Seeking Hyde by Reed Thomas;

Author:Reed, Thomas;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beaufort Books, Incorporated
Published: 2018-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

12

“Well,” said Enfield, “That story’s at an end at least. We shall never see more of

Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson.

—STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

BOURNEMOUTH, JANUARY 1886

“You’re certain that you won’t come out with me?” Stevenson shouted from the entrance hall as he donned and buttoned his overcoat. “It’s a bonnie day. For January.”

“I don’t think so. I still don’t feel very lively.”

“Would you prefer that I stayed here with you?”

“Not at all. Honestly, you go out. I’ll be fine.”

Stevenson walked to the door of the drawing room and looked in at his wife. She lay on the chaise longue, half-covered by a thick woolen lap robe. She was reading through what now seemed as though they might be the final chapters of Kidnapped, the title Stevenson had settled on despite James’s marked distaste for it. Fanny had been suffering for two days from a marked female indisposition, troublesome enough to be sure, but in fact a considerable relief after several long weeks of worry that the Stevenson ménage might inadvertently be growing by one member. Stevenson had had more than one nightmare about changing diapers, something he suspected Fanny might well require him to do.

“Can I bring anything back for you? Chocolates? Champagne? A wee dog?”

“Ooh, a puppy would be lovely.”

“What color?”

“You choose.”

“I shall see what I can do.”

The day’s post had brought a letter from Andrew Lang mentioning that his review of the newly published Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde would be appearing in the Saturday Review. Stevenson expected it would be positive, although not revealingly so: the Scots man of letters was a close friend. At the same time, Lang’s would be the first appraisal to appear, and Stevenson was eager to see it.

It was in truth an exceedingly pleasant day, for the dead of winter, and Stevenson grew warm as he sauntered along. By the time he reached the town center, he had loosened his cravat and doffed his broad-brimmed hat, earning him a stare or two from the more staid among his passers-by. He knew he could find the Review at his regular newsagent’s, but he resolved to check at a bookshop nearer to hand, west of the central square.

As he approached the broad, copiously-mullioned windows of the establishment, he smiled to remember long-ago days when he and Cummy would peer into similar windows at Wilson’s in Leith Walk, scanning the covers of the penny-papers on display for any indications of their contents. Once a hopeless devotee of cheap periodicals, his deeply pious nursemaid had become increasingly concerned that they might harbor some kind of subtly sordid matter that could blotch the soul of her innocent charge, perhaps even blotch her own. She had consequently and abruptly called a halt to all suspect acquisitions. At the same time, readerly curiosity lived on in her undiminished, and time and again the two of them would stand, their noses to the glass, scouring the woodcuts and their legends for hints of the fates of various characters they had once so avidly followed.

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