Friday, July 6, 1888
Mr. Rigby sipped his tea, peering at me over his cup. “How was the funeral?”
That was genuinely the last thing I wanted to think or speak of. It had all been so taxing and, well, somber. The previous few days had been a blur of preparations and sympathy cards. Consolatory notes flooded in from friends, minor acquaintances, and people I did not even know. It shocked me how saddened many of his regular patients were to hear of Marshall’s death. Perhaps he was kinder to them than he had been to his own wife.
“I suppose all went as planned,” I said. “I am just grateful his horrible family is in Liverpool and could not attend.”
“Did any members of your family attend?”
“I have no family left on this side of the Atlantic.”
Since the weather was fine, Everett and I took tea in the garden behind my home, a small but lovely little spot. Nothing like Mr. Lindsey’s extravagant garden, of course, with its fountain and seclusion. I had already spotted Louise spying on us from the windows that overlooked our little salon for two.
Apparently, she had not believed me when I told her Mr. Rigby, a man of Indian descent, was a cousin of mine.
“I forgot to tell you about the last conversation I shared with my husband,” I said, lifting my teacup. “Our final moments together were unfortunately unpleasant. We quarreled and then…” I winced. “Well, he somehow knew you and I write to one another.”
Mr. Rigby’s eyebrows went up. “Oh.”
I sipped. “I guess it does not matter now. I mean, it’s not like you two knew one another anyway.”
“Indeed.” His brows knit together. “Was he terribly angry?”
“Not particularly. I genuinely think he just wished to shock me into silence.” I paused. “In that, at least, he was successful.” Setting my tea down, I caught sight of my black sleeve and frowned at it. “Expecting widows to dress in black is cruel. Losing one’s husband is difficult as it is without having them dress in a color that does not suit them.”
“I never understood that custom,” Mr. Rigby said, leaning back in his chair a little. “The length of the mourning period is absurd as well.”
I barely knew Marshall for two years and now I am expected to grieve the loss of him for two years. While wearing black. Ridiculous.
“If I am to marry again, I shall need to do it while I am still young. I agree, two years will not do.”
He paused. “How long would you wait?” He lowered his eyes for a moment before looking back up to me. “If there were, say, someone who loved you and wanted to marry you, would you still wait?”
My heart quickened. I knew what he meant. I just had not expected his directness. Instead of finding his haste improper, it thrilled me.
I lowered my gaze again. “I do not know.” Tilting my chin up slightly, I regained some composure. “I suppose it depends if I received an offer tempting enough to risk damaging my reputation.”
My comment was rewarded with a deliciously mischievous smile.
Mr. Rigby continued. “What would make the offer impossible to decline?”
You. Ask me. Ask me now. Do it, you fool. Just ask me and I will marry you today. We will leave London and go to America where no one will know us, and it will not matter that I went from wife to widow to wife in a week.
“Hard to say.” I rested my hand beside my teacup and ran a fingertip over the etched flower design on the porcelain. “It would have to be a man of exceptional character.” I brushed my pinky against his for a moment before picking up my tea again. “Why, do you know of anyone?”
Mr. Rigby’s eyes lingered on my lips. When he eventually pulled his gaze north to my eyes, his jaw tightened. “Did you love your husband?”
“I beg your pardon.” I sat up straighter.
“It is a simple question.”
“It is a very inappropriate question.”
“As opposed to the rest of this entire conversation?”
I glared at him. “Please do not make me say it.”
Mr. Rigby hesitated and nodded, his lips a tight straight line. “Drink your tea if it was a marriage of convenience.”
I sipped.
He seemed satisfied with this. I watched as he considered, and I thought for a moment that he might actually propose just then. Instead, he stood up and faced the garden wall. He sighed and lowered his head.
“Cora, I—”
“Mrs. Pringle,” Louise said, appearing in the doorway nearby, “that police constable is back. He’s got Mr. Jennings with him. I told them you were unavailable, but he said it’s important he speaks with you immediately.”
Louise shot Mr. Rigby with a vile look.
“Mr. Jennings?” I repeated. “How very odd.”
Mr. Rigby folded his hands in front of himself. “I have an appointment shortly I must attend to anyway.”
“Louise, please take Constable Fletcher and Mr. Jennings to the parlor. I will join them presently.” I stood, sliding my teacup onto the small table.
After Louise disappeared back into the house, I stood in front of Mr. Rigby. “I wish you did not have to go.” I slipped my hand into his, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Our visits are never long enough.”
He smiled shyly and lifted my hand to his lips, laying a tender kiss upon it. “Until next time, my darling.”
