by Tess Oliver
****
Wavering candlelight woke me from a dreamless sleep. I lifted my head and squinted toward the flickering flame. The sound of Dr. Bennett’s voice cleared the fog from my mind. “Ah, there you are, Camille. I wondered where you’d scuttled off to. We are in need of a quick supper.”
I yawned and stretched. “I’ll fix you something, but I’m not hungry.”
“Fine, but you and I are not the we I meant,” he said. His words confused me, and I didn’t know if I was still groggy or if Dr. Bennett needed rest of his own. He lowered the candle flame and lit the wick of the oil lamp. Warm, yellow light filled the kitchen.
Then I saw the tall figure standing behind him. Soaking hair and clothes did nothing to lessen the impact he had on a room and on me. The faint smile on his mouth softened the pained expression in his eyes. My mind argued with itself about whether to adhere to proper etiquette or whether to fling aside all modesty and throw my arms around him. My feet chose the latter before my mind had a chance to settle it. I flew off the stool and landed in his embrace. Freezing rainwater drenched his coat and shirt. His arms wrapped around me tighter, and there was nothing so right as being pressed against Nathaniel Strider.
Chapter 13
Waiting is such an interminable activity. I have spent a great deal of my short life waiting, but never, it seems, for splendid things like a new pony for Christmas, or a new party dress from the seamstress. Instead, I’ve waited in a deserted cemetery for a fanged beast, outside the mental ward of an asylum for a pensive sister, under the kitchen table for a beloved father turned monster.
The door to the lab finally opened. I raced to it. Dr. Bennett stepped out and, obviously weary, smacked into me. The impact toppled me backward onto my bottom.
“My God, Cami, I didn’t see you there in the dark.” He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet. “If you ate more, you wouldn’t be so light and easy to knock over.”
“How is he?” I asked trying to control the angst in my voice.
“He’s sleeping soundly. Your idea worked well. Come inside the lab. I want to show you something.”
The only light was the small oil lamp which remained in the corner, far away from the flammable chemicals and next to the portable cot. Strider’s feet dangled off the end, and one of his arms hung limply to the ground. The shirt sleeve was rolled up and the arm had been wrapped with a clean bandage. I walked over, picked up his hand, and lifted it back onto the cot. The light from the lamp illuminated his face. He looked almost sweet lying there so quietly with long dark lashes shadowing his cheeks. I brushed a strand of hair off his face. He stirred a moment then slept quietly.
“Bring the light over here,” Dr. Bennett called from the back of the room. A chart of some sort was tacked to the wall where he stood. As I moved closer I recognized it as Mendeleev’s periodic table of elements. “I wanted to explain my plan. Sometimes it sounds better if I speak my ideas out loud to an educated ear.”
I smiled. I did have a good grip on scientific theories in general. How could I not? While other children listened to bedtime stories and nursery rhymes, my father would tell us theories on how the galaxy began and why plants died without sunlight.
“As you know, Mendeleev has organized the elements into groups and periods. We know that silver,” he pointed to Ag on the chart, “stops the cells from mutating. Unfortunately, it also kills the cells and the organism.” The animation in his voice was a common occurrence whenever he spoke of a new theory. “I mean to administer some elemental compounds to Mr. Strider’s blood cells to see what effects they have. I thought I would begin with some of the elements which fall in the same group and period as silver. Copper, zinc, even gold may be the answer. They all share some properties with silver, but they are atomically different.”
A small moan came from the corner, and we both turned our attention to the sleeping specimen. He looked anything but experimental. He was solid and genuine and breathtaking.
I had to admit I felt some disappointment in the route Dr. Bennett planned to pursue. In my mind, I’d hoped, no prayed, he had come up with something infinitely more profound. “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I lied. “Although, I wonder if you should also try elements without the same properties as silver.” I pointed to the far end of the table. “Perhaps some of these from the opposite side of the chart. What about the nonmetals?”
