So, believe me, darling E., I only wish that my letters be destroyed so that there is no way our conversation can be tracked, with regard to the Merry Gentlemen. If I break their confidences with me, to write you, then I would like there to be no record of it. Such a letter could result in my own harm, should it be discovered. If there is no proof that my beloved knows their details, then I will feel more comfortable speaking freely. And if we do not discuss these matters with others, then all the better!
These Gentlemen have done much for me here. They have protected and saved me of their own accord, utilizing their power and skill to help a mere butcher. Such a debt I have to them, and to so betray their confidence sits ill with me. In many ways, these new friendships make me feel less alone in this dangerous city. Their assurances that they are investigating these terrible murders help calm my lingering fears, and while I do not profess to know their every detail (or really much at all), I am convinced that their support is true. I feel as if a debt of privacy is owed to those who have exhibited nothing but concern for my safety and well-being.
It is the same, I suppose, as a confidence held between physician and patient. As a doctor, I would be unable, ethically, to speak of such private concerns. I would, however, discuss them with you, since you are my only trust. I depend upon your opinion. I also refuse to have even the lightest secret between us. I would, in that instance, however, request that any such letter be destroyed, therefore preserving the doctor and patient relationship.
I am offering to destroy your responses as well (once they are memorized, my sweet). If you can conceive of a better way to ensure and protect our absolute candor, then please, let me know.
I am also concerned by a few paragraphs of your most recent letter. Your irritation over the hospitality that I have been shown by both Miss Whitcomb and her maid, Miss MacIntosh, was confusing. I am horrified that I have somehow been misleading in my descriptions, that I have caused you upset. Let me assure you that neither of those ladies holds an inkling of my admiration. Miss Whitcomb exists to me only as a friend, and one who is ardently being courted by my even better friend, Ian Hyde. Even if Hyde were not interested in her romantically, you must know that neither would I be. Simply impossible!
And her maid? Good heavens, Eugenia, I do not know if I should laugh or weep. Have you forgotten entirely that she is a member of the horrendous MacIntoshes? I can scarcely stand her people, and I am grateful only that Miss Whitcomb does not hold me responsible for suggesting the posting in the first place.
I feel an intense pity for Miss Whitcomb, due to her health. That pity does not mask a secret ardent nature toward the girl. I am simply trying to aid Hyde in healing his own sweetheart, employing my newly forming medical mind upon the dire task. I am of the very firm opinion that should my own sweetheart (you) fall ill, then Hyde would return the favor and toil diligently to find whatever cure would ease you.
I am afraid that my most recent letter, the one you have not yet received, in all likelihood, has made the situation worse for me. You are probably upset that Lacey asked me to refer to her by her nickname. I thought I had explained it, telling you that MacBean himself insisted upon the oddity, but I realize now that you might misunderstand the circumstance entirely. I only address her by her nickname because she views it as an act of friendship.
Let me be abundantly clear. I am not interested in her romantically. She has eyes only for her husband. Her husband would murder me, should it be ever otherwise, which is such a fantastical thought that it boggles my mind. Even if she were unmarried, I would never so much as glance at Mrs. MacBean. There would be no cause to.
Forgive me. I was too caught up in my own dreary story to realize the nuances you would imagine. Therefore, I am going to explain things to you, very frankly and very succinctly, so that there may be no more confusion between the two of us.
You are the most beautiful lady I have ever glimpsed. The first time I saw you, it was as if all the breath had been snatched from my lungs. I was spellbound, unable to look away from you, as you were ushered into the Andrews ceilidh. You were wearing a blue dress, with an outside corset that was festooned with white ribbons. When you danced, the candlelight displayed the small white flowers you had woven through your magnificent red hair. You danced with the grace of a gazelle. You laughed at something your partner said, and I hated him violently for being the cause of your smile.
I spent an inordinate amount of time watching you, seeing the way your smile illuminated a perfect, angelic face. I became lost in the emerald depths of your eyes. Everything around me faded into nothingness. Everything but you. I caught the lingering scent of roses as you walked by, and all the words I had crafted to say to you left my mind entirely.
How I wanted to ask you to dance! How I longed to, but for reel after reel, your dance card was full. Immediately I began to make inquiry as to who you were. I had to know. And to learn that you were my new physician’s daughter! Even more important, to learn that you were unmarried and not spoken for!
I fell in love with you that night, and I have loved you and you alone, without ceasing and without hesitation. No other woman exists for me. How can they, when someone like you is in the world? No other woman holds a candle to your beauty. Your charm. Your kindness. Your sharp mind!
I wish now that I had spoken before of Miss MacIntosh’s bullish features. Of Miss Whitcomb’s grating laugh. Of Mrs. MacBean’s tendency to whisper instead of speak in regular tones. All of those things are true, and had I realized you had concerns about their presence in my life, then I would have spoken of them before.
How can you even think that I would be interested in another? That I could love another? How, when my heart is very firmly ensconced in the Highlands?
