Constance and his mother prattled on about the finery needed for the next day’s events as the food was efficiently doled out by the servants. Eilian raised his gaze to admire the vase of fruit and flowers at the center of the table, but when he met his father’s dark eyes, both men stared down at their plates. When the entrees came and it was time for them to portion out their own food, Millicent Sorrell’s eyes locked onto her eldest son.
“Dear, what are we going to do with you during dinner tomorrow?” she questioned with a sigh and a shake of her head as he struggled to stab a piece of meat with any semblance of grace.
“What do you mean?”
Dylan piped up, “She means that you cannot eat like those savages you are always working with.”
She flashed her youngest son a warning glare before continuing delicately, “What I mean is, we need to find a way to work around your condition to keep the guests from feeling uncomfortable. We can’t serve the party à la russe, there are not enough people, and we can’t have the servants portion out food like a hotel. The guests will think we don’t have enough food for them to have seconds, and we don’t want that. Service à la française is simply the only choice. Maybe Sinclair can make you a plate and cut your meat ahead of time.”
Despite the nagging feeling that he should have turned down this invitation, he replied as gently and as confidently as possible, “Mother, I can manage for myself. I can serve myself, but for the sake of you and your guests’ sensibilities, I will allow one of the servants to take my plate and cut my meat after everything has been offered. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your company.”
Before his mother could acquiesce, his father’s thundering voice rolled down the table, “If you hadn’t been off gallivanting all over the empire, you wouldn’t need someone to cut your food for you.”
“Father, it could have happened to anyone. People take airship rides to see the English countryside. It— it was a freak accident,” he responded meekly as he stabbed at his food with no intention of eating it now that his stomach was in knots.
“Luckily, Eilian’s travelling days are over, Father. Now, he can devote his time to proper pursuits, like tending to the tenants on our land.”
“Good point, Dylan. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise for you, Son. Now, you can get your head on straight and do what you were born to do.”
Eilian’s jaw clenched and his teeth ground against each other. His ribcage tightened against his lungs as he suppressed the urge to bolt from the room. Staring at his father’s bearded, bisontine head as he loomed over his plate like a barbarian chieftain in a dinner jacket, he blurted out, “I’m going to the Negev Desert in autumn with Sir Joshua, and you can’t stop me.”
Harland Sorrell’s iron eyes bulged. “I forbid it!”
“You cannot forbid me to do anything. It is already settled.”
“I will disin—”
“Harland! Eilian! I will not have discord in my house the day before our party!” his mother seethed. “We will discuss this at an appropriate time!”
Eilian knew the appropriate time would never come, but he didn’t want to hear what his father had to say. He already knew. Forget archaeology, forget who you are, be who I want you to be. It had been the same for twenty years. With the tip of his fork, he pushed the pieces of beef around his plate as the table lapsed into the clanking of silverware against china. As if nothing had occurred, Constance Sorrell gingerly placed her fork down, which hadn’t left her hand or mouth during the entire squabble, daintily wiped her mouth, and turned toward the head of the table with a bat of her filigree lashes.
“Lady Dorset, who is coming to the party tomorrow? I had planned to ask when we first arrived, but you seemed so dreadfully busy with the menu this morning.”
“It will be a small affair, not a party by any standard, just an intimate dinner. I invited the Earl of Bedford and his wife as well as their two daughters. I also invited the Viscount of Lisle, but he is dreadfully ill. His daughter, Lady Virtiline, will be coming with her brother Cecil instead.”
“Have I met the Earl of Bedford?” Constance asked Dylan in her nasally little voice.
“No, I don’t believe so. His daughter Maxine favored Eilian when we attended the same balls. She would always place herself near him, hoping he would ask her to dance, but he always ignored her. I think it only made her like him more.”
“Eilian, I’m having you accompany her into the dining room tomorrow. You two should have a lot to talk to about. She recently returned from India. I believe, her uncle has some diplomatic post there. Do you remember Lady Virtiline, dear?”
He thought for a moment. He clearly remembered Maxine as having large, blue eyes and sericeous, chestnut hair, but he only remembered her because he made it a habit of ignoring her. “I don’t think so. Should I?”
She sighed. “I didn’t think you would. She was always hiding in the library at parties. Her mother would have to pry the books from her fingers and drag her back out to socialize. Oh, what a scene she could have caused, to be found in the library alone or if a young gentleman had been in there. Her mother was lucky that girl did not cause a scandal. I was only planning on inviting Cecil, as I thought he would be a good match for Lord Bedford’s youngest daughter, but when the viscount wrote back, he said Virtiline and Cecil would be coming. I thought it was quite impertinent for him to include her when she was not on the invitation. Maybe he thought she would be a good match for you, dear. Maybe she is. You both are quite bookish.”
“Mother, while I appreciate that you would like to see me settled and have a family to pass the earldom down to, I would prefer it if I was allowed to find a wife on my own without having to put on airs just to impress her.”
“If Mother let you find someone on your own, you would probably bring home a maharaja’s daughter like Sir Joshua’s father.”
“At this point, I wouldn’t care whom he brought home as long as he stayed home,” his father retorted as they retired to the drawing room.
