by Kaite Welsh
“Mr. McVeigh, where do the bodies we operate on come from?”
“Workhouse, mainly. Or the polis, if no one identifies them. And sometimes people cannae afford a burial and offload their dearly departed onto us for a few shillings.”
“And Lucy? Where did she come from?”
“One dead tart among the countless others we get every week? Your guess is as good as mine, miss.”
“But there must be paperwork—a ledger, perhaps?” I persisted. “Something that tells us who sent her here?”
McVeigh sucked on his teeth. “Aye,” he admitted. “But it’s confidential.” He gave me a nasty smile, and this time when he moved away I did not follow him.
CHAPTER TEN
There was a fire built up in my bedroom grate when I arrived home. Aunt Emily, in a rare display of humanity, rang for a cup of tea and hot water for my bath. I unpinned my hair, letting it fall in damp locks down to my waist, and sighed with relief as the girl liberated me from my gown and stays. The day had been long and my head was awhirl. Any thoughts of voicing my suspicions to McVeigh had vanished at the sight of his dour, unsettling countenance. Bad enough that he thought me a sentimental female without seeming like a raving hysteric to boot.
And yet the sight of Lucy’s bruised, lifeless body haunted me. I had no idea what my next step should be. I could only hope that the distraction of the dinner party would leave the course clear in my mind when I awoke the next day. I sank into the hot water with an audible murmur of appreciation, feeling warmth creep into my chilled limbs for the first time in hours. The heady scent of lavender soothed me, banishing all thoughts of Lucy and her world far from my mind.
Wrapped in my dressing gown, I toweled off my hair and ordered Agnes to bring out my finest underthings, needing the feeling of linen and lace against my skin like a suit of armor if I was going to survive tonight’s ordeal. Looking dubious but too scared to contradict me, she did so, and the sensation of clean clothes was luxurious.
Standing in front of the mirror in my undergarments, I regarded myself critically. The weight I had lost last year had not returned, and my face still had a pinched, gaunt look to it. The shadows beneath my eyes, which were once my finest feature, marred any appeal they may have had, and my lips were chapped and flaking.
The importance of tonight’s meal to my uncle was evident in the tightness of my corset. Agnes had to use all her strength to yank the ties that compressed my waist in a futile attempt to give me womanly curves. I thought that the overall effect was ridiculous, a parody of the female figure bearing as much resemblance to reality as the gowned mannequin dangling in the university courtyard, but I knew that Aunt Emily would approve. So long as I didn’t breathe, drink, or talk, I could get through the dinner party with minimal pain. To my disappointment, the pale green silk of my nicest gown only added to my pallor, but I hoped that I would pass for delicate and fragile rather than mousy and ill. The last thing I needed was a lecture on the deleterious effect of too much studying on a woman’s health. At least, I reminded myself, I possessed neither a mustache nor masculine countenance, so one ridiculous notion about educated women could be put to rest.
Agnes’s attempt to arrange my hair as per Aunt Emily’s instructions was, I thought, quite acceptable. The pearl hairpins, a gift from my mother on my twenty-first birthday, were part of a set inherited from my grandmother, and it had taken much pleading for them to remain in my possession at all. Had it not been for Gertie’s obstinate refusal to take them, my pretty baubles would have been yet another relic of my past I was forced to discard. Fastening the choker around my neck and arranging the matching ropes of pearls in my décolletage as well as I could, I vowed that I would do everything in my power to mend relations with my immediate family.
Unfortunately this meant impressing Aunt Emily, and the likelihood of that happening depressed my spirits even further. All the more reason to be on my best behavior tonight—my uncle’s old army friend and his wife were likely to be crushing bores, but all that was required of me was silence and a sweet smile. I could bite my tongue for a few hours. The silence might even be soothing after all the arguing and negotiating I was forced to do at the university, simply to survive the day. Yes, for once, my aunt and I were in perfect accordance. For once, I wanted to be something other than a medical student, someone other than myself, even if only for one night.
