Chapter Text
When Lady Jemima Thomas eloped with Dr. Henry Jekyll it was no small scandal. The well-respected, obedient Lord Thomas’ daughter had run off with the upstanding city doctor. Dr. Jekyll was not by any means inestimable. He was a good man, respected in his field, respected in society, but by no means of noble blood. This latter element in mind, upon her elopement to the good doctor the Lady Jemima Jekyll née Thomas had been cut off, stripped of her fortune and nobility, and was perfectly elated despite her situation. Anyone who witnessed the couple remarked they had never seen a couple quite so in love. Even those who put so much stock in those rules of class and conduct couldn’t help but melt at the sincere idolatry the young woman had for her husband–though he was near her father’s age–and his devotion to her. It would be a near impossible task to find another couple so singularly infatuated with one another. Still, the scandal persisted when barely a week had passed and the news was released that the young Lord Cornelius Thomas, the newly-married Jemima’s brother, had died in a tragic accident, though no other circumstances were released. He was buried in a closed casket. Lady and Dr. Jekyll did not attend the funeral. Speculation ran rampant in both high and low circles despite attempts to quell the rising tide. In the following year no new information came to light, and in another the rumors had died. Lord Thomas’ death was a tragic accident, leaving the Lord and Lady Thomas distraught and with no one to leave their fortune to. It wasn’t discussed anymore.
Ten years had passed since the Thomas scandal and it was quite forgotten. London society thrived and circles of nobility remained closed and the two were never to touch one another. The Dr. and Mrs. (for she insisted on being called Mrs. and not by her former title of nobility) were known as a popular, amiable couple, hosts of many an elegant dinner party and the ideal guests. Whenever Dr. Jekyll had been hidden too long in his laboratory Mrs. Jekyll would throw a lavish party to draw him out and he seemed perfectly amiable to see his friends once more after extended bouts of solitude. In public they were rarely from each-other’s side and seldom could you see Dr. Jekyll’s arm without Mrs. Jekyll's hand on it. Those with a keener eye for observation even noted a sort of hunger in his eyes when he looked at her too long. He would gaze at her as if lost in thought, and then, upon realizing the path of his musings would shake his head, blush, and return to conversation with vigor. It was common opinion that behind closed doors the rigid theist couldn’t keep his hands off his wife.
“Henry?” Jemima gathered a handful of her skirts, careful not to spill her candle as she trekked down the staircase to Henry’s study. She got no response, met only with the static of pen on paper. Reaching the bottom of the stairs she looked up from her slippered feet to see the mostly dark laboratory lit by a handful of candles surrounding the normally towering figure of Dr. Henry Jekyll hunched over a plethora of papers and chemicals. Walking softly she approached him as one approaches a feral cat, ready to appease an outburst before it happened. A slender hand laid itself on his shoulder and he jumped, spinning around and straightening to face his would-be attacker. He laid eyes on his wife, like a ghost in a white nightgown trimmed in lace, her hair loose around her pale face.
“Jemima, you scared me, dove, you shouldn’t surprise me like that. What if I were handling something volatile?”
She ignored his question and raised her free hand to caress his cheek, feeling the stubble left from days of experimentation. She’d make an appointment at the barber’s for him.
“You need to come to bed,” she said soothingly. He brushed her off impatiently, hunching over his workbench again, looking nearly a foot shorter than he usually was.
“What I need is to finish this, I’m so close I swear I can taste it,”
“Taste all those nasty chemicals? I’d rather not,” she quipped. He did not respond.
“Henry it’s nearly one in the morning just come to bed please?”
“I can’t, not when I’m-” he was cut off abruptly as Jemima sighed, placed her candle on the bench, and forced herself between it and Henry until her face was millimeters from his.
“You’re coming to bed, darling, this will all be here tomorrow, yes? This new nightgown however, won’t be new forever…” she trailed off blinking up at him through her lashes, pouting, until he sighed and nodded, lifting a hand to rub his tired eyes. Smiling gently, Jemima lifted each of Henry’s hands in her own, placing them on her waist before settling her own around his neck. Muscle memory guided his hands around to the small of her back as his shoulders drooped and he buried his face in her hair. They stood there a moment in companionable silence until Jemima broke it. Slipping out of his arms, she grabbed his hand and a candle, gently guiding him out of his laboratory and through the rest of the house. In the hall they passed the butler, Mr. Poole, who was in his nightshirt and looked ready to go to bed himself.