Eilian positioned himself near the fire, letting his mind drift in its mesmeric light. An all too familiar pain burned as it travelled down his arm, growing exponentially warmer as he attempted to focus on Constance’s detailed account of her and Dylan’s trip to Bath. The pain swelled and bloomed in his elbow before rising up again like bolts of lightning. Every time I wear this arm, my nerves act up, he thought as she chattered on about the unsightly Roman ruins that should have been torn down to make room for more teashops and millineries. He stared at his feet, swallowing down the pain as beads of perspiration dampened his forehead and back. Grabbing his amputated arm, he squeezed the muscle, but the pain refused to relinquish its hold.
“Dylan, have you told your brother how well he looks?” Millicent Sorrell asked as one of the plain-faced servants handed her a teacup and saucer.
He turned to Eilian blankly, but his light eyes widened upon seeing his brother nearly doubled over. “You— Are you all right?”
Upon seeing her son’s clenched features and bowed head, his mother rushed over to his side, but he raised his hand to stop her from touching him. “Dear, what is the matter? Should we call Dr. Hawthorne?”
He shook his head and slowly straightened to his full height with a sharp intake of breath. “It’s a side effect of the amputation. My nerves act up, especially when I wear this thing.” He gestured to the prosthetic arm. “It will pass, but, Mother, must I wear it tomorrow? I would be so much more comfortable without it.”
“I know you don’t like it, but I still insist that you wear it. It’s so life-like and you spent so much on it that it would be a shame not to wear it, and I fear without it, our guests may be troubled by… your condition. I didn’t even notice you had it on during dinner. It made you look like your old self.” She smiled warmly and lightly patted his shoulder. “Maybe you should turn in early tonight, dear. Rest is always good for nerves.”
Eilian stared into his mother’s soft features be
fore turning to the others, but none of them could see the hurt permeating every fiber of his body. To them, they were simply doing what was best for everyone whether it harmed him or not. Under his breath, he bid them good night and hurried off to his room where he would finally be left alone.
***
Patrick discreetly slipped from the servants’ hall and traced his way through the familiar hallways until he reached Eilian’s room. The footman who had served the Sorrells tea and after-dinner refreshments had told him that his master had gone to bed. Because the bell in his room was never pulled, he had no idea his boss had ever left the drawing room. Eilian Sorrell was rather self-sufficient, but usually at night, he at least had him hang up his clothing. He lightly knocked before opening the door in case he was asleep. His jacket, vest, and shirt were slung over the chair in the corner, but Eilian was sitting on his bed, staring out the window with his prosthesis half-dangling from what remained of his arm.
“Sir, do you need any help getting dressed for bed? You didn’t ring for me.” As he watched his master’s body stiffly twitch and then relax, he knew something was amiss. “Sir, are you all right?”
He turned to his butler with smoke and ember eyes as he wiped the heel of his hand across his cheek. “My mother thinks I’m repulsive now. She acts like my arm is some sort of sideshow spectacle.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way.”
“She said her guests would be disturbed if I dared to not wear this stupid arm. Does she think I want to be this way? That I like it?”
“I think, like all mothers, she only wants to protect you.” Patrick gathered up the clothing strewn around the room, giving Eilian a chance to pull himself together. “She doesn’t want others to speak ill of you, and she probably believes your prosthesis will provide enough normalcy to keep them quiet. I’m sure it’s hard for her to see you hurt and know there’s nothing she can do to fix it.”
“So making me miserable and trying to find me a wife is her way of fixing me?”
The butler loosened the upper strap that still encumbered his friend’s arm and soundlessly placed the prosthesis on the dresser. “As misguided as her attempts are, your mother only wants you to be happy. Shall I put your dressings on before you go to bed?”
With a sniff and a sigh, the young man nodded and raised the stump to allow the butler to carry out their nightly ritual. Across his shoulder and on the gnarled flesh of his arm were sore, chafed stripes from the tight straps of the artificial arm. As Patrick applied the petroleum jelly to the old burns, he could make out the glaringly fresh scars normalcy was leaving on his master.
Chapter Eight:
Unfinished Projects
The wooden stool squeaked as Hadley strained to reach the last volume on the top shelf of George’s workshop bookcase. Thus far most of the books had been old ledgers dating back to when their father had run the business. She had decided to go through all of them to make sure that while George was sick and after he passed, all the prostheses had been completed and paid for. Hadley returned to Adam’s desk and flipped to the last written page. Eilian Sorrell, the Viscount Sorrell, prosthetic right forearm was the first and only entry in the ledger. Her heart sank knowing he hadn’t lived long enough to see the project to completion, but she resolutely crossed out the name as the bill had been paid months ago. As she picked the book up to return it back to the shelf, the tome leapt from her hands, landing splayed on the floor and sending scraps of parchment down the hall. Thinking they were receipts, she quickly scooped them into a pile without even a glance until she reached the last one. An arm that terminated at the elbow but was mechanized was drawn in her brother’s familiar hand.