I saw him to the door before joining the constable and Mr. Jennings. Mr. Jennings, a stout balding man with tiny round spectacles, had been Marshall’s lawyer for many years. I could not comprehend why he was in my parlor, why the constable was back, or why they had come to see me together.
“That was my cousin who travelled to London for the funeral,” I said as I sat on the chaise, even though neither of them had asked who I was with.
Mr. Jennings nodded solemnly. “My condolences, Mrs. Pringle. Such a tragedy to lose a husband so young, especially a man so brilliant. I hope you are taking care during this difficult time.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I remember when my sister lost her husband,” he continued. “He was a younger man, too. She was devastated for months. Rarely left her bed some days. Took to weeping in the middle of conversations completely unrelated to him. We all worried—”
“Mrs. Pringle, there are a few developments into the investigation into your husband’s death,” Constable Fletcher said, kindly interrupting Mr. Jennings.
“Investigation?” I looked at Mr. Jennings and then back to him. “I was told it was a simple heart attack.”
“It was,” the police constable said. “But we believe it was brought on by physical and emotional, uh, stress.”
“What do you mean?”
“As you know, Mrs. Pringle,” Mr. Jennings said, “there was a delay in getting your husband’s will prepared for reading. A few numbers didn’t add up just right. It would appear that Dr. Pringle was, well, in a bit of a tight financial situation.”
“That is not possible.” I gestured dismissively with my gloved hand, shooing the outrageous statement away.
Constable Fletcher gave a half nod. “It’s true, ma’am. It would appear he required funds and went to … an unwholesome crowd for a loan.”
My mouth dropped open slightly and just hung there for a moment, my eyebrows raised high.
“He was overdue on a loan payment and someone was sent to give him a bit of a scare,” Fletcher continued. “The man who threatened your husband outside of the opium den has been apprehended after a witness came forward to identify him—”
“This is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard in my life,” I said with a laugh. “How could Marshall ever be desperate for money? His clients were all socialites—”
“You would be shocked at how many socialites are deep in debt themselves, my dear,” Mr. Jennings said, his eyes looking tired. “Addictions to gambling and excess tend to drain accounts. It would seem your husband was a very good doctor but took far too many IOUs and I am afraid it got the man into some trouble. I imagine he had a lot of expenses to cover and simply not enough income to cover them.”
“Like what?” I exclaimed. “The doctor and I lived within our means.”
The two men frowned at me simultaneously.
“Dr. Pringle did tell me you were an admirer of the finer things,” Mr. Jennings said, nearly mumbling.
“Oh, so it’s my fault Dr. Pringle was literally scared to death? Perhaps if he was a better businessman or-or-or perhaps if he wasn’t spending so much money on opium every night,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare suggest such a horrible thing to a widow, especially when it sounds like it was nobody’s fault but his own.” I spoke the words before I could stop myself. I quivered my lip a little and dabbed at the corner of my eye for added effect, squeezing out a tear on cue.
Mr. Jennings’ eyes fell to his lap. “My apologies, Mrs. Pringle. I meant no offense.”
“The gentleman your husband owed money to,” the constable went on, “he’s known to Scotland Yard. He’s a shady fellow but always has his men do his dirty work for him. It would appear our hands are tied when it comes to the money owed to him. The deal was solid.”
“I understand,” I said bravely, adding a faint crack to my words. “I will pawn some of the jewels Dr. Pringle gave me and it will all be taken care of.”
Constable Fletcher and Mr. Jennings exchanged looks.
“Mrs. Pringle,” Mr. Jennings said, still not meeting my gaze, “I’m afraid it’s a bit more dire than that.”
He has destroyed me. This is all his fault. Even in death, he has achieved his goal of making me miserable.
“We can offset most of the debt by selling all of the furniture with the house,” Mr. Jennings had said minutes after breaking the news, reading casually off a list. “Your housekeeper and cook will have to go I’m afraid. Do you know if your husband ever kept a safe of some kind? Or maybe he had investments I might not know about?”
“I-I-I don’t know—”
“I recommend you do an inventory of your jewelry, gowns, and other valuables you can part with and get an estimate of their value,” he continued. “Do you have any relatives who could repay some of the debt?”
I just blinked at him, my throat aching. “No.” I closed my eyes to stop the room from spinning.
“Do you have any family you can stay with once the house is sold?”
Tears ran down my cheeks and slipped off my chin. “You know I do not, Mr. Jennings.” I broke into a sob I had been trying to suffocate. “What shall I do?”
Mr. Jennings, a man of numbers and business, was only married to his work and had no idea how to deal with a bankrupt widow. He looked at me, horrified, and gave my hand two quick pats.
“There, there,” he mumbled. “Don’t you have an aunt? Perhaps she could take you in.”