“Sorry to keep you up so late, Mr. Poole. If you wouldn’t mind terribly blowing out the candles in the laboratory then you can go to bed. I’ll help Dr. Jekyll to bed myself,” Jemima smiled at him as he nodded, bidding her goodnight before leaving to finish his final task of the night.
“I’m not some invalid, Jemima, I can-”
“Jemima? I don’t know a Jemima,” she smiled at him playfully. He sighed.
“Dove, I am not some invalid, I can change and wash myself as well as any grown man,” despite his protests he did not let go of Jemima’s hand.
“Yes, dear, but I fear if I let go of you, you'll wander back downstairs and I’ll never see my husband again! Just some stranger banging around in his vests,” Henry didn’t respond, seemingly lost in thought. He remained in thought until she had guided him to the bathroom off their cabinet, and had begun unbuttoning his shirt.
“I can undress myself dear,” he sighed at her, though this one had a hint of good-natured bemusement beneath.
“But I like doing it for you,” she pouted up at him and he rolled his eyes in a sort of ‘well go on.’ He allowed himself a private smile at the way her face softened as he allowed her to rid him of his vesture. He truly did love his wife but… God, he was so close he could taste it. The separation of the good and evil in man. He would be rid of the bad soon, he would find a way for his goodness and morals to prevail at all times. Perhaps his own evil intentions could be exercised, so that he would be free of those intrusive back-of-the-mind mutterings that made him feel ill. No, those thoughts weren’t Henry Jekyll, but someone else entirely. He comforted himself with that thought as Jemima straightened the collar of his nightshirt and guided him to their bed. No man who produced desires so evil would ever be lucky enough to have an angel such as her at his side, he reflected, lifting an arm so that Jemima could press herself against him. However… he looked at his perfect wife, she had the kind of face that screamed she could do no wrong and yet…
He brushed away the thought and leaned his head down to kiss her gently. She responded with vigor, lifting a hand to caress the side of his face. When he pulled away she gave him a coy smile.
“You know, this is a new nightgown,” she said, lowering her hand to trace patterns on his chest.
“You’ve said that twice tonight and I have no inkling as to what that should mean,” he said.
“I think that nightgowns, like new houses, should be christened, if I am to appeal to your religious sensibilities,”
Henry looked down at her. God, was she beautiful, with long chocolate hair and playful hazel eyes that seemed to beckon to him, a fine figure with wide hips and skin milk pale from breast to thigh. He thought back to their days as newlyweds; if “christening” the house truly blessed it, their townhome was as holy as heaven. He held a veritable goddess of temptation in his arms and yet…
“I am sorry, my dove I… well I… my head is so full and I keep thinking-” she cut him off with a gentle kiss.
“It is alright, darling, the nightgown will keep. Besides, so long as it doesn’t die before it’s christening it won’t go to hell,” she sounded perfectly cheery but he saw the disappointment in her eyes. She settled down in his grasp, her head resting against his chest.
“Just talk to me, would you, Henry darling? You’ve been locked away for so long on this project and I barely understand what you’re trying to accomplish,”
He heaved a breath, not looking at her. Would she think him insane? No, she had been by his side all these years, she had loved and cherished and supported him. He had been there for her in her darkest hour, she had no one else to turn to. How could she think him mad?
“I believe man has sides, he is fundamentally good and evil, but he must repress the evil and in doing so it gains more fervor. A thought unexercised only grows stronger you know. If I can separate the good and evil in myself, then I can banish the bad parts of myself, never feel them again, no evil thoughts will plague me, no wrath or pride or lust or-”
“What’s so bad about lust, hm?” Jemima said, half teasing.
“It is a sin, my dove”
“A sin to want your wife?” she queried, then her face fell “unless,”
“No, no!” Henry paled, gathering his wife closer to him “never have I wanted another, I can swear that to you in complete sincerity. It is only, some of the desires that accompany my desire to… bed you are, well, too much I suppose,”
“Do you still desire me, Henry?” she asked, head turned away from him, voice meek.
“Of course I do, my dove, but I fear I may not be able to control my own desires,”
“And why should you?” She turned her head to look at him, “I am your wife, am I not? Is this not what we are meant to do?”
Henry sighed, and couldn’t bring himself to answer. What did she know about his thoughts?
