“A turn about the park, Miss Leckie?”
She glowed with approval. “That would be delightful, Doctor Doyle.”
Together they strolled the mostly empty pathways, the world receding and returning as they wandered through alternating regions of sunshine and fog. As they waded through a cooing flock of pigeons, the birds startled up in a cloud of flapping wings and Jean Leckie stumbled and clutched fast to him.
“I must take your arm, Doctor Doyle. A lady needs the support of a strong man.” She leaned her entire body into his, their faces came dangerously close, and her perfume filled his nostrils. It was a moment ripe with desire, but then it was suddenly over. They moved apart. He swallowed. Smiled amiably. And the two walked on as if nothing had occurred.
They reached the bridge over the Serpentine and paused to admire the view. At that moment, a song sparrow landed on the stone railing, flung back its head, and chirruped a melodious tune that seemed too large to be encompassed within such a tiny envelope of life. The bird finished its song and flew off. But then, as if in response, Jean Leckie opened her mouth and trilled up and down the musical scales in an operatic voice both beautiful and clear. Conan Doyle was taken aback and beamed with pleasure. A pair of strolling couples also stopped to listen as Miss Leckie sang a series of trills and arpeggios in a silvery voice. When she finished, the bystanders warmly applauded and she acknowledged them with a bashful giggle and a quick curtsey.
“You are wonderful,” Conan Doyle breathed. “Simply wonderful!”
“I am no grand diva, but my voice lessons are progressing. Some day, I should like to sing you an aria.”
“I look forward to it.”
As they descended from the bridge, Conan Doyle hesitated, choosing his words carefully before asking, “Do you have family in London, Miss Leckie?”
“I live with my parents in Blackheath.”
“Ah yes. You told me the other night.”
At that moment, they passed a park bench where a homeless beggar woman sat swaddled in a jumble of old coats and ragged clothes, a bag containing her worldly goods nestled at her feet. She hunched over into herself, a bloody rag clamped to her mouth as a jagged-edged cough racked her emaciated frame. It was a cough Conan Doyle knew only too welclass="underline" the telltale death rattle of consumption. The woman looked up as they approached and her hollow, staring eyes looked deep into his. He drew in a sharp breath and faltered to a stop. His heart clenched painfully. It was his wife, Louise — she had somehow followed him there.
“What ever’s the matter?” Miss Leckie asked.
But in the next instant, he realized that the woman was not Touie. It was not his wife’s face he recognized — it was the mask of consumption. Still, the realization scorched his soul for knowing a moment of happiness. He quickly gathered himself and as they walked on Conan Doyle grappled to explain his reaction. “Ah, it was nothing. I merely remembered something I should not have forgotten.” He forced a strained smile and insisted, “Really, it is nothing for you to concern yourself.”
But she had caught the change in his face and drew him to a stop. “It is obviously not nothing. Tell me, how is your family?”
“I have a boy and a girl. They are well — flourishing. My wife—” He struggled to keep the hitch from his voice. “I have told you about my wife, Touie. About her condition. She endures, but I fear she is not long for this world.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he damned himself for uttering them, for they sounded like a promise: Be patient, for my wife will soon enough be gone.
But she saw the truth in his eyes and said, “I have told you a little about my experiences as a medium.” She took both of his large hands in hers. “I believe that all lives are part of a One Great Love into which our souls dissolve.”
His throat constricted. His eyes welled. Despite his outward appearance of strength and calm, the years of anguish over Touie and personal loneliness had flayed his soul to a thing of tattered threads. He realized for the first time that he, too, was an invalid — an emotional invalid. He had lost what little spontaneity he once had with the opposite sex. He felt clumsy and clueless and stymied. What to say? How to act? The moment drew taut, and Conan Doyle was seized by the terrible urge to lean forward and kiss her. She read the emotions swimming in his eyes and disarmed the moment by letting go of his hands and dropping her head demurely. The tension broken, she turned away and they resumed their slow promenade.
An embarrassed silence clung to them and for several minutes they said nothing. She stifled a cough on the back of her gloved hand. He said nothing and a moment later she coughed again, a little more insistently.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Leckie?”
“I am quite thirsty. Perhaps a cup of tea…”
Conan Doyle finally took the hint and cursed himself for not thinking of it first. “Yes, of course. We could find a tea shop. Would you like that?”
Miss Leckie smiled. “Oh could we? That would be most delightful!”
“There you have it, then. Tea for two, it is.”
As they strode toward the park gates, a strange sensation uncoiled in his chest, an emotion he had not felt in years. And then he realized what it was: happiness. His writing successes gave him satisfaction, but what he felt now was a soul-quaking sense of delight that goes by only one name: joy. The walls of the fortress he had built around his heart were crumbling. At times the vivacious young woman at his side made him feel old. Clumsy. Out of date. But she also made him feel terrifyingly alive. She was a being made of grace and loveliness. He also knew that, despite her youth, she was skilled at lovemaking. He realized for the first time — clod that he was — that it had been no accident that she had occupied the chair next to his at the SPR meeting. Rather, it was the kind of chance encounter that only results from careful planning. He was a successful author. He possessed fame and wealth. Had she set about to ensnare him? Was she deluding him? Leading him on? But then, in a moment of soul-searching, he was forced to confess his own culpability. He had noticed the lingering glances of the striking young lady at previous meetings of the SPR. And so, it was no accident that he had chosen to wax his moustaches and wear his finest clothing upon that fateful Monday evening.
They exited Hyde Park at Speaker’s Corner where a crowd milled. A man standing on a soapbox called for the overthrow of the monarchy and the establishment of a worker’s utopia. Some in the crowd, wearing bright red rosettes, cheered encouragement. Nearby, an Irishman was braying loudly about freedom for Ireland. Beyond him, a Trade Unionist sermonized about the loss of jobs from the rise of the infernal machine. “Smash the machines, before they smash us!” Shouts, catcalls, and counter calls filled the air, and many curses and vulgarities were cast back and forth. A lone constable loitered on the corner to keep the peace, looking sleepy and bored. Conan Doyle flushed to think he was exposing a young woman to vulgarity and tried to hurry through the crowd. But then they passed a group of women. An older lady wound with a sash reading VOTES FOR WOMEN was addressing the crowd when a stubble-faced man in rumpled clothes, reeking of gin, stumbled forward and bawled: “Shut up, ya poxy whores!”
Conan Doyle’s blood boiled. His large hands balled into fists. “You vile wretch!” he growled. “Curb your tongue in the presence of ladies or I’ll put you on the ground where you belong!”
The man threw Conan Doyle an off-kilter look, smiling slackly. “Eff off!”