Everyone was already in the drawing room by the time I arrived, sipping aperitifs and making polite conversation, so I couldn’t avoid being the center of attention. I was pronounced “a charming lassie” by Colonel Greene, and his wife inquired as to the creator of my gown. In reality, it was over a year old but had been made over sufficiently to pass muster with the current season’s trends, and my vanity was mollified by the compliment.
To my mounting concern, Colonel Greene’s youngest son, a nervous young man with sweaty palms that left the elbow of my gloves unpleasantly damp, escorted me into dinner. He made no attempt to explain his lofty position at the bank, presumably on the basis that as a mere woman I couldn’t possibly understand matters of finance, and I was thankful for his assumption. The fragment I followed in the stilted conversation with my uncle was enough to bore me to tears, and instead I listened to my aunt’s complaint about the latest parlormaid with something very nearly approaching interest. I was grateful for the wine that Greene Junior solicitously poured for me, although his shaking hands meant that more of it ended up on my napkin than in the glass. I had little taste for alcohol these days, but the cool, crisp liquid was delicious, and I realized that I was ravenous. Praying that my stomach wouldn’t rumble before the soup was served, I turned my attention to our guests.
This was by no means the first dinner party I had attended since my exile to Scotland, but it was easily the most lavish. My apprehension increased with each course, and by the time the pheasant was served the intentions of my relatives was starkly obvious.
“Good bird, this.” The colonel nodded with approval through a mouthful of said pheasant. “One of yours, Hugh?”
My uncle nodded. “Weekend in the country. Lovely place out by Dunkeld, marvelous shooting. You should join me sometime, Laurence. Miles, I bet you’re a crack shot. Steady hand, eh?”
This was so patently untrue that poor Miles could only blush and stammer something out about it being the enthusiasm that counted. My uncle’s face was a mask of polite agreement, but I knew inside that he was spoiling for a fight. The fact that he didn’t correct the younger man, much less call him a lily-livered young whippersnapper, was enough to confirm my worst fears.
Finally, my family had found someone both desperate enough and wealthy enough to affiance me to. Quite why this seemingly respectable family was willing to welcome a fallen woman and bluestocking into their midst was a mystery to me, and my mind was scrabbling for ways to get out of this that wouldn’t deepen my disgrace any further.
I wondered if my mother was behind this. I knew that my studies were only an excuse to get me away from London society and the gossip that trailed in my wake; I knew that this was merely a compromise that helped them far more than it did me. I was still an oddity, the black sheep of the family, but university meant that I was bundled off without the further scandal that disowning me would have caused. It had never occurred to me that it might simply have been a ruse, and that my aunt had been on the lookout for a husband for me ever since I arrived on her doorstep on that rainy August afternoon.
Rage tightened my throat so that I could barely choke down my syllabub. I would not give up the chance I had fought so hard for. I would not be sold off to whatever bidder my family could scrounge up for me and live my life somewhere between a well-dressed servant and an unpaid prostitute. Miles seemed harmless enough, but the thought of his touch made me want to vomit. I had submitted myself to a life of spinsterhood, and gladly. I would not give in so easily.
As I exited the dining room with my aunt and Mrs. Greene—whose offer to call her Aurora I
grudgingly forced myself to accept—I prayed that Miles would say something so inane that even my uncle’s goodwill would be tested. What I had initially put down to nerves increasingly resembled a limited intellect. Surely they wouldn’t be so cruel as to marry me off to a simpleton? I was the equal of most men of his age as far as education was concerned, whether they liked it or not, but even poor little Agnes could outwit Miles Greene.
Fortunately the drawing-room lights were low enough to mask any outward display of the horror I felt, and I hoped my silence would pass for feminine meekness instead of sullenness. As it turned out, Aurora Greene wasn’t a bad conversationalist, and played lady bountiful for a charity that rescued women from the streets. She recounted the fates of some of the poor unfortunates who entered their doors in a voice that shook with the thrill of the scandal.
“And do you know, it’s other women who draw them into that wretched life in the first place, more often than not?” she informed us. My aunt demurred that surely not—no Christian woman would lead another into such a life of vice.
