The Unquiet Heart Read online

  She paused outside the door. ‘Can I trust you to be alone with him? You seem a sensible sort, but girls these days . . . Well, we were never so forward. He’s in a dark place, and when he’s there he doesnae always remember he’s a gentleman.’

  I blushed at the insinuation, but nodded. ‘I promise – I’m here as a friend, nothing more.’

  ‘Well he could use one of those, right enough.’ She patted my arm. ‘Good luck. See if you can get him to eat something.’

  I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, not sure what to expect.

  I had been inside his rooms at the university, and I had always thought they held the essence of him. More bottles of tonics and medicines and poisons than an apothecary, a stuffed crocodile on a shelf that seemed to do nothing but gather dust, and something floating in a jar I had never been brave enough to investigate. But if that was his soul, then this study was his brain writ large.

  There was barely an inch of wallpaper to be seen beneath the diagrams and notes scrawled in a familiar handwriting. In one corner of the room an experiment bubbled and smoked, leaving the room smelling faintly of sulphur mingled with tobacco, stale coffee and sweat. The curtains were drawn, but from the way even they had sheaves of papers pinned to them, I suspected they hadn’t been opened for some time. I wondered if Mrs Logan was allowed to clean in here – there was hardly an inch free of debris to dust. Bookshelves lined two walls from floor to ceiling, and my fingers itched to explore their contents.

  The room was dominated by the large desk, at which the man himself sat. He was lost in thought, but the light must have been too dim for him to read by. The room was lit by the warm, flickering light of the fire and the lamps had been turned down low. I wondered if he had been sitting here all day, lost in permanent night. Above the desk was a calendar of his lectures – dated three years ago. It was obscured by a yellowing headline pinned to it by a hatpin covered in what I hoped was rust.

  Sensing a presence behind him, he sighed but didn’t turn around. ‘Mrs Logan, I said I wanted to be left alone. Now either obey or bring me another bottle before I’m forced to drink straight ether.’

  I pushed the pot of coffee across the desk. ‘This might be a better choice.’

  He started at my voice and then snorted without looking up. ‘Come to reject me again, Miss Gilchrist? Or are you here in your official capacity, the plucky young lady sleuth with her head full of detective stories, thinking she knows better than the polis? Tell me, what do you deduce from this scene?’

  My heart ached for him. ‘That you might be better off leaving the whisky for another night if you want to be in a fit state to lecture in the morning.’

  He grunted. ‘I have half a dozen young whelps who barely need to shave to escort around the Royal Infirmary tomorrow morning. Rest assured, they’ll be as hung-over as I am.’

  ‘And with such a fine mentor, who can blame them?’

  He turned to me then, and I saw his eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

  ‘And you’d know all about mentors, wouldn’t you? At least I won’t lure them to a dilapidated slum and pour a bottle of laudanum down their throats.’

  How was it that he could talk about the most intimate thing we shared and yet feel so distant?

  ‘If you’re going to stand in judgement, you may as well join me in finishing the dregs of this bottle.’ He picked up his half-empty glass and glanced around his desk until his eyes lit on a skull – dear God, I prayed, let it be a wax model – with the parietal bones removed. He squinted inside, upended it, shaking the detritus out, and offered it to me. ‘Sorry, I don’t have another glass.’ I demurred, and he shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. You might be better off; I think there were mouse droppings in there.’

  He took a long draught, then looked at me, his eyes focusing properly for the first time.

  ‘How the hell do you sleep? You were minutes from death at the hands of a madwoman, you’ve gone through God knows what with that bastard Beresford and yet somehow you’re still there in the front row every morning, raising your hand before I can even finish a question, fresh as a daisy and a thorn in my side.’

  ‘You work us too hard.’ I smiled gently, hoping to lighten his mood. ‘I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow most nights.’

  He gave me a strange, long look and I regretted the image my words conjured.

