“When has Old Town ever been safe?” Mark asked.
Crime had been on the rise lately. A certain element in Old Town preyed not only on those who strayed too close to their borders, but among themselves. The poor were often victims of the poor.
He tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible when walking into certain areas to treat his patients. He had more than one set of clothes earmarked to wear in Old Town. Nothing fine that would immediately label him a mark.
Handing his gold watch to Brody for safekeeping, he took what medicines he would distribute from his case and shoved them into the inside pockets of his coat, along with what diagnostic tools he’d need. He never carried his bag into Old Town. Doing so was an invitation to be robbed.
The majority of Edinburgh society believed that the inhabitants of the slums of Old Town were poor because they wished to be. It was said that they were shiftless, addicted to drink, or simply lazy. He knew, however, from witnessing the conditions and knowing the people, that circumstances, more than inclination, kept people here.
The family he was visiting this morning was one of those cases. Edeen MacDonald had been abandoned by her husband a year ago. Without family or prospects, she’d been forced into prostitution to support her children, at least until Mrs. MacTavish interceded. Dina had obtained a piecework job for her, where she could make lace during the day and be able to attend her daughter Christel when the girl’s medical condition warranted it.
Still, she lived in abysmal conditions that would probably result in the death of one of her children and grant a dreary future to the other.
He bid Brody farewell, gauging the time he’d need to visit Edeen. If he didn’t return in a timely manner, Brody would go in search of him.
He began walking, keeping his focus on his destination and not the poor souls lying slumped against the brick walls. Gaunt faces and soulless eyes were the uniform of Old Town. The smell of cooked cabbage overlaid by the stench of urine made his eyes water, but he kept on, down into the deepest part of St. Agnes’ Close.
Here, death waited, lurking over a slumped body nearly devoid of life. A woman cringed in the corner clutching a threadbare shawl, her face grimy and slack.
For centuries, there had been nowhere to build but up. Consequently, Old Town was constructed of tall buildings sloping together at the top.
A man’s worth and wealth were determined by where he lived. The poorest always lived on the ground floor, where broken sewers made life miserable. Those with some funds had their homes on the top floor, where traces of sunlight entered the windows. For a while they could forget where they lived.
The gaslights were still lit, and in some places they were never extinguished because sunlight never reached these narrow streets. Black was the predominant color, with varying shades of gray the only accent. The cobblestones glistened wetly, the smells ripening, causing his stomach to clench. Even being a physician didn’t prepare him for some experiences. He carefully avoided the worst of the puddles as he followed the street downward.
So many people were living on top of each other that he could witness all of man’s depravity, and only some of his virtues, within one block.
If he lived here, would he spend all his money on whiskey or gin? Possibly. He’d like to think that he’d survive, and leave Old Town as quickly as he could, but these people had probably once felt the same optimism.
The passage grew increasingly constricted, the cobblestones slick.
When the bridge between Old Town and New Town was built, huge vaults had been constructed below the span. Originally planned as warehouse space for the shops located on the road above, the vaults had been transformed into living space by the desperate and the homeless.
Edeen had claimed one of the vaults as her home. Here, the stench of effluence wasn’t as strong, but the cold, damp stone created an unhealthy place to live all the same.
Three vaults down a fire was lit. While it did little to chase away the cold, it pushed smoke into the space, which wasn’t good for Christel’s cough.
As he walked deeper into the gloom, he could feel the rumble of the traffic in the stone beneath his feet. Not far away he heard high-pitched laughter and a drunk whining about losing his bottle.
In the flickering shadows, he could see James sitting on the end of his sister’s cot. Edeen was nowhere to be seen.
Some children had been cowed by Old Town with its army of prostitutes, thieves, and drunkards, growing wide-eyed and silent. James, however, hadn’t yet succumbed to hopelessness. He was curious and inventive, asked questions incessantly, and was a handful for Edeen, who was already worn down with Christel’s illness.
