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Mabel backs up, looking even more confused. The newcomer is about Annis’s age but small and delicate, with finely cut features, chestnut-brown hair, and a perfect Cupid’s bow of a mouth. She might be closing in on forty, but she’s gorgeous in a doll-like way.
“Duncan!” she says. “How delightful to see you. And it’sDoctorGray now. That is wonderful to hear. I always knew that brain of yours would take you far.”
“S-Sarah,” Gray stumbles on the name. “I did not realize you…” He trails off.
Sarah smiles. “You did not realize I was back in Annis’s good graces?Yes, I was surprised at it myself. It only took fifteen years. That must be a record for your sister overcoming a grudge.”
Gray shifts and then rolls his shoulders as if to hide his discomfort. “It has been a long time.”
“Since the day Annis accepted Lord Leslie’s proposal, to be exact. One does not disagree with your sister without risking the consequences. But it truly is good to see you, Duncan. May I still call you that? It was appropriate when you were a schoolboy, but perhaps it is no longer.”
“No, of course. You were—are—Annis’s dearest friend. Duncan is fine.”
I clear my throat, as discreetly as possible.
Gray looks over, starting as if I appeared from nowhere. “Oh, of course. This is Mallory. Mallory Mitchell. My assistant.”
“A female medical assistant? Oh, I am glad to hear we are heading in that direction at last. Pleased to meet you, Miss Mitchell.”
“And you as well.”
“Duncan,” a sharp voice sounds down the hall. “Are you actually going to attend to my husband? Or did you come to make eyes at Sarah?”
“He is doing nothing of the sort, Annis. Stop needling him or he will not attend to your husband at all.” Sarah arches one perfect brow in her friend’s direction. “Unless that is your objective. Drive him out before he can help?”
Annis waves a hand and strides back down the hall.
“We have been summoned,” Sarah murmurs. “Ignore it at your peril.”
“I heard that,” Annis says without turning.
“You were supposed to, dearest.”
“Is there any chance we can know what has befallen Lord Leslie?” I say. “In advance of seeing him?”
Annis looks back then, fixing me with the look you give a child who has spoken out of turn.
“Poison,” Sarah says. “Lord Leslie has been poisoned.”
Annis leads us down enough corridors that I’m beginning to wonder whether she really is trying to stall until her husband dies. We walk down multiple halls lined with dead people. Well, portraits of old and presumably now-dead people. All men, too. Unless the Leslie family masteredthe art of self-procreation, there must be women in their family tree, but none warranted a spot in these corridors.
There are a lot of rooms. From my admittedly brief stint as a time traveler, I’ve concluded that Victorians like their rooms to serve specific functions. Of course, that doesn’t apply to the poor, who have three generations living in a room smaller than my tiny Vancouver condo. For the middle class and up, though, room function is important in a way it isn’t in my world, where rooms often meld together in open-concept areas or serve multiple functions—office, library, TV room, and sitting area.
Even in this mansion, rooms are small and very distinct. Through open doors, I see a music lounge, a library, a sunroom, and two “sitting” rooms with different decors.
Victorian decor is another thing altogether. It’s loud and it’s cluttered and it’s often themed, even if that theme is as loose as “everything is blood red scarlet.” Many items come from other parts of the world—this probably being the first time period where you could easily do that—and in this house, culture is a major theme, with an Egyptian room, an African room, an Indian room. There’s even one that I suspect is a Canadian room, complete with dead beavers and the most garish fake totem pole I’ve ever seen.
Are these all places Lord Leslie has visited and brought souvenirs home from? That’s possible, but it also screams “colonial Britain,” each room proudly displaying the art and culture and creatures as if they are spoils of war to which Leslie is personally entitled. In that context, the “Canada room” takes on a whole new meaning, as if my country—and its Indigenous peoples—are a trophy.
I think there’s a sense that the Victorians were unanimously proud of their empire and blind to the damage it did. That is not the case, as I’ve learned. Some are uncomfortable with its implications even in this time.
As we walk, Sarah explains Lord Leslie’s condition. He began complaining of stomach trouble three days ago. Annis was in London, where she’d been standing in for her husband on a business matter. Why was she doing that? Gray doesn’t ask, which means this isn’t surprising. Is Lord Leslie in generally ill health? Elderly? The point is that Annis was away, and she was summoned back when her husband came down with this stomach ailment.
The doctor had prescribed what Sarah calls cleansing medicines. Fromthe discreet description, she means emetics and laxatives. In other words, stuff that will clean out your digestive system from both ends. That didn’t work, and soon what was coming out was blood. Gray seems unconcerned about this and asks only what was prescribed, leaving me wondering how harsh Victorian laxatives are.
It was the housekeeper—Mabel—who first raised the specter of poison. A package of candied figs had been delivered in Lady Leslie’s absence. According to Mabel, they’d been taken directly to Lord Leslie. Sarah—who’d been staying at the house for the past month—was in the room with him, playing cards. She’d asked who sent them, and Lord Leslie made some noises and changed the subject.
“A lover,” Annis says curtly. “His response means he believed they came from a lover.”
