ohn Beattie was in Dr Simpson’s study, an unusually sincere expression upon his face as he sat opposite the professor. Sarah had brought in a pot of tea and was prolonging the pouring of it in order to ascertain what was being discussed, as the mood suggested something of great import.
She often thought that the household’s preoccupation with tea-drinking provided her with untrammelled access to important conversations: hers was such a familiar presence that it was sometimes as though they all ceased to see her. However, there was only so much time to be taken in the pouring of tea without breaking this spell, and Sarah was forced to leave just as Dr Simpson tantalisingly stated: ‘You will of course have to write to her father in Liverpool, but in truth I can foresee no objection.’
Sarah had to stifle a gasp as she left the room. This could mean only one thing. She hovered just outside the door in her determination to hear what else was being said.
‘What of Mr Latimer?’ Dr Simpson continued. ‘Is he happy with the arrangement?’
‘My uncle is terribly frail at the moment and his physician has proscribed excitement of any kind. A visit is therefore out of the question, but a carefully worded letter has been written and sent. I expect a reply imminently. I have no doubt he will be entirely in agreement with the match. It will do much for his morale, in fact.’
Sarah’s joy on Mina’s behalf was short-lived, giving way instantly to suspicion. How convenient that the old man could receive no visitors. She was also annoyed at these discussions taking place in the absence of Mina herself. It was as though she was the inanimate part of a business transaction, a consignment of whale oil or shares in a coal mine – profits could not be guaranteed but the prospects were good.
Sarah was so intent upon hearing what was being said on the other side of the door that she did not hear an approach from behind her, and consequently jumped at the sound of someone clearing his throat.
‘What are you doing, Miss Fisher?’ Raven said with open amusement, though from the merciful quietness of his tone it was clear he knew precisely what she was doing.
Sarah scowled at him and put her finger to her lips. She turned back to the door to listen again but the sound of footsteps on the stairs put a definitive end to her eavesdropping.
She pulled Raven into an adjoining room to avoid them being seen. They stood in silence, waiting for whoever ascended the staircase to pass, her hands on his lapels. She was sharply aware of his proximity. His breathing seemed loud in her ears and she sensed the heat coming from him. He smelled clean, of soap, and his clothes had benefited from being properly laundered and mended. His overall appearance had improved considerably in his time at Queen Street, in fact. His face had lost its gauntness, having filled out from regular food. An image of him naked in his bath on that first day came to mind, and Sarah felt her cheeks flush at the memory. She was glad that he was unlikely to notice: as the room was unoccupied, the lamps had not been lit.
She realised she was clinging on to him and let go, embarrassed.
‘Care to tell me what is so compelling?’ Raven asked.
‘It’s Beattie. He has asked for Mina’s hand.’
‘Well, we all knew that was coming.’
He seemed oddly regretful about this, and yet resigned to it.
‘I don’t like it,’ she stated.
‘It is hardly a matter for you or me whether we like it or not.’
‘I have my concerns. There is a whiff of deceit about that man. I can sense it.’
‘Are you still suspicious that he did not tell Mina about this Julia? Because it is hardly a damning omission. What woman would wish the ghost of another haunting her marriage?’
Sarah felt a surge of irritation. ‘He hasn’t given her the gloves,’ she said.
‘What gloves? What are you talking about?’
Sarah tutted at her own impatience. She had sought to clarify things for him, but only succeeded in confusing him further.
‘I saw him buying ladies’ gloves and assumed they were a gift for Mina, but he has not given them to her.’
‘Perhaps he intends to give them to her at a later date.’
‘Perhaps he intends to give them to someone else. And there have been no orchids. Or pineapples for that matter.’
‘Sarah, you are making little sense.’
‘He promised gifts from his uncle’s hothouse and they too have failed to arrive.’
‘What is it exactly that you suspect?’
Sarah had no ready answer for him. There was something about Beattie that troubled her, but she could not put it into words.
‘And anyway, what can you do about it?’ he asked.
Looking back, Sarah might have left it at that, but the assumption that she was powerless lit a fire under her.
Why it burned the hotter for coming from Raven was a question she did not wish to dwell upon.