Gage considered my words and then pressed. “Yes, but why . . .”
“Because I always suspected he was displeased with Sir Anthony’s treatment of me,” I snapped, aggravated that he was being so bloody persistent. I sighed and stepped back from the mare before I spooked her. Crossing my arms over my chest, I lowered my voice, lest the stable hands hear me. “Dr. Renshaw was already my husband’s assistant when we married. He was not present during the first few times Sir Anthony forced me to sketch and document his dissections, but soon after he was allowed to attend. My husband always did like having an audience he could lecture to,” I remarked bitterly. “At first, I was mortified. But soon after, I realized that Dr. Renshaw was just as discomfited. He seemed horrified by my husband’s actions, a speculation that was confirmed when Sir Anthony left us alone to complete the dissection of a man’s head one afternoon.”
A cloud passed over the sun, temporarily dampening the bright sunlight shining down on the stable yard. “After our discussion that day, I had hopes that I had found a champion. And, indeed, I’m quite certain he did at least protest my treatment to my husband.” I shook my head with a sigh. “But it was to no avail. I never saw Dr. Renshaw again. Sir Anthony dismissed him.” Albeit with what must have been a glowing reference, as Renshaw had found himself a position at the Royal College in Edinburgh soon after. “And he declined to take on any future assistants.”
“Didn’t this Renshaw complain to anyone about your husband’s conduct?” Gage’s brow was furrowed in displeasure.
I shrugged, having long ago accepted the futility of expecting Renshaw’s aid. “Who would he have told? It was his word against Sir Anthony’s, one of the most influential and distinguished anatomists of the realm and surgeon to the royal family. Dr. Renshaw’s career would have ended, without even an investigation being opened into the matter. His complaint would have been less than useless.”
Gage’s expression did not lighten. “That may have been so. But he took the coward’s way out by leaving you behind to suffer.”
I did not argue, feeling much the same way. “Well, regardless, I feel fairly certain his guilt, if nothing else, will impel him to assist us in any way he can.”
“As long as the ‘nothing else’ isn’t Cromarty’s fist wringing the life out of him.”
I turned to look at Gage with widened eyes. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that. Philip is likely to expect the worst of him.”
“Don’t fret,” Gage replied, turning to face my horse so that I couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, though I could hear the relish in his voice. “Cromarty won’t do anything to him that he doesn’t deserve.”
The crunch of gravel drew my gaze toward the house. Michael was striding across the drive, a thunderous expression on his face. Miss Remmington struggled to keep up, while Damien trailed behind, glaring daggers at her back. I turned to share a look with Gage, much less enthused with this excursion than I had been before their trio of surly faces arrived on the scene.
With our host’s impatient urgings, we were all quickly mounted and riding almost due south. Michael explained that the nearest bridge across the River Almond lay several miles upstream from Cramond. A ferry often ran back and forth across the river from the village proper to the north shore, but five humans and their horses would never fit on the small barge, necessitating our taking the bridge. Fortunately the Wallaces’ home, Lambden Cottage, lay south of the village and closer to the bridge, forcing us to go only a mile out of our way rather than the extra two it would have taken us to reach the village.
While we were forced to travel away from the sparkling waters of the firth, the countryside around us was not without its charms. The forests blazed with the colors of autumn and were bordered by fields waving with golden wheat and barley. Orderly rows of orchards, the sweet scent of their fruit perfuming the air, spread out to the west, followed by the winding ribbon of one of the roads leading north and west away from Edinburgh. We joined the road just before the bridge spanning the River Almond. The clop of our horses’ hooves over the three arches of stone echoed off the water below us.
When we reached the east bank and turned north toward Cramond, I dropped back to ride beside Miss Remmington. She had been quiet and thoughtful since we set out, and I wondered if she was thinking of her friend.
“How long have you known Miss Wallace?” I asked her, hoping she might be able to enlighten me on the missing girl’s character.
Miss Remmington glanced at me distractedly. “A few months.”