I am confused. You seem to think that, because Miss MacIntosh and her family shared the same boarding house with me, and then she was employed by Whitcomb, we now share romantic aspirations? Eugenia, darling, you cannot be serious. In many ways, you offend me!
Perhaps you should view these so-called rivals before you assume them as such. One glance, and you would see that neither Miss MacIntosh nor Miss Whitcomb are worthy of so much as standing within your shadow. Ridiculous girl!
I have decided, therefore, that you have wounded me and you have done so grievously. To so doubt my steadfastness! My love! My devotion! Well, there simply must be reparation for such an undeserved attack.
After much thought, I have decided that it is fully within my right to demand kisses from you. Several of them. Be warned that when next we meet, I will ensure that we attend a ceilidh. One in possession of a garden. I believe that two or three kisses (perhaps ten) will do much to assuage the insult you have so ruthlessly bestowed upon me.
You are warned, E. I think that you should remember this when you decide to accuse me of ever loving anyone but you. Each accusation results in more kisses. Dare I command you to do your worst? I anticipate collecting my reparation. . . .
I am writing to you from my own desk, in my own office, in Hyde’s town house. I had originally planned on writing you later tonight, but I find my work finished for the evening, and decided that I might as well begin the letter now, rather than delay the pleasure.
It is strange, but until now I had not realized that this is, in fact, my own space. I can remain at my desk all night, and it is no one’s concern but mine own. Hyde will not assume that I am spying on his research (a hilarious thought). No one will fuss, should I forget to lock up (and why should I, considering it is Hyde’s home). If I fall asleep, with my head resting on top of the parchments and open texts, it is my own business. The luxury of possessing my own office, with its own door . . . mine to arrange, mine to haunt, is simply incredible.
I am finding it difficult to think of anything other than kissing you.
Perhaps I have not properly communicated how very much I would like to kiss you. If
only we were in the same city, in the same town! After a letter like that, I should have been able to go to your house. Perhaps we could meet in your father’s parlor. Perhaps he could be summoned to the hall for a brief moment. I would then take you into my arms, and kiss away any doubts you might profess to have.
Any other conversation is useless for me tonight. I find myself completely fastened upon this one topic, on this one idea.
I had originally intended to tell you about my evening last night, of how Dog Benge and I went to the Guy Fawkes celebration. I was planning on telling you all about the bonfires, which were bright conflagrations against the dark night sky. I wanted to ask if you attended the bonfire at Inverness, and perhaps we could compare the two events.
Instead, I can only think of kissing you.
I was also going to discuss the very great headache of putting together a dinner party. Last week, we canceled the Whitcomb dinner, due to Trantham’s own dinner having occurred the night before. The next dinner (in two nights’ time) will be at Hyde’s. Which means that we have been lost in a flurry of desperate preparations. What was I thinking, in suggesting a dinner for which we are so dismally incapable? What crazed notion possessed me?
Needless to say, most of our time has not been involved with research. Hyde and I are trying to put together this now dreaded event, which should be the responsibility of his housekeeper and staff. That would be the normal course of action, one would assume, but Hyde is never normal. He is overseeing every detail, and insisting that I do as well, since this infernal evening was all my own idea.
Hyde’s housekeeper and staff are ill-equipped for such an evening. I do not know if he has hired poorly, or if they are simply unused to being responsible for something with this import. Certainly, their day-to-day operations run smoothly enough, and our normal meals are exquisite. But for some reason, this encroaching dinner has put them into such a panic, it is as if they can hardly conduct themselves appropriately.
You would think that help could be reached through the assistance of Trantham’s housekeeper and staff, but O’Sullivan’s assertions that Trantham’s hirings have left much to be desired are, unfortunately, accurate. I discussed this problem with him the other day, during our target practice. The Irishman laughed, and said to expect no help from Trantham’s household with the dinner. From what he had heard, that housekeeper nearly expired from exhaustion after last week’s feast. He said that I was fool enough to suggest the party, a party at a madhouse, so why expect it to be conducted with any semblance of normalcy?
Kiss you, dearest Eugenia. I should have managed to kiss you before I left Inverness. I should have somehow made that happen. When you agreed to accept my letters, I should have created a way for your maid to leave, a distraction, long enough for my lips to touch yours. Perhaps then you would know that there is no other lady for me, but you. No matter how far the distance, there is only you, and I take your agreement to wait for me with the utmost seriousness.
I have asked no other lady to wait for me. I write no other lady. I dream of no one, save you. Madness, Eugenia! Your words have created a frenzy within me!
Hyde has descended to the office, determined to make me return to the awaiting tasks upstairs. He is avidly perusing a menu, and is, as expected, dissatisfied with the offering. He says that this entire fiasco is my fault entirely, and therefore it is my responsibility to oversee the infinite number of tasks to which he is subjecting his household staff. The entire place is to glisten and shine beneath an intense cleaning. The man has actually considered purchasing new furniture! He is currently lounging in my doorway, cursing the day he ever set eyes upon me, and demanding that I cease writing this letter immediately and come lend a hand to my own folly.
