I put my hand over his. “I shall not.”
Violet and I watched them leave. Violet put a piece of meat in her mouth and chewed slowly.
“My comment about bloody tissue was unwise. I may never eat roast beef again.”
I laughed. “Now that the men are gone, you need not finish.”
“Donald always orders the large portion. I have always wondered if I could eat so much. I have learned that I can, but it seems a hollow triumph. Well, hardly hollow, since I am completely stuffed. I fear I must forgo dessert.”
“Not I. They have a very good cream cake.”
Violet resolutely swallowed the last bite and pushed the plate back several inches. “You never told me you were related by marriage to Sherlock Holmes, Michelle. He is not so handsome as Mr. Sidney Paget draws him, but he has a most interesting face. He certainly startled me with his deductions.”
“You seemed rather upset, my dear. What is this strain you spoke of?”
Violet gazed at me, and I could sense the wheels, the small gears, turning inside. “I shall tell you another time. This is still our night out. We must not spoil it with seriousness.”
“I hope the men did not ruin it for you. I have had a wonderful time.” I reached over and grasped her hand with my big fingers, which were reddened from carbolic acid.
“I, too, Michelle. You are very good company. We must see each other more often. Too many of my acquaintances are vapid and ineffectual, wearisome to be around.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”
The waiter came, and I ordered dessert. We lingered afterwards talking until I realized that it was nearly half past eight. Violet insisted on driving me home. My house near Paddington Station was not far. In the carriage I began to yawn, and she complained, jokingly, that it was contagious.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor was an effort. Henry was waiting for me in the sitting room. We embraced, and he initiated a kiss, which made me briefly forget my fatigue.
“Oh, Henry, a day around women makes me appreciate you all the more. I enjoy the company of my sex, but I could not live with them day after day.”
He ran his fingertips along my cheek. “I feel the same about men.”
“Oh, my feet hurt.”
He kissed me again. “Do sit down.”
I lay on the sofa. He sat at the far end and began undoing the buttons on my right boot.
“The clinic was a madhouse today,” I said. “These were supposed to be sensible shoes, but they are still not comfortable. You and Sherlock were oddly grim before you left the restaurant.”
Henry slipped off my boot and began to massage my instep. Only one lamp was lit, but a big piece of coal glowed in the fireplace. His eyes stared at the fire, his mouth taut beneath the thick mustache.
“Do not stop,” I said.
“What?”
“Massaging my foot.”
“Oh.” His fingers worked at my foot through the thick stocking. “Donald Wheelwright came to see Sherlock today.” He told me about the visit: the gypsy curse, the note and Mr. Wheelwright’s reaction to the spider.
When he finished I murmured, “How horrible.”
We were both silent. I tried to make sense of what he had told me, but it made my head hurt. “Henry, I do not think that Violet... She may not much care for Donald.”
“From what little I saw of him, I can see why.”
“I cannot understand how she could have married such a man. Someone like Sherlock would be perfect for her.”
Henry smiled. “She made quite an impression on him, despite himself.”
“I could see that. I wonder how Donald feels about Violet.” Henry gazed again at the fire, and his mouth seemed to slump. “What is wrong?” I asked.
He hesitated. “I... I do not like the whole business.”
“Nor do I, but Violet is my friend. She may need my help.”
“And knowing you, you will give it to her.”
I took his free hand. “Would you have it otherwise?”
He let go of my foot, turned my hand, and kissed my palm. “No.”
Weary as I was, I felt a flicker of longing in my throat. I remembered Violet in the carriage, the muted loathing in her voice, and I squeezed his hand. “Oh, Henry, I do love you so.”
He stared at me. “Let’s go upstairs.” Our bedroom was on the third floor.
“I am so tired you will need to carry me.”
“I shall if you wish.”
“If I weighed as much as Violet, I would let you try, but I do not wish to treat you for an injured back. If you will provide an arm to lean on, that will suffice.”
We stood. He slipped his arm about my waist. I picked up my boots with one hand, put the other on his shoulder, and we started for the stairway.
Three
The following Monday a telegram from Holmes arrived early in the morning:
I shall be visiting the Wheelwright home this afternoon to question the household. If your practice is anemic and you wish to join me, be at Baker Street by one.
When I showed the note to Michelle, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Henry, you must go! I shall cover for you.”
“There will be little to cover, but more to the point, why should I go at all? This is hardly my affair.”
“But Violet is my friend. We must do all we can to help her.”
“Perhaps you should go then.”
She laughed. “Sherlock did not invite me. Besides I have several patients coming.”
“No anemia for you.”
She took my arm and kissed my cheek. “You are a very good doctor, Henry. In time you will obtain the appreciation you deserve.”
I shrugged, hardly so convinced of either of her assertions. “Perhaps. Visiting the Wheelwright home should be interesting, and Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Violet may have actually charmed him.”
The hansom stopped before 221 Baker Street, just before one. The cabby, who was as thin and worn looking as his horse, took his fare and tipped his hat. The rain of the past few days had abated, but the sun seemed feeble, only a muted yellow through the clouds.
Holmes had company. The stranger’s mustache was neatly trimmed, but the reddish hair about his ears was thick and curly, its abundance contrasting with his balding pate. His complexion was ruddy, and his blue eyes regarded me warily. He was impeccably dressed, black silk highlighting the lapels of his frock coat, a diamond pin in his cravat.
“Lord Harrington, this is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
Harrington shook my hand, then pulled on his gloves. “Please give this matter your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish my brother’s reputation—” he glanced briefly at me— “to remain sullied.”
“I shall do what I can. We shall continue our conversation another time. As I said, I have other business this afternoon.”
“Very well, sir.” He put on his top hat, took his walking stick in his right hand, and marched out the door.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Holmes said. “A carriage from the Wheelwrights should be arriving shortly. Lord Harrington had an interesting story.”
“I thought Lord Harrington had killed himself.”
“And so he did. Joseph Harrington left no heir, so his brother Michael, whom you just met, is now Lord Harrington. He is skeptical of the official version of his brother’s death, as well he might be. Men rarely kill themselves in that manner.”
“What manner?”
“By cutting one’s throat with a razor.”
I felt a stir low in my belly and repressed a shudder. “I have never heard of such a case.”
“Although rare, it does happen. Lord Harrington also told me his brother was notoriously long-winded, yet the scrawled note only said, ‘I cannot go on.’”