“Just know that I love you, Henry darling, all parts of you–even the ones you don’t love about yourself,”
“Once I exorcize this part of me, I swear to you, dove, I will repay my neglect tenfold,” he placed a gentle hand on her cheek. It was long and slender, with nimble fingers–doctor’s fingers, and it was cold… so cold, but oh so gentle. Jemima closed her eyes and leaned into its comfort.
“I love you, Henry darling,” she said, her body sagging into his. Henry bent down and pressed a kiss to her furrowed brow, watching it smooth over as he did.
“And I love you, Jemima, my dove,” and he blew out the candle, and the couple went to sleep.
Dr. Jekyll woke up the next morning to sun streaming through the breaks in the blinds and a cold bed beside him. He yawned and stretched, turning to the clock above the mantle. It was nearly noon. He started, surprised at the lateness of the hour. He hadn’t slept past seven in years. Blinking blearily he pushed back the sheets and shuffled around a moment seeking his slippers before shoving his feet inside, grabbing his dressing gown and wrapping it around him to face the cold. Disregarding the need for dress, he left the cabinet and traipsed through the hall and down the stairs. The house was quiet, as the servants were likely tucked in their quarters downstairs with little to do in such an empty household.
At the back of the house, overlooking the modest garden was a fine library. It took up most of the back left quarter of the house and was built of fine dark wood that never sagged under the weight of countless volumes. Years ago, before the wedding there had been mostly medical texts, scientific volumes and tomes of strange alchemical ideals and theories. In the unvisited corners were old books from the previous owner, histories and dull old plays at the most exotic, but now a large portion was taken up by novels. The entire corner near the large bay window and window seat was filled with romances and mysteries and other frivolous fictions all for his wife’s perusal. That was where he found her. She was still in her dressing down, curled under a blanket to combat the October chill leaking through the window. Outside the garden had begun to wither, some leaves turning brilliant irate orange but most wilting brown. Her nose was buried in a fine yellow leather-bound book, a table with an empty tray beside her, strewn with the remains of a now cold, but once hearty breakfast. She did not look up from her perusal until he stood nearly on top of her. She took her time in finishing her paragraph before marking her page with a fine green embroidered bookmark and, setting aside her reading, looked up at her husband.
“Well?” she said, raising her brows expectantly. When he only looked at her in confusion she sighed and, gathering her blankets closer to her person, took his hand and pulled him rather than guided him to take his place beside her on the window seat. Without hesitation she lifted her blanket and tucked it neatly over his lap before leaning against him so that he was well and truly ensnared in her web of comfort.
“I’m glad to see you slept so well, I was beginning to worry about you,”
“You always worry, my dove, perhaps to an excessive amount,” Henry’s voice was low and gravely in its first use of the day. Jemima shivered at the quality. While Dr. Henry Jekyll had a fine, clear, bass voice that all regarded pleasing to the ear, that morning rasp that only she was privy to always gave her a minute thrill that she could not quite explain.
“What with you locked away in that laboratory all hours, not eating, or sleeping, of course I worry,” and with that mention of his work, Henry suddenly realized the previous pleasant blank state his mind had been in since his waking.
“My laboratory… my work!” He went to stand but was seized by the back of his robe and forced to sit.
“Absolutely not!” Jemima declared, “I will not lose you to that so suddenly, not at least until you’ve had a good breakfast and paid your poor lonely suffering wife at least a modicum of the attention she deserves.”
While these last words were spoken with a playful air, he saw the warning glint in her eyes and thought it better to obey her demands. Sitting back down he watched as she rose to ring the bell and summoned one of the maids to clear away her breakfast tray and commission the cook for lunch.
“It is a little early for luncheon but certainly too late for breakfast so I suppose it’ll have to do,” she mused, fixing the collar of his dressing gown. When his clothing met her standard of neatness, she once more settled beside him. Several moments passed in affectionate silence as Henry slid his fingers through hers and lifted her hand to press a kiss against it.
“I need to make an appointment for you at the barber’s,” she remarked, feeling once more the roughness of his cheeks.
“I can shave well enough on my own,”
“You can, but you don’t. Besides, you need to get out of the house more often, yes?”
Henry reflected on all the work still needing to be done, on how close he was to his goal. He would oblige her once his objectives were met. Surely she could wait a day or so. Instead of answering, he turned his attention to the novel now set aside, lifting it with his free hand and examining it. Jane Eyre by Currer Bell.
“I must admit I do not understand the appeal of your novels,” he said, turning it over in his hand, enjoying how the weak autumn light made the gold embossing glint.
