[CW: Reference to domestic violence]

Mr. Carrington needed his help. For a moment, Tristan considered giving an excuse. There were few people he really hated, but a man who battered his wife was definitely on the list. He had written a medical report for the police. Nothing had happened with it. The situation still haunted him. He still hoped to find a way to help out poor Mrs. Carrington. And now he was to treat her husband?

He had no patients at the moment, however, and he desperately needed the money. Desperately. And so he had gone with the servant. Did that make him complicit? He had sworn an oath, he reasoned with himself while they were underway. He had a responsibility. He would try to separate the physical treatment of whatever ailed Mr. Carrington from the disgust he felt for the man’s person.

He had never been to the Carrington mansion. It was so large and opulent it was obscene, and it only made him more uncomfortable. The servant led him through entirely too many corridors, before knocking on a door and entering.

“Doctor Tristan Wells, sir.” Tristan heard himself introduced. He stepped into a dark and stuffy room, black doctor’s bag in his hand. The curtain were blocking out the daylight, and when had the windows last been opened? It took him a moment to adjust to the dim light and focus on the young man.

One of the sons! It was one of the sons who needed his help! Why had that thought not occurred to him? Did this one drink as well, though? He looked like crap.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.