Both children were too old for their years, their father’s abandonment affecting them more than their living conditions.
When James saw him, he grinned, turned to Christel and shook her leg. The little girl roused with a moan and a cough.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked, taking the ebony stethoscope from his pocket and kneeling to examine the little girl.
“She said she’d be back soon and I was to see to Christel.”
He bent and listened to her chest. Like her brother, she was small for her age. At six years old, she was too pale and thin, but he marveled at the strength of her frail body. Long after she should have succumbed to the asthma that made her life miserable, she rallied. A lesson to him that, while he might think he had some power over illness, the human will was sometimes stronger than disease.
Catriona was going to have to eat her noon meal without supervision. No doubt he would hear about his dereliction of duty later, but he wasn’t going to leave the children alone.
For the next hour he played a game in the dust with James until the boy, with the uncanny instinct of children, suddenly jumped off the end of the cot and headed for the shadows.
“Mam, the doctor is here!” he said, his voice echoing through the vault.
Edeen came into view, clutching her shawl around her shoulders. She looked tired. No, beaten down was a more apt description. He stood, giving up the only other place to sit, a small trunk that held their meager possessions.
Even under these conditions, Edeen was a beautiful woman. Tall, willowy, with a striking grace, she had bright red hair and a complexion that rivaled any London beauty. Her eyes were a soft green, and the expression in them inspired his compassion more often than not.
He waited until she greeted James, went to check on Christel, then moved to his side.
“What happened to the lace making?” he asked.
“They’ve no need for more work at the moment,” she said, her voice soft, because of James’s eternal curiosity. “We can’t wait on their needs to eat.”
“So you sell yourself,” he said, biting back his anger.
Her smile surprised him.
“I’ve something of value, at least.”
What she didn’t realize was that she could easily become diseased like any number of women he treated. What good would she be to her children if she was struggling for life herself?
They’d already had that discussion too many times to count.
He pulled out a few bank notes and reached for her hand. She stepped back, shaking her head.
“Don’t be proud, Edeen,” he said, forcing the bills into her palm. “Take it for Christel and James.”
“I don’t need your charity,” she said, her voice husky.
“Get the children some food, and some warmer blankets.”
He would have taken them to his own home, but he knew Edeen wouldn’t allow it.
Edeen was as stubborn as the princess. She wouldn’t apply for poor relief, and she wouldn’t accept money from the churches that regularly ministered here. The only assistance she’d taken was when Mrs. MacTavish had recommended her for a job. Even here, in Hell’s foyer, she’d created lovely pieces of lace for which she earned some pennies, yet not enough to afford decent lodgings or as much food as they needed.
James and Christel weren’t the only children desperately in need of help. He did what he could, but it was never, and would never, be enough. Today, however, he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate Edeen’s pride.
“Please,” he said, when she looked as if she wanted to throw the money to the ground. “For them.”
She frowned, glanced at her children, and finally nodded.
A few minutes later he left, dissatisfied with her future and with Christel’s health. He called on one more patient, Robert MacNair, an elderly man who grumbled incessantly and reminded him of his grandfather.
He had to keep all the appointments he’d scheduled before agreeing to attend to the princess. The rest of his patients were all wealthy matrons, most of whom had fewer true ailments than querulous complaints. They were lonely, bored, or wanted to flirt with him.
Catriona was most definitely not in that category. She didn’t want to flirt with him. Instead, she wanted nothing to do with him. In addition, he’d seen her limp and observed that she had some difficulty with her left arm. He wondered at the damage done to her face.
To a beautiful woman, any mark would be a disaster. What was the meaning of ugly to a princess?
I
n the month since she’d returned from London, Catriona had grown accustomed to her prison of rooms. After all, the suite of sitting room, bedchamber, and bathing room was substantially larger than the childhood room she’d shared with Jean, the maid’s quarters at Ballindair, or even the suite she’d occupied once Jean married her earl.