I glared at him, wiping at my face. “No. She died.”
“Ah.” Mr. Jennings returned to his list.
Aunt Charlotte was—as far as I knew—still very much alive. The only mother figure I had ever known had left for America shortly after my father died and not a letter had passed between us. An uncomfortable tension was very much still thriving when we said our goodbyes. Aunt Charlotte and America were my last resort.
“What about Dr. Pringle’s family in Liverpool?” He handed me his handkerchief.
I bristled. “They despise me.”
I had once found a letter from Marshall’s snobbish sister in which she referred to me as a “common tuft-hunter,” suggesting a venereal disease had caused my barrenness. So, no, I would not be seeking the Pringles out for shelter.
Mr. Jennings gave it another try. “Do you have any friends here who would take you in?”
Polly was the first friend to come to mind but I doubted her father—the miserly old grump—would ever agree to support me. I considered asking Viola for help but quickly remembered the way her husband Dr. Lockhart looked at me at every occasion we met. It seemed unkind of me to invite myself into their home and put unnecessary stress on their marriage.
“Unlikely.”
Mr. Jennings paused for a long while. He closed his eyes, removed his spectacles and rubbed his forehead. “It seems to me Liverpool may be your best option.”
“What if … I remarried?”
Mr. Jennings cocked his head. “Remarried? Mrs. Pringle, your husband is not yet cold in his grave.”
“My situation is dire.” I clutched the handkerchief tighter. “A woman has few options in this world. If a kind man would take me into his heart and home and under his protection, why shouldn’t I accept his offer?”
“Accept his offer? Has someone proposed to you? So soon?”
I hesitated. “It was hypothetical.”
Mr. Jennings’ mouth twisted into a deep, tight frown as one eyebrow went up. “I’m afraid your situation is anything but hypothetical. I recommend that you write to Dr. Pringle’s family and explain your circumstances.” He slid his spectacles back on. “Maybe leave the bit about the opium den and the brutes out of your letter.”
“Mrs. Pringle?”
Snapping out of my trance, I dropped my spoon into my soup, sending warm broth sloshing over the sides of the bowl. I was not even sure how long I had been staring in deep thought.
“My apologies, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Louise said. “Are you quite well, ma’am?”
Not at all.
“I am fine. Please do not be concerned.” I sat back in my seat. “I am afraid I have no appetite this evening.”
“Shall I get Cook to prepare something else, ma’am?”
I winced. Cook. Louise. They will need to be told tomorrow morning.
“No. Thank you, Louise.” I slid my chair out and wandered out of the dining room. “I believe I am just tired.”
Louise found me in my bedroom a few minutes later, struggling to untie the ribbons of my corset.
“Ma’am, let me help you—”
“No,” I snapped, backing away. “I need to … I wanted to see if I could do it myself.”
“Of course, ma’am.” She gave a short nod and left me to it, her pinched expression dripping with concerned confusion.
Louise and Cook will be gossiping about how their mistress has gone mad at the loss of her husband. No, not her husband. Just all of his money.
I stared at my reflection in my dressing table mirror, my chest heaving, every single word Mr. Jennings had said running rampant through my mind. Snatching my comb off the table, I turned away from the mirror and looked at my back in the mirror. Maneuvering my wrist just so, I slipped the comb into the loop of my corset ribbon and pulled it free. I loosened the rest of the ribbons the same way before I was able to wriggle out of it.
I let it fall to the floor and smiled, triumphant.
I will figure this out. I have to.
Dearest Cora,
I was surprised to hear from you so soon after the funeral. I am sorry I did not get a chance to speak with you for longer at the service. Dr. Pringle was a great man and cherished within London’s medical community. Papa was simply devastated to hear of his passing. I am beside myself with concern for your unfortunate financial situation. Our prayers and thoughts are with you in this time of horrendous loss.
You must know that despite our deepest desire to assist you, we are unable to invite you to stay with us at present. Papa says our home is full as it is and we simply cannot make room. Although I am not quite sure what he means since we have three unused guest bedrooms. However, he says he expects you will be back in a better position in no time at all. He is so clever about these things you know.
My sincerest apologies, Cora. You know I would have you live with us in a minute if it were up to me. If there is anything else I can do, please do not hesitate to let me know. I am sure I can be of some use in another way.
Would you like to come for tea next week? We can discuss further any time you like and are available.
Your loving friend,
Polly
Dear Cora,
Unfortunately we are unable to offer you a home at this time. Hugh’s vile sister and her three repellent children stay with us so often that we cannot give up the guest room.
Please forgive me for not being able to attend the funeral as I was ill. Hugh says the service was well done.
Sincerely,
Viola