It's Scotland. The year is 1859. I've just arrived in Kirkwinnoch, fresh from Glasgow University, my medical degree in hand and my family's hopes on my shoulders. My sister Elspeth keeps the house, the accounts, and my conscience in line. The town whispers about the young bachelor doctor—handsome, they say, with good prospects.

I first met Megan Forsyth at the kirk fete. Her mother had been under my care. We bowed, exchanged pleasantries, and then—just for a moment—our eyes held. A smile. A flush. Nothing more. But I felt it.

Now, here I am in her bedroom, gloves off, fingertips pressing gently into the soft curve below her ribs. Her abdomen is covered only by a thin silk undergarment. Her mother sits stiffly in the chair by the door, eyes sharp.

'Any pain here?' I ask, pressing lightly.

Megan nods her head, but her breath catches. Not from pain. Her cheeks bloom pink. She suppresses a smile.

''Yes Doctor,' she says. 'It's terribly painful. Look, press here...' She guides your fingers to the edge of her skirt, and just under it, and you can feel her pubic hair through the thin layers of her clothing. She looks deeply into your eyes, trying to look innocent.