“I’ve considered those but I feel this is the best way to begin. Besides, it is not easy to get some of these substances in elemental form or in any form for that matter.”
I nodded and tried not to show my disappointment. I knew science worked slowly, but in this case, we needed fast results. Plodding through the periodic table one element at a time made the whole thing rather hopeless.
I tiptoed over to the cot and pulled the wool blanket up further over Strider’s chest. He sighed in his sleep. I needed to start thinking of my own solution. I refused to accept a tragic ending.
****
The clouds parted like misty blue curtains on a stage, with the sole performer, a waning yellow moon returned for its endless encore. Each hour passed with heavy slowness. I’d loafed in the sitting room, crinkling my nose with every sip of the bitter tea I’d prepared and rereading every passage of the book I held. And still, I had no idea what I’d been reading. After my fourth inquiry to Dr. Bennett about whether or not he gave Strider the correct dose of chloral hydrate, he speared me with a quelling glare, slammed shut his own book, and marched off to bed.
The clock chimes in the entry announced midnight, lifting me from a state that hovered between conscious and unconscious. Tired as I was, my bed provided no comfort. I threw off the covers, pulled on a wrapper, and lit a candle. If Strider woke with a thirst, he would need a glass of water. Of course, I knew I was fooling myself. The glass of water was merely an excuse to check on him.
He’d slept all afternoon and evening and halfway through the night. It dawned on me that I missed talking to him. It seemed ridiculous. How could I miss someone I’d known for less than a fortnight? Yet not talking to him for the whole evening had left me feeling hollow.
On slipper covered toes, I crept into the lab. The water sloshed over the rim of the glass as I stepped methodically across the floor. The gaslights on the streets below sputtered uneven bits of light through the small window, but my own flame lit the way. Still tucked in the wool cover I’d thrown over him, Strider slept soundly. I lowered the glass to the small table and lingered for a moment watching him. It was an incredibly handsome face even in slumber. And even fast asleep as he was, he seemed full of spirit.
In leaving, I managed to tread on the loosest floor plank in the house. Strider bolted upright as the creaking sound interrupted the silence.
I lifted the candle. He scrubbed his face with his hands and squinted at me from the cot. “Tis you, Camille. I thought you were a bloody ghost in that long white gown.” He shut his eyes then opened them again. “Christ, it feels like someone’s taken a hammer to my ‘ead.”
“Shall I get you something for it? I think Dr. Bennett has some concoctions on the shelf that are remedies for head pain.”
He held up his hand. “No more of Dr. Bennett’s concoctions.” His arm dropped, and he glanced at the sterile cotton wrap encircling it. He lifted the bandage and looked at the cut in his arm. “I look and feel like I’ve been to battle.” His body swayed forward, and I dashed toward him. My hands clutched at his shoulders to keep him from falling.
“You’re still feeling the effects of the chloral hydrate. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
I sat next to him.
He scooted away, but before the bitter taste of hurt caught up with me, he laid his head on my lap. My fingers trembled as I lifted my hand to stroke his hair. Within moments, his steady breathing told me he was sleeping again.
Everything was as Dr. Bennett and I had hoped. We had Strider here and now there were plenty of blood cells for the experiments. A cure might
be within our reach. The black curls of our specimen were soft under my palm. I sucked my bottom lip in between my teeth to keep it still and glanced at the rows of bottles lined up across the lab table. Somewhere amongst the acidic powders and alkali liquids there must be a cure for heartbreak.
****
Deep voices rolled down the hall, waking me. I’d slept through most of the morning. After an hour with Strider’s head resting in my lap, I’d grown cold and weary. Reluctantly, I’d slid off the cot and returned to my own bed. Dr. Bennett was already working in the lab, but it was Strider who was bent over the eyepiece of the microscope. He looked up and smiled at me. “I can see things now. Not sure what I’m looking at, but I can see it.”
“You’re feeling better, then?” I asked.