  When he spoke, his voice was roughened from more than just the drink. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see her in your place. What she went through . . . I should have been there. Instead, she died alone and frightened in that stinking back alley. Her corpse was in my university and I didn’t even know she was dead until you stormed into my room with your theories and accusations.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Professor. If I’d known . . .’ I would have done things so differently. Made him a friend instead of an enemy. Stopped Fiona before she could descend any further into the madness to which an uncaring world had driven her.

  ‘What are you here for, anyway? I assume you didn’t come to harangue me about my drinking.’

  ‘Or about how little you’re eating.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to that mother hen in the kitchen. She’d have me fattened up like a goose for Christmas if I let her.’

  ‘Avian analogies aside, she has a point. You might be able to teach a group of undergraduates with nothing in your system but Scotch, but I won’t be the cause of it.’

  He grimaced. ‘You seem to forget that it was me who saved your life last autumn. Only to watch you throw it away on some chinless second son. That’s the young for you, I suppose. No gratitude.’

  ‘I came here because I was concerned for you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you lecture me.’ It was getting harder to ignore the way his words slurred, and I wondered just how much he had had to drink. ‘You’re not a detective, Sarah. You’re not even a doctor. What you are is a first-year medical student with an unwanted fiancé, a steady hand and a talent for getting herself in trouble.’

  ‘Better a medical student with ideas above her station than a bitter old drunk.’

  The words were out before I could stop them, but by God I meant them.

  He nodded grimly, as though I had said exactly what he suspected I would. ‘Aye. Well if you think you can do better, lassie, please – be my guest. Save the whole fucking world and then when you realise that the human race is too stubborn and foolhardy to stay saved for long, come back and I’ll pour you a drink.’ He squinted into the bottle. ‘But I’d advise you to hurry up, or there’ll be none left.’

  I put my hand on his arm without thinking. Beneath the rage and the drink, there was so much pain in his eyes. He flinched, as though my touch had scalded him, and I realised that he had his shirtsleeves rolled up and my palm was resting on his bare muscled forearm. I felt his pulse throb strong, steady and just a little too fast in his radial artery, and my fingers longed to trace the crease of his inner elbow.

  When he pulled me to him, I wasn’t surprised.

  His breath was warm on my cheek, his face so close I could taste the whisky. The jackhammer beat of my heart quickened until I thought I could feel it slamming against my ribcage, and the whole world shrank to nothing but his nearness and the searing sensation of his hand on my wrist. I thought for one stupid, foolish moment that he was going to kiss me.

  Instead, he whispered into my ear, ‘I saved the wrong woman.’

  He pushed me away savagely, without taking his gaze from mine. He was savouring the hurt in my eyes, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the tears that built hotly in my eyes.

  Staggering away as though I were the one who were drunk, I yanked the door open and stumbled into the hallway and the waiting figure of Mrs Logan.

  ‘He’s a beast when he’s had too much.’ She looked me over, frowning. ‘He didnae hurt you, did he? I’ve never known him to be a bad man, not in that way, but if he laid a finger on you . . .’

  My wrist was sore from where
he had grabbed me, but I knew without a doubt that he would have gone no further.

  Banishing my doubts, I shook my head. ‘I won’t say that he was a perfect gentleman, but he wasn’t . . . that is, he didn’t . . .’

  She looked at my wrist, the sleeve pushed up slightly and my skin red.

  ‘You’re missing a button,’ she said. ‘They’re devils if you don’t use hard-wearing thread. You wait for me in the kitchen and get another pot of tea on; I’ll fetch my sewing kit and see if it fell off in the master’s study.’

  I lingered on the stairs for a moment, listening to her raised voice, before hurrying downstairs, determined to make Mrs Logan the best damned cup of tea she had drunk in her life.

  When she emerged, she gave me a swift nod as if to say that the matter had been dealt with.

  ‘He’s a good man, but a proud one. And make no mistake, he’s had a harder time than most. He’s hurting right now, but that’s no excuse to take it out on someone who’s only trying to be a friend to him.’

  ‘Lucy,’ I whispered.