At first, when her leg was still healing, she could barely walk. She’d exercised by trodding a path from one side of the bed, in front of the armoire and vanity, around the end of the bed to the door, out to the sitting room, circling the large table in the middle and then the chair beside the window, the settee in front of the fireplace, and back to the bedroom.
In this way, she’d strengthened her leg, even though those fools in London had said she might not regain the use of it. They were as pessimistic about her left arm, and she’d gradually made it stronger through lifting heavier and heavier objects.
Even after she’d walked through her rooms for an hour, she still felt restless.
Today was an anniversary, of sorts, one she didn’t truly wish to recall.
On this day, three years ago, her father was hanged. Her papa, who would sit by her bed when she had nightmares, and told her stories about his patients, making them sound like animals, like Dora Duck with her sore throat, and Maisy Mouse, who had an infection in her left ear.
Papa, who always thought she was the sweetest girl, who’d showered her with smiles and made her believe the world was a lovely place, had chosen to do what he did.
She would not cry.
Her mother had been dying, and her father, a physician, chose to end her life rather than see her suffer. He had gone to his death, if not gladly, then at least with an unburdened heart.
She and Jean had paid the heaviest price for his actions.
Shunned by their neighbors, called the Murderer’s Girls, they nearly starved in the months following his death.
Her sister had been resolutely optimistic, believing in better days. Better days? Jean’s solution was for them to become maids at Ballindair, where their Aunt Mary was housekeeper. They’d scrubbed and waxed and buffed and dusted until their hands were black and their backs ached.
From the beginning, she’d plotted to be something more than just a maid.
Through it all, Jean had been determinedly cheerful.
Perhaps she should emulate her sister. After all, Jean had gone on to become the Countess of Denbleigh, while she was a scarred hermit in a lush Edinburgh prison.
She told herself not to look back. Nothing in her past would make her hopeful. She would simply get through this day and all the rest.
Perhaps she simply needed an occupation, an interest other than her hermitage. She had no skill at needlework. She didn’t have a pianoforte in her sitting room. After the interlude with Andrew Prender, she didn’t want to have anything to do with painting or drawing. Not that she wouldn’t have as much talent as he’d pretended to have, but even looking at a painting brought Andrew to mind.
Sometimes she wished she had the courage to venture outdoors during the day.
Her midnight walks would have to suffice.
Catriona picked up one of the books Jean had sent her. A few chapters in, she rolled her eyes at the foolish predicament of the heroine. At least the woman had a face. At least she wouldn’t terrorize children. At least she didn’t have to be swathed in veils to shield others from a sight that would make them gasp in horror.
But even bitterness became tiring after a while.
In this new and solitary world, she missed people the most. She’d always been surrounded by people. Women had sought her out for help with their appearance. In Inverness, she’d been popular. At Ballindair, she’d genuinely enjoyed the company of the other maids. She’d laughed with them, and gossiped, and told tales that weren’t kind. She’d also been silly, unwise, and even mean at times.
Catriona Cameron, for all your sins, I banish you from the world.
Was this isolation punishment for everything she’d done wrong?
She sat at the window as afternoon turned into gloaming. Did anyone ever see her sitting here? Did they remark on her silence and her motionless pose?
She angled her chair, the better to see the carriage house. What was the footman doing? Why hadn’t he appeared at lunch?
Her scars were beginning to itch, as if demanding her attention. She raised the hem of her veil, allowing air to touch her face.
When it was time for the footman to appear at dinner, he was again absent. Annoyed, she opened the door to find that while the footman hadn’t appeared, her dinner tray had.
Her lunch tray had arrived in the same fashion.
Had she gotten her wish? Had he been dismissed?
She closed the door without retrieving the tray from the sideboard. What game was he playing? Whatever it was, she refused to participate. When she realized, an hour later, that she was hungry—all the pacing she’d done had worked up an appetite—she peered around the door again to find that the tray was gone. She closed the door harder than necessary, turned and leaned against it, folding her arms and frowning toward the window.