I wish you were here. You would know how to manage this dinner. But mostly, You would be here. And I would lack for nothing else.
All my love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
November 9
New Town, my own office
Dear Miss Campbell,
Before I begin this letter proper, I wish to continue our previous conversation, with regard to your anxiety over my romantic intentions. I am in receipt of your next letter, and your charming apology must be addressed. Why would you feel the need to apologize? You said nothing wrong, and I never assumed that you wished Miss Whitcomb ill.
Perhaps I have not been clear enough, E. I was thrilled by your concern, as fantastical and imaginary its cause, and am quite glad for the opportunity to discuss how I feel about you. You need feel no guilt for your words. I am sorry only that I was not clear enough before, that there is no other lady in my mind or in my heart, save you.
How like me you are! How similar! You have no idea how many times I have written the thoughts foremost on my mind, and then regretted them as soon as I sent the missive. Let me assure you that you caused no offense, and I know that you wish only health and happiness to Miss Whitcomb. Your sending of the shawl to her was a thoughtful idea, and I know that you wish for her healing as much as I do.
Miss Whitcomb was thrilled by the gift, and admired its handiwork with great pleasure. I informed her that it was from you, a token of your friendship (as you directed) and that it was the Campbell tartan, which was extended as a sign of goodwill. She loved it, and immediately wrapped it around her shoulders. You were right about it being constructed of warmer material than is usually found in the cities, and she remarked several times that the shawl did wonders to keep the chill away.
She is anticipating meeting you, and believes the two of you will be great friends. She has asked for your address, so that you might begin a correspondence. I am unsure if I wish to share you, even with a friend. (I make no apologies for my own jealousy, E. It is there. It is present. I wish you all to myself.) But Miss Whitcomb laughingly insisted that it would be nice to have a friend to write. She says that ladies like to speak of fashion and such, and she teased me mercilessly over the idea of you two discussing me. I finally promised that I would send on her address, which I have enclosed.
It is with supreme relief that I can tell you that the Hyde/Whitcomb dinner went off last night without a hitch. I think even Hyde enjoyed himself, which is normally impossible. We arranged the table in the garden itself, illuminating the place with candles and by lighting the strange Oriental lanterns. I must admit it was very exotic, and I will also say that having been so heavily involved in the minute details of planning a dinner, I possess no interest in ever conducting one again. How does anyone ever survive the stress of it?
I can only hope that you are interested in such matters. If not, then we will never entertain, which would be fine by me.
For all the enjoyment of the dinner guests, it was difficult for me to remain calm, knowing that Hyde’s household and kitchen staff are so near to incompetent that at any moment, our well-planned event could go careening off into disaster.
But it did not. It was a very happy party in attendance. Miss Whitcomb and her two dismal brothers. Mr. MacBean and his wife. Simon Trantham. I was hoping that Hamish would attend, and he was invited, but MacBean informed me that his brother was involved elsewhere and would regrettably not be in attendance.
I found myself disappointed that Hamish was not to be there. I think he is pleasant company, and his willingness to answer my questions is a very likeable trait. I asked MacBean (quietly) if it was Gentlemen business that kept him away, and he told me that indeed it was, but nothing that should be any cause for alarm.
Which instantly alarmed me. It took me awhile to rein in my very active imagination, my supposing of what The Sweeper might be involved with. Had there been more murders? Did this concern the surge of graves plundered and desecrated? Was he on the trail of an important clue, something that might shed light upon the previous terrors? While I had been safely ensconced in the warm splendor of my new abode, had the Merry Gentlemen bee
n investigating? Only Hyde’s unsubtle demand that I be an active participant in the dinner made it possible for me to keep my attention from wandering.
Mrs. MacBean (who still insists that I refer to her as Lacey) was very interested in learning about you. She asked a hundred questions, wishing to know how we met and such. Your ears should have been burning last night, sweet, because a great deal of our dinner conversation was in reference to you. Only good things. I admit that, once again, my expression betrayed me, and it only took a few deft questions from Lacey to announce my serious intent, with regard to you.
Gordon MacBean latched on to the conversation with swift voracity. More questions, all good-natured and complimentary. He took a devilish pleasure in my telling expressions; I think he enjoyed finding another so affected by his lady. He teased me mercilessly over my correspondence, at such a pathetic attempt at wooing.
“I think that letters are extremely romantic,” Lacey argued.
“I believe it has been established that Purefoy’s are not,” Hyde answered, as the soup course was served. “Unfortunately, my apprentice does not possess even a sliver of a poet’s soul.”
“He seems to be managing well,” Miss Whitcomb interjected, fingering the fringes of the shawl. “Miss Campbell would not like to hear the drivel of a poet. She likes hearing of his everyday events and occurrences.”
“How can she possibly?” Hyde said with a sigh. “I fear that his Miss Campbell would be running for the hills, if she were not already there. Ladies do not wish to hear every nuance of dullness that Purefoy must convey.”
“You tell of your everyday occurrences?” MacBean asked, his smile fading a little. He was watching me closely, as was Simon Trantham.
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 24
