troubled by thoughts of my poor patients at the clinic. I set aside an equal sum to distribute there.
The dress did suit me, although it was somewhat risque. My shoulders and part of my bosom were left bare. The silk fabric was of medium weight, a beautiful shade of green, with no wretched train dragging about on the ground. Our maid Harriet helped me do up my hair, then I put on pearl earrings and a gold necklace, both gifts from Henry. Glancing in the mirror, I was pleased with everything except my hands. They were large and red—fashion and carbolic acid were clearly incompatible. Luckily, gloves were to be worn with my dress, and once I had put them on and tugged their ends up past my elbows, I could pretend to be one of the idle rich.
When I came down Henry was seated in his favorite armchair. The top of him was white—waistcoat, dress shirt, and bow tie; the bottom was black—trousers and patent leather shoes. His black tailcoat was thrown across a nearby chair. He looked very handsome, his brown hair and mustache slightly shaggy. (I hated the shorn Prussian style.)
He glanced up at me. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “And who can this be?” He stood, walked over and kissed my throat, then my mouth, his arms encircling me, the starchy sleeves rustling slightly. A little later I pushed him gently aside and tried to catch my breath. His warm hand lingered on my bare shoulder. “I do believe it is Michelle.”
“You make me dizzy,” I said.
“I might well accuse you of the same crime. If you dress this way, you must expect to be so accosted. Perhaps we should send the Wheelwrights a note that you are feeling ill, and then we might spend the evening at home.”
“Oh, no. After all this effort at appearing beautiful, I must be seen.”
“And I must suffer every brute at this party ogling my wife!” He shook his head mournfully. “At least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that the most beautiful woman there will be leaving with me at the end of the evening.”
I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You are a dear.” He drew me closer. “No, Henry, you must not get me all hot and bothered.” Dimly, we heard a knock at the door. “That must be Sherlock,” I said.
Henry released me. “Bad timing on his part.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then Harriet and Holmes came into the sitting room. His black overcoat was unbuttoned. He also wore a dress shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie, his top hat in hand. He appeared very tall, the coat almost like a black cape. With his beaked nose and piercing eyes, he reminded me of some dark bird of prey. Henry helped him off with his great coat, then handed it, the hat and stick to Harriet.
Holmes pulled off his gloves and glanced briefly at me. “Michelle, you look... quite remarkable.” He turned and stood before the fire, rubbing his hands.
“Thank you,” I said.
Henry withdrew his watch. “The Wheelwrights’ carriage will be here shortly.”
“It was kind of Violet to insist on sending a carriage,” I said. “Sherlock, have you discovered anything further about this mysterious affair with her and the gypsy?”
He turned to us, one hand clasping the other wrist behind his back. “My lack of progress is annoying. Mrs. Wheelwright seems to have no enemies whatsoever, and if someone were angry at Wheelwright, a likelier possibility, why would that person not torment him directly? Especially since he does not much care for his wife.”
I sighed. “Oh, Sherlock, are you certain of that?”
He glanced at Henry, then at me. “Yes.”
“Are you two sharing some confidence?”
Holmes shook his head. “No.” But I saw reluctance in Henry’s eyes.
From below came a rapping at the door. Henry stood. “That must be the carriage. I’ll get your coat, Michelle.”
“I shall wear the black velvet cloak and a shawl.”
Henry kissed me on the back of the neck while Sherlock was turned away, then set the cloak over my shoulders. “You are a dreadful pest,” I whispered affectionately.
The men put on their black overcoats and took their top hats, and we all trooped downstairs. The evening was a blustery one, the wind cool and heavy with moisture. The clouds had swept in late that afternoon, and I was afraid that our fair sunny weather was gone for that year. The carriage was the one Violet and I had used, and Henry remarked on the smooth ride.
Holmes sat across from us gazing out the window. As we passed a gaslight, his face was lit up, then covered again in shadow. He was staring at me.
“Michelle, I do not wish you to betray any confidence, but can you tell me anything about Mrs. Wheelwright that might assist my efforts on her behalf?”
“You put me in an awkward position, Sherlock. She is both my patient and my friend.”
“Anything you tell me will go no further. Need I remind you that she has been threatened and that her life may be in danger?”
I frowned. Sherlock surely had her best interests at heart, but certain suspicions—if that were not too strong a word—I would keep to myself. I had noticed some oddities, which I could not explain even to myself.
“Her general health is good, but she is highly strung. She has almost too much energy. Unlike some of our colleagues, I do not believe in rest and idleness as a treatment for nervous women, but she rushes about constantly. As a result she often has difficulty sleeping. At one time she relied on laudanum, but she assures me that she now takes it only as a last resort. I have told her it is best to rise and read a book or walk about the house, and that seems to have helped her. She suffers from occasional dyspepsia, again I believe because of her frantic activities. She sometimes becomes weary and depressed, but even when her spirits are at their lowest, she keeps up a brave front.”
Henry laughed softly. “Insomnia and an excess of energy. Oddly familiar.”
Holmes was silent for a moment. “And her childlessness?”
“There are no obvious anatomical problems, but that is often the case with infertility. She was also examined a few years ago by a specialist.”
Holmes watched me. “It seems a matter of regret to her.”
I bit at my lip. “I... am not so sure.” Violet had shown almost no squeamishness during her two days at the clinic: lacerations, wounds, sores, pus, and blood made no impression. But childbirth... A woman had barely made it to the clinic and given birth immediately. Jenny remained at my side, but Violet had simply vanished for those few brief frantic moments.
Holmes gazed out the window. “No instinct is stronger in women than the maternal one.”
I opened my mouth, but then closed it. I had learned not to contradict men when they made such overblown generalizations, as it was usually futile. Sherlock had so little real experience with women—how was he to know any better? All the same, in his work he must have met some women in whom greed, ambition, or hatred were stronger than a maternal instinct. Henry gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his way of commending my restraint.
The carriage stopped before the Wheelwrights’ house, and Collins opened the door for us, the familiar gap- toothed grin on his face. Inside stood the butler, Lovejoy, his hair and his dress impeccably black. He bowed deeply while other servants took our coats. “Good evening, Doctors. Welcome, Mr. Holmes. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
We stepped inside, the great hall already filled with people. Donald Wheelwright stood at one side of the room towering over the two older men next to him. Looking about, I found Violet on the opposite side of the room speaking with someone I recognized—Dr. Matthew Dyson—my predecessor as her physician and a good friend. She saw me, put one hand on Dyson’s shoulder, and swept toward us.
She was radiant and absolutely beautiful. Her gown was a pale lavender silk, a darker purple lace forming a pattern, which began at her bosom and flowed down the front of the dress. (She favored the color which was her name.) About her long slender neck she wore a necklace of gold and diamonds; small diamond earrings glittered on each ear. The pallor of her skin and the subdued hue of her dress contrasted with her black hair and dark eyes. Her shoulders were far narrower than mine, the muscles firm, the lines of her throat and arms long and clean. I glanced to either side of me. Henry’s eyes were fixed on her, while Holmes appeared faintly intoxicated.
“Michelle, you look lovely!” she exclaimed.
“Not half so lovely as you.”