  She shook her head sadly. ‘She was a wild one, that girl. Full of life. It’s a terrible thing to lose someone you love.’ Her words were heavy, and I wondered what loss had brought Mrs Logan into Gregory Merchiston’s employ. ‘He’s been drinking himself to sleep and propping himself up with God only knows what concoctions ever since she disappeared. I thought being able to grieve her might give him some sort of peace, but he’s been in a foul mood for weeks.’

  Ever since I got engaged. I didn’t doubt that our mutual friends the Chalmerses had shared the news with him, even if they didn’t mention just how bitterly and fruitlessly I opposed it.

  ‘You know, there’s not many who’d brave the lion in his den, much less a young lady. But you lassies have more courage than men twice your age. Going into the university like that and demanding to be treated the same – if you ask me, it’s the Lord’s work, although there’s not many who’ll say it.’

  I smiled, and meant it. ‘Mrs Logan, you are a jewel among housekeepers. I’m tempted to steal you away myself if I didn’t think that your employer would chase me down the street with half the Edinburgh police force in tow.’

  ‘He’s loyal to those who earn his trust, that’s for certain. You’re in that number, though God knows he didn’t show it tonight. You’d best be getting back – you don’t want your family to start asking questions.’

  As she saw me into the cab, I yanked off my gloves, rubbing my cold hands together, and fumbled through my reticule to find the hated object that I had stuffed in there as soon as I had left the house that morning. The diamond sparkled in the light from the gas lamps we passed. Even in my bag, the silver had chilled and it burned with cold as I slid it onto my finger. As we clattered across the cobblestones, I forced a demure smile onto my face and prepared to meet my future husband.

  Chapter 3

  The stomach lining shone dully pearlescent under the glaring electric light, bulging hideously with flesh and sticky lumps of fat. The thought of sliding my knife through the glutinous mess made me feel queasy. If this had been an examination I would have failed it, and gladly. Instead, it was dinner.

  I had survived half a year in Scotland without being compelled to eat haggis, but this was the one night of the year when patriotism won over gastronomy. Outside, the January night was bitter and dreich, sleet falling from dark, swollen clouds and leaving the cobbles slick and dangerous. Inside, there was poetry. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  The university was holding a grand cèilidh tonight, where the guests would work off their neeps and tatties in frenetic whirling across the ballroom floor. I felt a pang of envy, even though any attempts my friend Elisabeth had made to teach me the steps to the Gay Gordons had ended in tangled limbs and cursing.

  I wouldn’t be displaying my dancing abilities tonight, however, even if my aunt had permitted it; she had reminded me as I was cinched into my corset, ‘You do not have a history of comporting yourself well at parties, Sarah.’ In any case, we had received a far more impressive invitation, celebrating the deus ex machina of Aunt Emily and Aurora Greene, each finding in the other an equally unmarriageable ward.

  The reason I was here was currently stammering his way through Robert Burns’ ‘Address to a Haggis’, although personally I thought a eulogy might have been more apt for whatever animal had sacrificed its life for such an inglorious end.

  Miles Greene, younger son of Colonel Cuthbert Greene, would hardly have been my choice for a husband. In fact, I was prepared to do without the ghastly institution of marriage altogether in favour of my medical studies – not, as Aunt Emily had pointed out on more than a few occasions, that I exactly had a queue of suitors breathlessly awaiting my decision. Greene Minor himself was neither handsome nor, as far as I could tell, particularly intelligent, and if he had a sense of humour, it was one I didn’t share. What he did have was money and a respectable family as eager to marry him off as mine was to get rid of me.

  I kept my eyes focused on him, but my mind was wandering anywhere it could – the previous day’s lectures, my less-than-impressive results from the Christmas examinations, the fact that my mother would be arriving in a few days. That my own parents were not attending my engagement party would have been cause for comment had the happy couple been anyone else. As it was, I half expected someone to check my teeth as though I were a horse Uncle Hugh was selling – for quite the bargain price.