“Aye. My head still hurts, but at least it doesn’t feel like a blacksmith is forging horseshoes on it anymore.”
“Maggie’s downstairs. She already made us something to eat. Why don’t you go down and get something, Cami. You look pale,” Dr. Bennett said.
I nodded and turned to leave. Strider followed me into the hall. “Camille.”
I turned and looked up at his face. He stared at me, and his mouth moved as if he wanted to say something but nothing came out. With his face so close, there was nothing I wanted more right then than for him to kiss me. But it didn’t happen.
“I’m headed to the Strand this morning. I need to talk to a friend of mine.”
“You’re not a prisoner here. You may come and go as you please,” I said, reminding myself more than him.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d take the walk with me. Unless you’re too busy.”
“Well, of course, I’ll have to check my appointment book, but I imagine I can squeeze in time for a stroll.” The subdued smile I gave him belied the euphoria I was feeling.
My trousers begged to be worn. A downpour threatened and the air was dank, but I put on a blue dress and my warmest mantle.
Traffic was heavy as we strolled around Leicester Square. Some people sauntered through the park taking in the scenery, architecture, and wide array of statues. Others hurried along with purpose. Strider shrugged the naval coat higher on his shoulders and held his arm for me to take. For a coat that had surely seen better days, it looked perfect on him.
“Did you leave home when your brother did not return from sea?”
“Aye. There was nothing left for me to do but leave. My mum didn’t want me. She was too busy worrying about herself. I was only in the way.”
“And your father?’
“He died two years before my brother. Rotten liver from too much gin. I was happy to see him go. The only thing he left me was a hide full of scars from daily beatings.” There was no self-pity in his tone.
While my life had taken a hideous turn, my younger years had been filled with love and laughter. “How hard it must be to be young and live in constant fear.”
“My lucky day,” Strider said as he bent down to retrieve a coin from the sidewalk. He slid it into the pocket of his coat. “Fear quickly turns to hatred when you spend a great deal of time hiding. By six years old, I was plotting ways to kill the bastard. I’m only disappointed the gin beat me to it.”
My own horrid secret crept into my thoughts causing me to stumble. Strider held tightly to my arm to keep me from falling face first. “I am such a clumsy dolt.”
“I wouldn’t expect to see you in any of these theaters performing a dance, but I like the way you move. You’re rather like a feathery sprite with just enough swishing from side to side.”
Curse the involuntary blush that was impossible to hide. “I swish? Exactly what part of me swishes?” I’d brought up his family, but I was relieved we’d changed subjects. Even though this subject was making my cheeks burn.
He grinned down at me. “All the right parts.”
A man in a faded black bowler sat on a bench in the square surrounded by the few birds who had not yet taken flight to warmer grounds. A dry chunk of bread landed at our feet.
Strider bent to pick it up and held his palm face up with the food. Two gray pigeons landed directly on his forearm and pecked at the crumbs on his hand. “When I was younger, my brother used to walk me to Regent’s Park with a bag full of bread. I would sit for hours with birds of every shape and size on my arms and shoulders.” The bread gone, the birds flew off.
“Weren’t you afraid they might peck you? I like birds well enough, but in large numbers they’re rather intimidating.”
He shook his head. “I was never afraid of them.”
What a foolish question. He had grown up living in constant fear of being beaten by his drunken father, how could birds have frightened him. “I imagine there is little that scares you.”
Strider grew silent and stared at the ground as we left Leicester Square. “I’m scared, Camille.” The quiet words mingled with the surrounding clamor of hooves and wheels.
I wished I had not heard them at all. Everything was easier believing that this whole thing didn’t frighten him. He was always courage and calmness, while inside, I was coming apart cell by cell. But my own fear dealt only with how this all affected me. How selfish I’d become. I didn’t have to live with the prospect of transforming into something horrible and murderous. I didn’t have to live with the prospect of my own demise at the end of a silver bullet.