“I can assure you, Emily, I speak the truth. These women get a fee for every poor child they usher to those places. Some of them become quite profitable by it.”
“Ah, but at what cost to their souls, Aurora?”
There was no escaping it—Aunt Emily’s eyes were fixed on me, a clear reminder that she considered me little better than the procuresses who provided the brothels with a steady flow of women desperate enough to spread their legs for strangers if it meant a bed for the night and an alternative to the workhouse. Luckily, if Aurora noticed the subtle admonishment she did not comment on it, and the conversation turned to the fine needlework carried out by the women of her refuge.
“Really, you’d think they were brought up as ladies. And you should see the embroidery on the cushions! Why, some of it is even in the servants’ parlor.”
“Perhaps Sarah could accompany you to the reformatory one afternoon?” Aunt Emily suggested in sugary tones. “I’m sure her zeal for helping the unfortunate could find a suitable outlet there.” The word suitable was aimed squarely at me.
“I’m sure Miss Hartigan would be delighted!” Aurora said. “The girls are so in need of genteel company to remind them how they ought to behave.”
The thought that I was to be any sort of example was as laughable to me as it was to Aunt Emily. I could hear loud footsteps and louder voices, and as the gentlemen and their accompanying whiff of cigar smoke joined us I hoped the noise hid my sigh of relief. The port had put Uncle Hugh and Colonel Greene in even higher spirits than before, and Miles was flushed and a tad unsteady on his feet. Perhaps he wasn’t used to drinking, or simply couldn’t hold his liquor—either way, he cringed under the stern look from his father as he stumbled into a chair, knocking the antimacassar askew. Aunt Emily seamlessly changed the subject from prostitution to the benefits of charity work, and this was where my first misstep occurred.
“You must encounter m-many sad souls in the course of your studies, Miss Gilchrist,” Miles stammered.
I nodded, unsure of how to proceed. “I volunteer at an infirmary for the deserving poor. We offer them guidance as much as medical attention, and the bishop has commented on our work on several occasions.” In truth, we offered medical attention to whoever staggered through our doors and we, like them, were more concerned with their bodies than their souls. Although religious pamphlets were provided for those who chose to take them, that number was minimal, and the pamphlets generally found their way to the floors of the operating room, soaking up blood and urine. It was at least true that the bishop had commented on our work, although little of what he said had been pleasant. I decided not to mention that he had called us godless harpies with morals no better than the women who walked the street outside the infirmary walls.
“I can’t see the gentlemen being happy about this monstrous regiment of women storming their battalions,” Colonel Greene chortled, placing a little too much emphasis on monstrous for my liking.
“They are learning to accommodate us,” I said through gritted teeth, remembering the gangs of fellow students who had shown up on our first day, in protest at our presence. We had not been able to enter the building for a full half hour, and when we arrived at the lecture hall we were greeted with an empty room and a letter posted to each of us informing that if we couldn’t be bothered to attend on time, Dr. Franklin couldn’t be bothered to teach us.
“And this work”—Aurora nearly choked on the word—“you find stimulating?”
“Ladies must have their hobbies.” My uncle chuckled, although his laughter failed to reach his eyes. “Doubtless she’ll tire of it when her attention is diverted to other things, eh, Sarah?”
I feigned ignorance with a vapid smile and silently willed the floor to open up and swallow me whole before I could hurl the dregs of my sherry at him. The discussion moved to the glorious prospects that apparently awaited Miles at the bank, as well as the glittering political career that their eldest son was about to embark on. The whole conversation reminded me of the costermongers I passed on my way to the infirmary, but with Miles and myself as the produce being hawked at cutthroat prices. I wondered if he was as bruised and unwanted as I, so difficult to sell that I was all they could get for him. I felt sorry for him after a fashion—this was as humiliating for him as it was for me, and I heard him breathe a soft sigh of relief when the clock struck eleven and his father rose.