  My fiancé’s family was better represented – Colonel Greene was ramrod straight and mouthing the words along with his son in patriotic fervour, and his wife Aurora was the picture of beaming maternal pride. Both her sons were in attendance tonight: the younger, Miles, who had finally found a bride even if she was a bluestocking of questionable virtue; and the elder, Alisdair. The heir to the Greene family’s title and fortunes – comfortably married off and with a child on the way at his estate in the Borders – was so like and yet not like his brother that Miles looked even more lacking in comparison. With a sandy shock of hair and a firm mouth, he was like a charcoal sketch, all defined lines and shadowed planes. Miles was more like pointillism – acceptable from a distance and then worse the closer you got.

  Perhaps age would improve him, I thought without much hope. We – or rather I – had agreed on a long engagement; enough time for me to finish my studies and, as my uncle said, ‘get “this nonsense” out of my head once and for all’. In the likely event that Miles at twenty-seven was no better candidate than Miles at twenty-three, it still gave me four years to find a way out of the damned situation, or at the very least find a hospital willing to accept a female doctor.

  ‘Aurora, your hair looks wonderful tonight. Is that a new style from Paris?’ Aunt Emily smiled unctuously.

  My future mother-in-law sighed. ‘Sadly not. I’m afraid that this is hair à la Blackwell – our housemaid. My lady’s maid, Wilson, has done a midnight flit at the worst possible time. Run off with some man, no doubt.’

  ‘Did she leave a note?’ I asked.

  ‘You would have thought,’ Aurora sniffed. ‘After years of service – where she was rather generously recompensed, I don’t mind telling you – she vanished without a word.’

  She seemed very unruffled about the disappearance of a woman from under her roof.

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘My dear, if one called the police about every absconding servant . . . You’ll learn all this when you have a household of your own to manage, of course.’

  ‘Enough of this gossip,’ the colonel groused. ‘Miles, finish addressing the damn haggis so we can eat.’

  From the unholy looks of the thing, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had answered back.

  The knife glinted in the candlelight and trembled in Miles’ hand. He sharpened it as he spoke and, muttering something in broad Scots about gushing entrails – perhaps I had better give this Burns fellow a second chance – plunged it into the stomach.

&n
bsp; The smell from the plate was appalling, but that wasn’t what made bile rise in my throat.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I murmured, and fled the room.

  I brought up what little dinner I had managed – in the face of the haggis, it wasn’t much – and splashed some water on my face. Away from the table, any semblance of putting a brave face on it crumbled like ash, and I rested my head against the cool porcelain of the sink, trying to get my anger and my shaking hands under control.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass and it was like seeing a ghost. I could have been the Sarah Gilchrist from a year ago, the girl with a burning passion to study medicine and an unshakeable belief that the world would grant her wish, parental disapproval be damned. I wasn’t her, but nor was I the frail, wretched creature from months later, who had been abandoned with her relatives and told to make her own way in the world.

  The girl in the mirror met my guarded gaze. This, then, was one of the inaugural class of young ladies who had gained entrance into the hallowed halls of Edinburgh’s medical school. The satirists, even the ones scribbling for a better class of newspaper, liked to paint us alternately as monstrous spinsters with brains bulging out of our heads and hairs sticking out of our chins, and swooning girls with eighteen-inch waists and an eye on a doctor for a husband. They had, needless to say, never attempted to meet with the subjects of their pens, and I wasn’t sure what they’d make of me if they did. Certainly the glittering diamond on my finger – I’d have to remove that before Tuesday’s anatomy lecture lest it disappear into some half-dissected chest cavity – suggested I was more interested in having letters before my name than after, but no doe-eyed maid looked this tired or resigned to her fate.

  The powder my aunt’s lady’s maid had dusted lightly across my face and the smudge of rouge she had rubbed roughly onto my lips felt like a mask. I was no blushing bride-to-be, a maiden in her first flush of youth gazing starry-eyed at her beloved. I wasn’t even the ruined girl my family thought I was, patched up almost as good as new if you didn’t look too closely at the seams. The cloud of scent she had sprinkled over me couldn’t hide the stench of death that followed me everywhere I went.