Chapter 2
Monday, 24 September, 1888
London
Pressing the coins into the hansom driver’s rough hand, Alastair shook his head at the question. No, you do not need to wait.
As you wish, sir, the jarvey replied, touching his battered cap in respect. He jiggled the reins, and the cab clattered down the street. Alastair watched it turn the corner as he dropped the remaining coins into his pocket. He regretted spending the money, but he’d run late at the hospital, forcing him to secure a ride to Marylebone. Flipping open his pocket watch revealed it was three minutes until five. He would be on time.
Alastair released a deep sigh as he mounted the stairs to the house. It was a three-story, white stone affair with a glowing gas lamp at the front door. It spoke of money, but then Lord Wescomb was a well-regarded barrister and came from landed gentry. He could easily have afforded a house in Knightsbridge or Mayfair, but preferred to be close to the law courts.
Alastair turned toward the clean and well-lit street. He’d once lived in a place like this, free of worry, free to spend a few coins on a cab journey. All that lay in the past now.
After another deep breath, he knocked on the carved oak door.
The maid promptly answered.
Doctor Alastair Montrose to see Lord and Lady Wescomb, at their request, he said politely. Summoned to their presence was more like it. The note he’d received, while cordial, did not allow him the option to decline.
This way, Doctor, the maid replied.
Alastair stepped inside, glancing about as inconspicuously as possible. The carpets proved richly hued and the walls were of the finest hardwood. The delicate scent of flowers caught his nose. He found the source; an elegant lead crystal vase filled with an abundance of colorful blooms.
Chagrined, he realized the maid waited. He removed his coat and hat, passing them to her. She hung them on a hall tree, exhibiting a calm demeanor he wished he could borrow.
Perhaps the Wescombs wish to donate to the clinic. His mind immediately discarded that fanciful notion. This summons was something else altogether.
Alastair took time to straighten his tie and jacket in the hall mirror, smoothing his hair and moustache. He looked as presentable as a young physician might, given his reduced circumstances.
He’d made a point of wearing his best suit and polishing his shoes. A downward glance revealed they’d survived the journey in tolerable shape.
They’re in his lordship’s study, the maid advised, gesturing down the long hall.
When they reached their destination, Alastair hesitated at the study door, as if retreat remained an option. Inside, he heard the reassuring sounds of a crackling fire and low voices. The maid gave him an inquisitive look. He nodded for her to proceed. She knocked and was readily granted entrance.
The room proved surprisingly intimate, with tall bookshelves on three walls and a massive hearth on the fourth. Lady Sephora Wescomb sat in a brocade chair near the stone fireplace, her intelligent eyes observing him with a hawk’s intensity. Her silvered hair glinted in the gaslight in contrast to her deep-purple gown. It was cut in the latest fashion, with black lace at the bosom and at the cuffs. Her husband, Lord Wescomb, leaned back in a heavily padded chair with a faint look of amusement, adjusting his embroidered waistcoat over a slight paunch. Alastair delivered a nod in his lordship’s direction and it was returned. He followed suit with the lady of the house.
Come in, Doctor, Lady Sephora commanded, executing a graceful gesture toward a chair set equidistant between herself and her husband.
Thank you, Lady Wescomb, Alastair replied as the maid closed the door behind him.
You haven’t changed a bit, young man, Lord Wescomb observed with a bemused chuckle.
Thank you, my lord. Alastair settled into the chair, ill at ease.
A glass of sherry rested on a walnut table near his elbow. He reached for the liquor and sipped, waiting for his hosts to open the conversation.
Lady Sephora’s form abruptly shifted, strawberry-blonde tresses replacing the silver, her matronly figure exchanged for a girlish shape. Wescomb altered as well, his hair now dark and his face thin. Indeed, the pair now appeared as they might have two decades earlier.
Are you not going en mirage? Lady Sephora’s voice matched her youthful appearance.
Alastair shook his head. No, thank you. I have no need to do so. The moment after he spoke, he inwardly grimaced. He’d foolishly reminded his hosts of his aberrant behavior.
Surely you go en mirage on occasion, she said.
No, I don’t.
The Wescombs traded looks. Not at all? Lady Sephora pressed, adopting a puzzled tone.
Alastair felt the trap closing. No.
The low sigh from his hostess sounded like a reproof. In contrast, Lord Wescomb’s face gained a slight smile.
You always were a maverick, he said. From his lordship’s mouth, it sounded like a blessing.
I am not like the others, my lord.
In that you are wrong, Wescomb retorted, his voice changing timbre in an instant. You are more one of us than you wish to believe.
Alastair drained the liquor, set the delicate crystal glass on the table and rose, knowing he risked angering his hosts with such an abrupt departure.
Thank you for the sherry. If that is all, I must––
Please, Doctor, Lady Sephora urged, gesturing toward the empty chair. Don’t make a scene. We are merely concerned for your health.
I appreciate your concern; however, I cannot live as you prescribe. I do not wish to embrace this…transitory existence you so readily cultivate.
An awkward moment ensued; the urge to flee barely held in check by the social graces. Alastair stared into the fire, debating his next move. The gaslights on either side of the mantel hissed into the silence.
I understand you no longer practice with Dr. Hanson in Mayfair, Lord Wescomb said.
Sensing a merciful shift of topic, Alastair returned to his seat.
He elected not to ask how his host knew about his change of venue. Apparently, the Transitive community paid more attention to him than he cared to admit.
Yes, there have been changes in my professional life. I now practice at the London Hospital and a small clinic in Whitechapel.
I see. Do you enjoy your work at the clinic? Wescomb asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Alastair gave a faint smile. Infinitely so. The conditions are of the most primitive nature, and the people of the lowest sort, but they are grateful for any help they receive. They have so little.
Indeed.
When did you begin your work in Whitechapel? Lady Sephora asked.
The relevance of the question puzzled Alastair. In mid-July.
I understand that Dr. Hanson was quite displeased with you,
Wescomb said.
We disagreed as to which patients I should treat.
What I heard about that young boy was true, then? Wescomb asked.
Alastair shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his jacket. What was the purpose of this close questioning? Dr. Hanson refused to allow me to treat the injured boy in the surgery. He didn’t want our patients to think we attended those of the lesser classes, as he put it. Alastair’s jaw tightened at the memory of their argument.
We have been to the East End, en mirage. It was most disheartening, Lady Sephora observed with a distant expression on her face, as if she could still see the filthy streets and the ragged ghosts that inhabited them.
They want for the most basic necessities, Alastair said.
What of Hanson’s daughter, Evelyn? Are you still engaged?
Wescomb asked out of the blue.
The query snapped Alastair back to the moment. He noted the pair switched back and forth, as if this had been rehearsed.
We have broken our engagement. Evelyn has requested that I no longer see her. She cannot fathom why I wish to treat the poor.
She deems it a waste of my talent.
Not surprising, Wescomb huffed. Evelyn always struck me as quite shallow. I said the same to Sephora after the first time I met her.
Lady Sephora nodded. Which I believe was the first time we met you, Doctor. At the Endicotts’ party. You and Evelyn never seemed to be a matched set, if you follow my meaning.
Alastair opened his mouth to protest, then abandoned the effort. They were correct, though it stung to admit it. Evelyn heeded her father in all things, even the matter of a potential husband.
Alastair’s eyes drifted to his hostess. Sephora Wescomb was the converse of young Evelyn; she valued her independence and exercised her brilliant mind regularly, much to the annoyance of most males. Lord Wescomb seemed to comprehend that his wife was as rare as a clear day in London and should be cherished as such.