“And I do not understand the appeal of all your scientific periodicals and journals. I’m rather enjoying this one. Our dear heroine, we have just discovered will be kept from her beloved by a madwoman in his attic. I must say there is a strange extent to which I sympathize with her,”
“How?” Henry said bewildered “I keep no madwoman in the attic!”
“No, but you do keep a madman in our cellar,” she said pointedly.
“Jemima-” she coughed rather aggressively.
“My dove, please, let us not discuss it. You know how important it is to me,” he entreated, but before she could make her opinions known the door opened and the maid came in with the lunch tray, and discussion veered far from the topic of his experimentation. Henry understood her frustrations. His Jemima was a woman of few desires. Her one true wish, which she expressed often, was to aid and support him in any way she could. This, of course, translated to a desire to be well acquainted with all aspects of his life at all times and during all occupations, including any emotions or inner thoughts that may have occurred to him. In fact, any inner thoughts in her presence were quite impossible, for the moment one struck him, she seemed acutely aware of its existence, and had an immediate and sincere desire to get acquainted with it as soon as possible. Naturally, his secrecy was rather incongruous with this aspect of her character.
Despite this, luncheon conversation turned to the usual mundanities of the first conversations of the day–what plans were for the rest of the day (Jemima was teaching the young Miss Daniels piano since her mother had passed before she could be taught), the order of what was to be had for dinner (chicken and cold pudding) and other such trivialities. Henry watched his wife with affection as she went on about how his household affairs had been getting on in his absence. Truly he had made no mistake in his choice of wife. Attentive and affectionate, gentle and genteel, and beautiful as Aphrodite herself… he dropped his fork.
“Are you quite alright, darling?” She asked, taking the now shaking hand that had once held the fork.
“Yes, yes my dove I am quite fine,” and after a moment’s pause, “I need to get back to work,”
Jemima sighed but did not protest. Instead, she rang the bell once more, ordered their tray be cleared, and accompanied him upstairs to dress. Her ladies maid had to be called and they disappeared into her own chambers to dress and prepare for the day. Henry summoned Mr. Poole and began the process of dressing.
He, of course, finished the process of dressing much sooner, his plain suit lacking the complexities of a fine lady’s dress, and while he was itching to return to his laboratory he resigned himself to waiting in the sitting room of their chambers. She soon emerged dressed, as always, like the most fashionable woman in London. She was, of course. Her dress was an extravagant red and white set, the oriental velvet draped and pinched in the fashionable silhouette, much of the red cascading from her back down the exaggerated bustle. The hat was equally exuberant, sitting high on her head with a large white fabric rose. She thanked her maid as she handed her a white parasol (with matching red bow) and a pair of gloves. Ensemble complete, she turned to her husband who stood on her approach and began straightening his already perfectly starched collar.
“I don’t understand why you insist on me dressing for the day when I will neither go out nor take visitors,” he said, taking a moment to appreciate how well finery suited her.
“If you do not dress for the day you will not be able to tell day from night nor work from leisure, I know your habits my dear,” satisfied with the state of his collar she lowered her hands and looked at him expectantly. He offered her his arm and they left their chambers, venturing down the stairs to the foyer where they were to part.
“You look lovely, dove, are you sure you only have an appointment with the young Miss Daniels?” Henry teased, letting go of Jemima’s arm to stand facing her.
“Whatever can you mean?” she puzzled, looking up at him.
“Well, I’ve heard the widower Mr. Daniels is looking for a new wife,” he spoke in a casual unconcerned tone, examining the front door with interest. Jemima swatted him gently on the chest and he laughed, turning once more to face her.
“You are a scoundrel and an incorrigible tease,”
“I’m just keeping in mind that my wife is the most beautiful woman in all of London and that I need to keep an eye out for any bachelors who might try and steal you,” he rested his hands on her waist and pulled her close to him.
“I think I can safely promise you, Henry, that you needn’t worry about another man, ever,” and she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. The Westminster chimes sounded the three quarter hour from the grandfather clock in the corner and she jumped.
“Oh goodness I’m going to be late,” she pulled herself from his grasp as one pulls themself from a warm bed early in the morning and sighed.
“I’ll come fetch you for dinner, you’re not working through it again,” and with another final kiss, she was gone. The house suddenly colder in her absence, Jekyll turned from the door towards the entrance to his laboratory. He was so close. By the time Jemima returned home he would have cracked it. He had to.