Violet appeared at my side and took my arm, the diamonds at her throat catching the candlelight. “I have been selfish,” she whispered. “I put you and Henry near me.” Her skin had a warm glow of its own.
“Oh, it is all so beautiful,” I murmured.
Violet released me before my chair, which Henry politely pulled out for me. At my place were the menu and a folded card with my name on it. Ravenous, I felt ready to devour all five courses on the menu—soup (turtle), fish (poached salmon), meat (beef Wellington or stuffed quail), sweet (chocolate cake), and dessert.
Henry shook his head. “The tablecloth looks clean enough to operate upon. A pity we must spoil such splendor by actually eating here.”
The man beside me, a clergyman who recalled a mournful raven, gave us a disapproving stare. The two elderly Wheelwrights had the place of honor at the head of the table, and to their left were this elderly clergyman in black and his equally thin, dour wife. Donald stood to the right of his father, surveying the room and his guests, his face placid, his eyes uneasy. Soon everyone at the table except Donald and the minister were seated, but hovering nearby were Lovejoy and the footmen in formal attire.
“Reverend Killington will say the benediction,” Donald said loudly. His voice had a nervous edge. He sat, and we all bowed our heads.
“Father in heaven, we thank thee for thy bountiful gifts which we are about to receive, and we pray that in these troubled and iniquitous times our hearts may remain pure and unsullied. When the dreadful judgment day comes and thou strikest down the wicked and sendest them into the fire, we pray thou wilt have mercy on our poor souls. We ask this in the name of thy son, Christ our Lord.”
The Reverend Killington had a piercing tenor voice worthy of an Old Testament prophet. As I was seated next to him, I was relieved when he finished. I raised my eyes and across the table saw Violet’s mocking smile. Briefly she raised her right eyebrow.
Everyone joined in the “amen.”
“Thank you, Reverend Killington,” Donald said.
Smiling fiercely, the elderly Wheelwright nodded. “The Reverend knows how to pray.”
“It is my profession.” The Reverend Killington sat absolutely upright—as if his spine had no curve to it. His face was thin, his hair mostly gone on top, but he had black bushy eyebrows and brown eyes which glowed like two hot coals.
Violet introduced us to the Reverend and his wife. The room, meanwhile, had filled with maids in black dresses and white aprons who served soup from tureens on carts. The soup was green and smelled odd.
Henry shook salt and pepper on his, and then took the first spoonful with great relish. “I have not had turtle soup in a long time.”
I forced a smile. I did not care for turtle soup, but I knew I must eat some. The Reverend Killington had an odd look in his fiery eyes. He certainly did not approve of woman physicians, and he probably also thought my dress was a deliberate provocation, my flesh offered up as a temptation.
“So you are a doctor, madam?”
I knew at once from the accusatory tone that I had guessed right. I nodded and tried to smile. From the brief downward shift of his eyes, I saw that my other guess was also correct. He was less obvious than Donald’s father, but dinner would be an ordeal if I had to spend it with the two old men leering at my bosom between mouthfuls.
Violet must have read my thoughts—certainly she was likely to share my fate since her lavender dress revealed both shoulders and the curve of her breasts. “She is a very good doctor, Reverend, and a stout-hearted one.” A faint hint of truculence was in her voice. “I am sure she has seen sights which would make your hair stand on end, but she is a great comfort to the sick. I can vouch for it.”
Killington’s long nose pointed toward her. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I have worked with her at the clinic for the poor.”
“Violet...” I began.
“Oh, how can you bear it!” exclaimed Mrs. Killington, going even paler. “I do so hate sickness. It makes me positively ill.”
“It is God’s work,” Violet said. “Does the Bible not bid us care for the sick and dying?”
Donald Wheelwright said nothing, but his bland face somehow radiated disapproval.
The Reverend Killington reddened. “You presume too much, Mrs. Wheelwright. I do not believe the Almighty meant the weaker sex to be subjected to bloody sights and death. That stern conflict is reserved for men. Women should remain at home and provide their husband and their children with the shining example of their virtue.”
“This soup really is delicious.” Henry smiled at Violet. “My compliments to the cook. I do not much care for bloody sights and death myself, and I have never been able to figure out why Michelle should be so much less squeamish than I. Truly the ways of the Lord are mysterious. Why would He give such a strong stomach to a mere woman?”
Killington seemed too surprised to speak. Violet laughed and said, “Would you care for more soup?”
“Yes, but I think I shall just take Michelle’s. She is too polite to tell you that she does not care for turtle soup. She had a pet turtle as a child who was quite dear to her.”
I laughed and put my hand over his. “It is true. Françoise la tortue.”
“And what of you, Mr. Holmes?” Violet said. “You are very quiet.”
“The soup demands my concentration, madam. It is very good.”
“And do you also disapprove of women doctors?”
He glanced at me, then said gravely, “I dare not.”
Henry nearly choked on his soup. “A wise answer, Sherlock.”
“I suppose,” the Reverend Killington said to me, “that you also believe in the vote for women?”
I sighed wearily. The two older women looked shocked.
Violet raised her right eyebrow again. “Oh, she could not!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Of course not.”
Henry began to cough and had to help himself to a glass of water. The maids took our soup bowls and passed out plates with pink fillets of salmon.
“I am relieved to hear it. Such an inversion of the natural order would mean the ruin of the British Empire, its total collapse.”
“I wonder if the good weather we have had will return.” Under his breath Henry whispered, “Only an hour or two to go.”
“How many glasses of champagne did you drink?” I whispered back.
“Oh, I do hope so!” exclaimed Mrs. Killington. “Jane, dear,” she said to Mrs. Wheelwright, “we must go out for a carriage ride should the good weather return.”
“The devil is close at hand,” Killington muttered. “This great metropolis is little better than Sodom or Gomorrah, harlots everywhere. We invite the wrath of the Almighty, his avenging angels, we beg for it.” His eyes fell on Donald Wheelwright. “Do you not agree?”
“These are... uncertain times.”