I shared his relief. My jaw ached from being clenched in a meek smile, my tongue sore from the many times I had been forced to bite it. Were all women in such pain, I wondered, simply from doing what was expected of them? Laced up so that we could barely breathe or walk, only enough oxygen and energy to agree with the menfolk and sew a few samplers, we hobbled through our days as best we could. What were men so afraid of that they had to confine us like wild animals at the zoo?
As the door banged shut behind them, I turned to go upstairs, glad that this sorry charade was over but dreading the prospect of a second act. My aunt, however, had other ideas.
“Well,” she said, “that was a charming evening. Miles is certainly growing into a fine young gentleman, don’t you think, Sarah?”
“Oh, she was tongue-tied all evening, Emily!” my uncle replied with a roguish grin. “I believe that young Master Greene has quite the new admirer.”
“He is . . .” I struggled to find words to describe Miles other than irredeemably stupid. I settled on very nicely dressed. The inadequacy of my statement drew a glare from my aunt, but my uncle merely patted me on the shoulder.
“Oh, he caught your eye, Sarah. Charming fellow like that? How could he not? Besides,” he added as his grip tightened, “we know you aren’t exactly a shrinking violet where gentlemen are concerned. I’m sure he’ll do very well for you.” I heard Aunt Emily’s sharp intake of breath and found my gaze fixed firmly on my boots, my cheeks scarlet with shame.
“He is a charming young man, Uncle Hugh,” I said, my hands curling into fists in the folds of my skirt. “I assure you, I am flattered by his attentions. Forgive me, it is late and the excitement of the evening has quite worn me out.”
I fled upstairs before they could see me cry.
I left my pretty dress crumpled on the floor, my pearls dumped unceremoniously on the dressing table to be cleared away by Agnes the next day. The effort I had made over my appearance sickened me now that I knew what it had been in aid of, and I vowed to look my plainest tomorrow. I would quote Homer over the dinner table next time the Greenes came to call, and I would dissect my meat as though I were at the operating table. Perhaps I would even join the rational dress movement and adopt the bifurcated skirts that Amelia Bloomer had recently pioneered.
And if I did any of that, I would promptly be thrown out onto the streets or into the nearest madhouse. My options were nonexistent—all I could hope for was that another suitable lady would show up and win Miles Greene’s dubious affections and his damned proposal. I
had come so far, only to face the fate I thought I had avoided.
Oh, I had always thought of marriage in favorable terms—I had even considered Paul Beresford a likely candidate, once. But in my imagination it had been a man of my own choosing, and I had thought my future career would guard me against the kind of man who wanted nothing more than a hostess for his parties and a mother for his children. How many gentlemen wanted to marry a woman with a university education, much less one who wielded a scalpel in one hand and a bottle of laudanum in the other?
And now, when the memories of Paul’s hands tearing at my skirt and bodice plagued my dreams, and the very thought of so much as a kiss on the cheek was enough to make my stomach roil, the whole sordid business made me want to vomit.
The image stirred thoughts I had kept at bay all evening. The memory of skin mottled with bruises contrasted sharply with the woman I had met at the clinic, angry and frightened but so alive.
Lucy had not died by accident, nor by her own hand, that I was sure of. There was a fierceness to her that made me think she would not give up so easily. Perhaps she had chosen to forget her troubles, to abandon her grim reality for that soporific state I remembered well. Perhaps she had misjudged the dose, or had just ceased to care what happened to her. Her disgrace had been prolonged, all the more reason for her release to be easy, drifting into an endless, dreamless sleep. Or perhaps someone had forced her mouth open, pinching her nose or clamping her jaw, until she spluttered and choked and swallowing was involuntary. My hand drifted to my own lips, recalling how easy it had been for Dr. Waters to force the cold spoonful of medicine between my lips until my struggles subsided. Doctors had many ways of making women take their medicine.
I stared out my window at the gas lamps that lit the street below. Carriages trundled past, the occasional walker out for an evening stroll. It would be easy to join them, to walk down into the city and become invisible in the evening throng. My aunt’s servants wouldn’t stop me; they would simply take great delight in reporting my disappearance. And then it would be too late; I would not return. Just swing my legs over the bridge above the railway, a little jump, and it would all be over.
