Page 48 of The Laudanum Ladies' Society

‘I’m not like you, Mim. I can’t paint or draw to make a living. I don’t have any means with which to support myself, and the income on my inheritance is pitiful,’ Jenny said.

‘So you’ll sell the means of misfortune to others,’ Miriam snapped. ‘And don’t call me Mim while we’re arguing.’

That felt like a slap in the face. To hear Miriam speaking with such disdain and disappointment was intolerable, but even so, there was something slightly hypocritical in her condemnation. ‘Well, if we’re arguing, then you told me you have occasionally met the rent by selling yourself, so don’t lecture me about how I earn mine!’ Jenny threw back.

‘Yes, I’ve sold myself, which has had no adverse effect on anyone else.’ Miriam was raising her voice and the bartender walked over and slapped his hands down on the table.

‘This is a respectable establishment and we’ll have no harlots fighting here. Keep your voices down or get out.’

‘We’re not harlots!’ Jenny exclaimed.

‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ Miriam snapped. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Don’t, please. We’re both upset after what we saw. We don’t have to fight,’ Jenny said. She tried to be soothing, but her voice was unsteady. Miriam stood. Her cheeks were very pale, and she wrapped her stole around herself tightly.

‘You look down on women for using their bodies as they choose and you don’t even want your image to be sold, yet you will happily sell the means for women to become inebriated. You are nothing but a hypocrite.’

Jenny pushed her seat back, furious at the accusation, but Miriam turned and walked away. Jenny stood, about to follow her, but at that moment the barmaid approached the table and pointed at the plate of liver and onions. Jenny sat back down, slumping into her chair. ‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ she said.

The barmaid shrugged. ‘Someone has to pay for it.’

Jenny reached into the deep pocket of her coat for her purse. By the time the bill was settled and she had left, Miriam was nowhere to be seen. She rubbed her eyes. Miriam had overreacted, and to give her the benefit of the doubt, she must be upset at the discovery of the corpse, too. In a day or two, she would seek Miriam out and hope that she might listen to her explanation with kinder ears.

Jenny picked up her skirts and walked towards the wider streets. Now that she was alone, she felt fragile. Men openly looked at her, assuming that she was a streetwalker, or perhaps just prey. None of them directly propositioned her, but she did not feel safe and decided that the next time she ventured out after dark, she would be wearing men’s apparel.

Chapter Fifteen

Three days after their argument over the source of payment, Archibald went under the knife. He had barely spoken to Gwen in the interim, which she ascribed to his nervousness at what the operation would entail. Against her better judgement, she’d read descriptions of the procedure, and mentions of scalpels and lenses and incisions and ether jumped around her mind.

She accompanied him to Moorfields and waited anxiously for his return from the ward. He had, at the last moment before being led away, acknowledged that the private treatment room was worth the extra expense as he would not have to suffer the indignity of being viewed by students. He returned on the arm of an orderly with his eyes heavily bandaged and a waxy pallor to the visible part of his face. She helped him into the hansom cab that she had hired and sat holding his hand, chatting about what they were passing until he silenced her with a harsh comment of, ‘Will you be quiet, you foolish woman!’

Gwen obeyed and it was fortunate that Archibald’s eyes were bound, because she couldn’t stop her tears falling. She blinkedthem away, recognising anger as well as unhappiness in the hot tracks down her cheeks. He was in pain and discomfort and didn’t need to hear her prattling on, but his rudeness was becoming more intolerable. Once he was healed, she would expect better of him. She instructed the driver to stop outside the pharmacy.

‘Are you determined to bring shame upon me by displaying my infirmity to all and sundry?’ Archibald asked.

‘There’s no shame,’ Gwen told him. She pulled a face, revelling slightly in his ignorance of it. ‘Though we can stop around the corner, if you would prefer, and I can guide you along the pavement.’

He grunted and admitted a shorter walk would be more discreet and more bearable.

His hands were shaking and his grip on her arm faltered as she helped him down. She paid the driver, thanking her lucky stars that she didn’t have to count the pennies.

‘A scandalous waste of money,’ Archibald grumbled, though Gwen could tell his heart was not really in it.

Gwen fumbled with the door key. ‘Would you have preferred to walk home with me guiding you through the streets in front of everybody, or sitting on an omnibus?’

‘Take me upstairs. I need to rest. The room must be completely dark.’

He hadn’t answered her question and Gwen took it to mean that he agreed with her but was not prepared to concede the point.

The next two days were a trial for Gwen. It was too soon to say whether Archibald’s vision had improved, but his temper most certainly had deteriorated and she was sorely tempted to give him a dose of the tincture to improve his disposition, but she ignored the little voice whispering in her head and gave him the laudanum that he had prescribed for himself.

Fortunately, the bandages over his eyes meant that she did not have to hide her expression, but within a week they would be removed and the doctors would be able to judge the effectiveness of the surgery.

‘What has got into me?’ she wondered as she caught herself scowling at him. She was turning into the sort of wife that everybody disliked, finding fault with her husband and thinking rebellious thoughts. Then again, another part of her looked at the easy relationship between the baker next door and his wife; the daily affection between the costermonger and his wife who lived across the road; the couples who came into the pharmacy clearly anxious for the other’s welfare. More often than not, she found her eyes filling with tears that she could not excuse by blaming them on the change of life that she suspected was beginning to approach.

Mr Rosewood and Jenny came visiting on the morning of the fourth day, enquiring after Archibald’s health.

‘My husband might be sleeping,’ she greeted them uneasily.