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I don’t mind the corset as much as I expected to, but it does take some getting used to, especially when I’m accustomed to bending easily. I keep it as loose as I can while still fitting into Catriona’s dresses. Tonight, I put on my outdoor boots upstairs. Then I tighten the corset to fit my going-out dress, which is tricky without Alice’s help. When I can barely breathe, it’s ready for the petticoats.
Finally, I don Catriona’s most fetching going-out dress: wine-colored wool satin, brushed to a shine. Even with the fancy—and obviously secondhand—dress, I’m not really dressed for the role of doxy. While Catriona wasn’t shy, her middle-class Victorian upbringing kept her fromhighlighting her assets to an unseemly degree. Or perhaps it wasn’t so much her upbringing as her own nature. Flashing her cleavage to distract a man was one thing, but she didn’t want him thinking he might be able to buy a few hours—or even minutes—of her time.
Catriona doesn’t have any makeup, and I’m not sure whether anyone in the household would. It’s not like the modern world, where we’re so accustomed to seeing women in makeup that if I go out bare-faced, people tell me how tired I look. Isla doesn’t wear any. The other options would be Alice—the twelve-year-old parlormaid—and Mrs. Wallace. I know Alice won’t have any, and I’m definitely not snooping around Mrs. Wallace’s room.
I don gloves and tweak my dress to be a little more revealing—which mostly just means rearranging the already low neckline. Then I arrange Catriona’s honey-blond hair with more dangling tendrils. Mostly, though, it’s going to have to be the attitude that sells it.
Gray is already in the coach when I arrive. I stop to greet Simon, the stable hand and coach driver. It’d be more efficient to just wave as I climb in, but waving—as I have learned the hard way—is not a thing yet. So I walk around to the front for a quick hello before hoisting my ankle-length skirts and climbing into the seat across from Gray.
The coach is a business asset. It’s not the hearse—I’ve seen that, which is a carriage enclosed with glass so people can see the corpse within. I’m kidding. It’s so they can see the casket, which presumably contains a corpse. This coach serves as a conveyance for grieving relatives, which means it’s entirely black, with no metal or other flourishes. Gray would say that using it as his private coach is pure practicality, but it also suits his style, simple and utilitarian.
Once inside, I arrange my skirts on the leather seats. Then I peer out the window as the coach rolls forward. The stable is located in the mews, which is the land behind the row of town houses. It’s an interesting setup, similar to ones in big cities where the garages are along a road in back. I imagine that in the modern world these have been converted to houses, probably priced far above my income bracket.
It’s late June, and a wonderfully warm evening, still nearly full light, from the northern latitude. It’s nearly ten, but looks like a summer’s midevening, with residents enjoying the gardens and strolling along the roads to visit friends.
Gray lives in the New Town, with its gorgeous town houses and wide roads and gardens in bloom. Oh, there’s still shit in the streets, but you can be sure most of it is equine, if that’s any consolation, and while the air reeks of coal smoke, it’s not the thick blanket that stifles the Old Town.
The Old Town is where we’re heading. For centuries, it was the whole of Edinburgh. As the capital of Scotland—with a castle once occupied by a king or queen—the city is a walled one. When the population grew, the wealthy did what they always do: abandon the increasingly crowded and filthy town center to the less fortunate.
In Edinburgh’s case, that meant building outside the wall. Thus, the New Town was born. Oh, there are decent parts of the Old Town, where the working class and some middle class make their homes. But there are also tenements with a level of poverty beyond imagining.
As we head up the Mound into the Old Town, I glance at Gray. He’s looking out the window, lost in thoughts spinning lightning fast. As much as I hate to interrupt, I know better than to presume he’ll snap out of it on his own.
“You said you’d tell me about this case,” I say.
It takes a moment for him to mentally transition. Then he nods and says, “There have been two recent poisoning deaths in the city.”
“Right. I saw that in the papers.” I pause. “Wait.Thisis the case you’re not telling Isla about. Yourchemistsister?”
“I said we are not bringing her in temporarily. We will, of course, as we may need her help. The problem for now is that it is a suspected poison ring.”
“Poison ring?” My eyes widen. “Please tell me that’s an actual thing. Fancy rings with little compartments of poison for killing off enemies and inconvenient lovers. Also, I want one.” I pause. “A poison ring. Not an inconvenient lover.”
Gray shakes his head. “There is no such thing.”
“As a ring full of poison? Or an inconvenient lover?”
“There is a fashion for rings with a small compartment in which women are said to carry poison. In truth, the small compartments are used to hold pills, perfume, and even mementos. Yes, I am certain some women buy them purely for their air of mystique and whiff of scandal, but that is not the sort of ring I mean.”
“Which is…?” I say.
“A ring of women who murder their loved ones with the help of another woman, who provides them with poison.”
“Like a book club, but instead of sharing books, they share poison.” I waggle my brows. “And murder.”
He sighs, but there’s a note of indulgence in it. Now that he knows my story, he’s becoming accustomed to my modern language and sense of humor.
“Fine,” I say. “Murder is never a laughing matter. But given what I’ve seen of some Victorian husbands, I wouldn’t blame their wives for stirring a little arsenic into their tea. The same would go for some Victorian fathers. Possibly even some Victorian brothers.” I raise my hands. “Present company excepted. You understand my meaning, though. If women in this time are imprisoned, the ones holding the keys are often their male relations.”
“I will not deny that. I would say that the situation is better in Scotland, but I understand that better is relative.”
Coverture doesn’t apply in Scotland—coverture being the common-law practice that says once a woman marries, control over everything from her money to her basic rights goes to her husband. A married couple is legally one person, and that person is her husband.
I continue, “So a poisoning ring theorizes that women who want to get rid of an inconvenient family member find another woman who’ll sell them poison. Once they’ve offed their husband, another woman says ‘Oh, you lucky duck,’ and the killer provides the address of the poisoner.”
“Correct.”
I look out the carriage window, giving myself a moment to think. We’re reaching the top of the Mound. Even this late, children scurry about on errands, desperate to make a few coins before the sun drops. I catch a glimpse of a girl in a doorway. She’s no more than twelve, and when the carriage passes, she flips up her skirt, an invitation for the wealthy gentleman in such a fine coach.