Sprinkles of rain went virtually unnoticed in the moisture laden air along the river. With no sun to outline their architectural greatness, the mansions of the Adelphi seemed less imposing. The weather had not slowed the daily activity on the water. Boats crisscrossed the choppy surface, dropping off pedestrians and plucking others up.
“Who are you looking for?” I peered up at the blackening sky. Thin drops pelted my cheeks.
“My friend, Goose. The lad you saw in the cemetery.” He looked pointedly at me. “The night you were following me.”
“If your vanity requires it, you may keep telling yourself that. Does Goose live nearby?”
“Of course.” Strider pointed a long finger at an elegant house that had its own carved gateway with steps leading up from the river. “He lives right there, and at night he steals jewelry from corpses to pay for it.”
“Vanity and sarcasm, what a charming combination.” The drizzle swelled to a mild rain. I wrapped my hand around his arm and leaned closer hoping his height would act as a barrier.
He tugged me against him, and suddenly, I didn’t care if the river rose up and flooded the banks around us, I wanted to stay pressed against his side.
“Goose has been chumming with some unsavory blokes on this side of town. I need to set ‘im straight before someone beats me to it.”
Puddles dotted our path and the soaked hem of my dress began to drag. “You need to set straight a boy who you dragged through a cemetery to steal from dead people?”
“And I’m the one suffering from sarcasm.”
I smiled. “I consider that to be irony not sarcasm.”
Strider released my arm. “Wait here.” He walked to the shore where an anchored, run-down barge bobbed in the water. A man emerged from below deck. The arms of his sweater were too short, and his black trousers were baggy enough for two his size.
Strider waved at the man and called to him. “Have you seen Goose out ‘ere? Jane told me he’d been hanging around.”
He’d seen Jane when he went out yesterday. My heart sank in my chest. I had no idea the impact jealousy could have. My arms and legs felt heavy. What a fool I’d been thinking someone like Nathaniel Strider would be interested someone like me. Especially when he had every buxom girl on the East Side waiting for him.
Strider headed back to me. His face was turned down to avoid the sharp spray of water that was now falling, but I could see worry in his expression.
“Did you find out anything?” I asked as he reached me. He took hold of my arm, and we continued further down the river. “Aye, it’s as Jane said. Goose is out here picking the pockets of passenge
rs as they step off the boats.”
“So you’re afraid he’ll be caught?”
He nodded. “But not taken up by the police. There are far more troublesome people out ‘ere. People who have staked this part of the Strand as their own.”
Sheets of cold water fell from the sky. We hurried our pace and ran for cover beneath an awning over the door of an empty shop. Like fingers, the drops drummed loudly on the canvas overhead. Strider reached up with his thumb and wiped the water from my forehead. It was a gesture that nearly made me melt into the puddle collecting around my feet.
He smiled. “My sopping, little kitten, I’m sorry I brought you out into this weather.”
“I’m not sorry. I’m not made of sugar.”
He took hold of my hand. Our skin was icy yet warmth seeped between us. He lifted my fingers and pressed them against his lips. “No? You taste rather sweet to me.”
My mind triggered its own warning. He is a practiced cad who says things like this to every girl he meets. I pulled my fingers away and dismissed the hurt look in his eyes as part of his act. “So you saw Jane, the girl from the public house?”
“Aye.” He stared at the veil of water flowing off the edge of the awning then smiled back at me. “’Tis like standing under a waterfall, is it not?”
I shrugged, perturbed by his obvious attempt to change the subject. “I’ve never stood under a waterfall to know.”
“Nor I, but I would imagine it to be something like this.”
I turned my face away from his and pretended to find interest with something in the street. But really I stared at nothing. A purple cow could have ambled by and I wouldn’t have noticed.
“Camille,” his deep voice broke the rhythmic sound of the rain overhead, “I have been living in the streets for eight years. I have many acquaintances, people in the same insufferable circumstances as me. Without them survival is even harder.”