As she studied the schematic more closely, her quiet nostalgia turned to keen interest. Hadley’s mind raced as she rapidly laid all the slips of paper on Adam’s desk, trying to see the connections between her brother’s scattered ideas. He had made calculations, notes on anatomy, results from his experiments with various metals, and a list of problems he had not yet worked out. It was something she had always thought was out of reach, something they would never be able to create, but there it was in nearly full fruition with only a few dots left to connect. Why did he not tell me about this? As she reached the last unread scrap, she realized he had hit a dead-end. His handwriting shifted from strong to spidery and light with droplets of ink blotted throughout. It was clear to her that he had given up on the project when his consumption had worsened. A pang of grief bloomed in her chest as she understood that he may have known he would never complete the project, which was why he abandoned it without mentioning it to anyone. With one last look at the list of obstacles, she gathered up the bits of paper, stuffed them into her carpet bag, and ran out to the street to hail a steamer. She knew exactly who could help her.
“To Wimpole Street, please!” she called as she climbed aboard before the driver could help her up. The moment the steamer reached the top of the cobblestone street, she paid the driver and darted out onto the pavement. Wimpole Street was busy as usual, crawling with patients visiting physicians’ offices and doctors as they made their way back to their practices after having lunch at clubs or restaurants. Hadley hopped into the street to avoid being detained by a particularly feeble old woman being led by her daughter. It still amazed her how quickly the adoption of the steamer in place of horses helped to sanitize London’s streets. From a distance, she recognized number thirty-six with its Doric columns and severe black door. At the porch, her brisk progress came to a halt as she reached for the doorknocker but recoiled upon grasping a brass mandible. The grim little skull grinned back at her as she firmly gripped him by the teeth and banged on the door with his gonial angles. Eliza Hawthorne hesitantly opened the door, peering around the side to see if it was another lost patient, but was pleasantly surprised to see her younger cousin standing at her door.
“Your new doorknocker is quite ghastly, Cousin Eliza.”
“I know. I was growing tired of having to explain to people that they were at the wrong house. Now, the skull gives them pause, and they check the house number again before going next door. James may be a doctor, but his patients do not come to the door anymore.”
“Well, he’s a perfect addition to your house then, quite fitting for the Coroner to the Queen,” she replied with a smile as she followed Eliza into the conservatory and settled in at the iron table.
“Don’t even mention that woman,” Eliza groaned as she stepped into the kitchen to fetch the whining tea kettle from the stove. “We had to cancel our holiday in Egypt because of her. My poor husband can’t take a holiday, and I can’t even use the medical license I earned. You would think she would use her position to help the rest of us women, but she’s just like the rest of them.” With a deflating sigh, she smoothed back her dark orange hair and cleared her throat. “What a horrible host I’m being. I really must have more people over. I’m becoming terribly out of practice. So what brings you by for a visit? Adam told me you were swamped with toy orders.”
“I was. I only finished the last one yesterday, but I came because I found this.”
Hadley meticulously laid out the scraps of paper into a semi-cohesive train of thought before revealing George’s drawing. She watched Eliza’s light green eyes run over each line, her focus sharpening with every revelation of his design. Suddenly, she covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. It was the reaction Hadley had been waiting for.
“George did it,” she cried. “I can’t believe he figured it out.”
Hadley reached for the list of problems. “So it all makes sense to you then?”
“Yes, an electric arm with this design is looking increasingly plausible. Porcelain would greatly reduce friction in the joint, and it doesn’t react poorly with the body like some materials do. I don’t know much about titanium though.”
“I think George picked it for the forearm because, according to his notes,” she picked up the scribbles on his experiments and continued, “it doesn�
��t corrode when in contact with body fluids and it’s incredibly strong yet very light. His drawing shows the titanium tube as hollow to allow wires to run through it to the hand’s mechanisms and to keep it extra light. What do you think about using gold wires conducting nerve impulses?”
Eliza Hawthorne thought for a moment. “I think it’s a wise choice. It has the best ability to conduct electricity while still not being rejected by the body like copper or silver would. You would need a lot of tiny wires and pins in the radial nerve to gather enough electricity to flip the switch that closes the hand. Explain the circuit to me. As you know, you’re the one who deals with mechanisms. I can only really help with the biological aspects.”
“The circuit is powered by a battery that would be placed on the side of the prosthesis.” Hadley traced the loop of electricity with the tip of her finger. “The wires would be copper and would travel from the switch where the gold wires from the nerves would control the fingers closing. The copper wires would then continue to the motor, which powers the closing mechanism. All of the copper portion would be contained within the titanium bone to prevent it from reacting with the body fluids. The gold conduits would be threaded into the porcelain through small channels and into the tube.”
The older woman laughed softly between sips of tea. “This is brilliant, Hadley, absolutely brilliant. You need to do this. You could show everyone we can make great strides that need to be taken seriously. Adam told me what happened at the Harbuckles’ house, and that would never happen again if you could prove yourself with something like this.”
A smile spread across Hadley’s flushing lips. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be taken seriously without question. “There are a few problems though. This is just a prosthetic forearm. I don’t know how to make it stable. His drawings and notes indicate that he wanted to utilize the remaining muscles and tendons left in the upper arm to anchor the prosthesis and allow some muscle control, but he never figured out how to anchor them to the actual materials.”
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 6
