“Oh, I can take a cab.”
“No, no. You and Michelle have saved me from a hideous death. A ride home is the least I owe you. Come, gracious ladies, fellow angels of mercy—I am spent.”
I am worldly enough that the vulgar meaning of “spend” flashed through my mind. I gazed curiously at Violet, but she was unaware of the innuendo.
The old man who mopped the floors tipped his hat to us, his smile revealing several missing teeth. Next to him was the young constable who watched over the clinic. “Night, ladies,” they both said.
“Good night, Mr. Platt, Constable Owens,” I replied.
Outside it was drizzly, the air cold and heavy. The brick buildings across the street from the clinic were drab and dingy, the advertisements soiled or defamed, and the men on the street all wore dark shabby jackets and caps. Even the cobblestones seemed soiled. Violet’s carriage, a luxurious four-wheeler with the footman and driver up top, had recently been painted blue, green, and gold. It was magnificently out of place, and I was happy to see it. I was always glad to leave the clinic, and tonight I was exceptionally weary.
Collins jumped down, opened the door and pulled down the steps. His grin revealed a gap between his two upper front teeth. He was formally dressed, but was spared the wig, the eighteenth-century jacket, and buckle shoes, which some of the pretentious wealthy insisted upon.
“Sorry for the delay, Collins,” Violet said. “We were detained.”
I let Jenny go first, then followed. Collins, as I had noticed before, enjoyed viewing the backsides of ladies while assisting them into the carriage, but I did not begrudge him this simple pleasure.
Violet leaned out the window. “Tell Blaylock we shall be taking Miss Ludlow home first. Reynolds Street, I believe.”
The carriage swayed as Collins climbed back up, then we heard the crack of the whip and the clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. I sighed and sank back into the cushioned seats. I knew from experience that the carriage was very comfortable, its springs providing a gentle ride, and I briefly wished that I were alone so I could take a nap. It was a busy time of day; outside we heard other carriages and the cry of voices.
“So you have been a volunteer nurse for some six months,” Violet said to Jenny. “I admire your stamina. The work is difficult.”
“It must be done,” Jenny said. She was seated beside me, and I reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.
Violet smiled. “Ah, but most people are content to leave the work to others. And do you dream of being a physician like Michelle some day?”
I stared curiously at Jenny. Although it had taken considerable effort, I had avoided asking her that question. She was staring down at her hands: they held her gloves and were white, her fingers long and shapely. Most men would have claimed she was far too lovely to be “wasted” as a doctor.
“Perhaps. I do not know if I have the skills or the aptitude.”
I smiled and gave her hand another squeeze. “You would do very well.”
Violet had slouched back in the corner of the seat, and she regarded us through languid eyes. “And have you discussed this matter with your fiancé?”
“Yes. He does not... forbid it.”
Violet’s mouth formed the familiar mocking smile. “How gracious of him.” The irony went over Jenny’s head.
Violet continued to question her. She had visited the London Women’s College of Medicine, and quite wisely, had sent her skeptical father to talk with Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Britain’s first qualified woman doctor.
While they talked, I closed my eyes. Visions of my patients drifted briefly through my head, all those wasted, diseased bodies and pale faces, those eyes full of suffering, but the gentle swaying of the carriage and the sound of the horses’ hooves was soothing. I drifted, I floated. When the carriage came to a stop I jerked my eyes open and sat up abruptly.
“Thank you for taking me home,” Jenny said.
Violet nodded. “You are quite welcome.”
“Good evening, Jenny,” I said.
She hesitated an instant, and then smiled at me. “Good evening, Michelle.”
Collins opened the carriage door and helped her out. We waited briefly while he saw her to the door.
Violet put her fingertips over her mouth and yawned politely. “Would you care to dine with me, Michelle? Donald is off at some wretched business meeting.”
“I hate to abandon Henry.”
“Oh, he will do quite well without you for one evening. We shall go to Simpson’s and fortify ourselves after our busy day with some rare and bloody roast beef, hearty British fare. It is just the thing for languishing females.”
“Simpson’s?” My eyes widened. “Just the two of us?”
“Yes. Actually I wish we were men and could go to a pub and drink strong dark stout and eat chips and thick sandwiches on black bread with horseradish, but that would not be ladylike. More to the point, we would not be admitted. So what say you to Simpson’s?”
“Very well, but I prefer my roast beef well done.”
“So be it.” She thrust her head out the window. “Collins, Dr. Doudet Vernier and I shall be dining at Simpson’s.”
The horses resumed their clopping. Violet sat back and watched me through half-closed eyes. “Jenny is a sweet girl, and you have obviously made a conquest. She worships the ground you tread upon. The poor child—one can only imagine all the insipid nonsense she has had to endure, tales and poesy of romantic love and marital bliss... Have you been married long, Michelle?”
“No. It will be two years next spring. I was well past five and twenty, that age of confirmed spinsterhood. My medical education took so long, and I had not thought men worth the trouble until I met Henry. All the same, ours was not a conventional courtship.”
She smiled. “Why am I not surprised? Yes, Jenny is lucky to have met you. Tell me, though...” She bit briefly at her lip, a certain wariness showing in her eyes. “I could not help but overhear some of what you told her at the clinic.”
I frowned in puzzlement.
“Her question of a personal nature which she never quite managed to ask.”
“Oh, that.” I shrugged.
Violet continued to watch me warily. She seemed to be willing me to speak, but I said nothing. “I suppose...” she began. “So you really do find it... pleasurable?”
I was so tired it took me a while to comprehend. I laughed. “Yes!”
Her mouth twisted into a smile, but her dark eyes had a blank look. “I suppose I should not be surprised, although most of my acquaintances—those who will discuss the subject in the first place—find it tolerable at best.”
I frowned slightly. “And you?”
She drew in her breath, her lips stiffening. Her gaze shifted out the window.
“Forgive me, Violet—what a presumptuous question on my part! I don’t know...”
“No, no—we are friends, are we not? Let’s just say... I doubt I am the first to find my husband... uninspiring. Boorish, even.”
My lips parted. “Oh.” I had only met Donald Wheelwright twice. I had not much cared for him, but I had assumed Violet must... Since I was a woman and a physician, some of my female patients had revealed that they could not bear their husbands’ touch. Their disgust always saddened me. To think that what was for me one of life’s great joys, for them was only bitterness. My head had begun to ache again, and I closed my eyes.
Violet sighed. She seized my wrist. “You are too good-hearted. We will not discuss anything more of a serious nature. Men, especially, are to be a forbidden topic!”
My laughter sounded hollow. “Oh, very well.”
By then we were riding along the Strand, one of London’s busiest streets. Various carriages, four-wheelers and hansoms, packed the way, and men and women crowded the pavements. We drove past many theaters, some of the marquees all lit up with new electric lights. The traffic stopped briefly before a building front plastered with signs: haircuts within for four shillings, shaves for two; and in bright, capital letters: