needed and long-awaited introduction to not only Trantham but to the younger MacBean as well! If all went well, he could envision his sister most advantageously matched within the fortnight.
Despair, heavy and desolate, settled upon my shoulders. For what it is worth, I consider myself a good friend to Ian Hyde. He has done nothing but aid me, and this is how I repay him? I introduce his sweetheart to men far more capable of wooing her than he?
Needless to say, I watched Miss Whitcomb very intently. I was grateful that she appeared to treat Hyde the same she always did. She teased him during dinner. Once, to illustrate a point of conversation, she briefly rested her hand upon his forearm, including him in the story.
My notice was observed by MacBean’s wife, a tiny creature who amazed me not only by her social reticence but by the intense reaction she inspires within her husband. Normally, and for descriptive purposes, I would classify her as “mousey,” although her face is quite lovely and she is in possession of rich brown hair and dancing eyes. Her reticence, however, is a far cry from what I would have expected from the wife of the boisterous MacBean. I do not know what I would have expected, perhaps someone equally lively or, by opposite, a virtual ice queen, regal and proud. Lacey is none of those things.
To begin with, she insisted, upon introduction, that I was to call her by her nickname. Not Mrs. MacBean. She declared, in her quiet, shy voice, that she answers to Lacey to friends, and that her husband assured her that we were to be very great friends.
Of course, I looked to her husband, to Gordon MacBean, and asked for assurances that this strange intimacy was indeed allowed. MacBean found my worry vastly amusing, and assured me that once his wife allowed it, then who was he to stop it? She would answer to Lacey, and nothing more. No offense would be taken, although he appreciated my concern.
You can hardly blame me for inquiring. I had little desire to feel the hidden blade of the cane. I was acutely aware of the hidden weapons. Better to ask his acceptance of such an odd request than to face his fury.
And so, I found myself in the very strange predicament of addressing a very important man’s wife by her nickname. Odd, but she assured me that she would take offense if I did not comply, and would assume that I was rejecting both her and her husband’s offer of friendship.
“All the Gentlemen are to call me Lacey,” she whispered as we were seated at the table. “It would be odd and strange if you did not.”
The Gentlemen! To hear her so casually mention them made my heart stand still. I wondered if she too was in possession of a cane with a hidden blade. I wondered also why everyone seemed intent to include me in such a group.
I noticed that, as far as the two Whitcomb brothers were concerned, she remained Mrs. MacBean. Apparently, there was to be no friendship in that quarter.
I was terribly relieved that neither of the pompous Whitcombs was considered to be a Gentleman. If I am to be a part of such a group, then at least I will not suffer too much of their pontificating personalities. Thursday evenings are enough time with the brothers Whitcomb. Any more, and I might go mad.
The relationship between MacBean and his wife was fascinating to watch. I confess a great curiosity as to why, precisely, the majority of the Gentlemen remain unmarried. Those that I have met are all confirmed bachelors, although I know that their wealth and power make them much sought after within Society. That much was evident at Trantham’s ball, and even Benge, for all of his savagery, instilled a great curiosity and interest. Although polite society might balk at such a union, Benge does not appear to suffer from lack of interest in that area. To have none of them married, save MacBean, seemed odd.
I realized tonight, however, the reason that the others have remained unaffected by the eternal and unending marriage hunt. They are affected by Gordon MacBean. They are affected by his Lacey.
MacBean dotes upon the girl, that much is clear. It is as if all of his attentions are centered upon her, no matter the conversation. He is aware of her every move, possibly her every intake of breath. He appears completely oblivious to her shyness, seemingly intent upon making her laugh. Her happiness is his. He is clearly besotted, and knowing those feelings myself (are you blushing yet, my sweet Eugenia?), I decided that the remaining Gentlemen must be wishing and waiting for that sort of romance.
If you had been here, I would have watched you with the same intensity. I would have wished only to hear you laugh. I would want to see you smile (or frown, which returns me to your previous, saucy note and hilarious reprimand!).
If you had been here, tonight, your happiness would have been mine. Be assured of that, Miss Campbell. You must have no doubts.
Suffice it to say, it was Lacey who noticed my obvious concern with regard to Miss Whitcomb and Hyde.
She leaned toward me, as the pudding was being served, and quietly inquired the nature of my worry. A quick glance around the table assured me that we were not being overheard, although Gordon MacBean was acutely aware that we were speaking. His brother, Hamish (and I call him Hamish within my letter, so as to not confuse him with the elder), was busy talking to the second Whitcomb brother. Mostly, I watched Hyde, but he was also busy, lost in a dismal conversation with Michael Whitcomb that seemed on the verge of volcanic eruption (from Hyde) should it continue.
I stared down into Lacey’s concerned face, and without hesitation, I opted for honesty. I told her of my concern, of my very real fear, that in my devising this dinner, I had unwittingly ruined Hyde’s romance. I spoke of my concern, should Hamish show interest in the lady. I then briefly informed her of my reason for the party, of my wish to have Miss Whitcomb healed, and that involved somehow getting her out into the tropical garden.
Lacey’s smile was beatific. “Rest assured, Mr. Purefoy,” she said, in her quiet whisper. “I will take the matter of Miss Whitcomb’s health into my hands. And do not concern yourself with Hamish,” she said. “He is not stupid enough to attract the wrath of his cousin.”
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 21
