by Coleen Kwan
As they rose from the dinner table, there was a knock at the front door, and the thought that Julian had returned caused her heart to start hammering. But when Elijah opened the door, it was not Julian but a stranger who strolled into the hallway.
“Heigh ho, Doctor. Do you have a dram of whiskey for a thirsty rascal?” The man greeted Elijah in a jovial manner. Spying Nellie further down the hallway, he doffed his hat and sketched her an extravagant bow. “Why, good evening, miss.”
As Elijah made the introductions, the stranger stepped forward, his eyes fixed on her, but just a few feet away he stopped abruptly, his smile freezing. A hot flush swamped Nellie’s body. The blood surged into her cheeks and thudded in her ears, drowning out Elijah’s voice. The stranger continued to stare. All she could think was how ugly she must appear to him, and how vain of her to care about a stranger’s opinion. It ought not to matter what he thought of her, but somehow it did. As her damp hands clutched at her skirts, the stumps of her missing fingers itched madly, reminding her of their absence, and the scars on her cheeks tingled too. Elijah was saying something, but she couldn’t hear for the rushing noise in her ears. Unable to withstand the pressure, she mumbled something incoherent, before turning away to hasten up the staircase.
Julian arrived back at Monksbane with his growling stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. He saw to his horse, then foraged for bread and cheese in the kitchen. His father, as usual, was still up and would stay up reading past midnight. Julian sat with him but was disinclined to tell his father how he’d spent the majority of his afternoon. Elijah seemed preoccupied with more pressing matters.
“I heard from Lord Penton that he’s selling Lime Hill to an investment company who wish to divide it into building lots,” Elijah said.
Lime Hill was just to the south of Monksbane, separated by a few fields and a small wood. Their neighbour, Lord Penton, had lost a fortune through injudicious investments, so the sale of Lime Hill was no great surprise, but the thought of suburban streets and houses springing up so close by depressed Julian. “I suppose it’s selfish to begrudge people space for decent housing,” he said. “But I hate the thought of having the city right on our doorstep.”
“It is inevitable.” Leaning back, Elijah contemplated the volumes of books lining his library. “Soon, the metropolis will have us in its sights, and it will be our turn to feed its insatiable appetite.”
“We’ll never sell our land!”
A brief smile flickered across Elijah’s weary face. “Never?” Julian opened his mouth to argue, but his father waved him away. “It’s too late in the night to debate the matter. Go to bed, son.”
So Julian bid his father good night, lit a candle and made his way upstairs. He had almost reached his bedroom door when he heard a creak behind him and turned to find Nellie peeking at him from her room. Nonplussed, he stopped, not anticipating their meeting so soon. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been furious with him, but now her expression was far from angry.
“Miss Barchester?” he said stiffly, wary of the wrath that had previously come whirling out of her without warning.
She left her room and stood in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression clouded and uncertain. “Dr. Darke, I must offer you an abject apology,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Earlier today I accused you of the vilest ambitions, but I realise now you were only trying to help me. I’m truly sorry.”
At her humble words, his coolness instantly melted. “I’m sorry too,” he said, striding forward. “I should have explained myself first, not thrust that thing in front of you so impetuously.”
She nodded and blinked, relief spreading across her face. “I would like very much to see your artificial fingers. Right now, if you’re not too tired.”
He had been tired, but not anymore. “It would be my pleasure,” he replied warmly.
Pulling her shawl around her shoulders, she fell into step beside him as he held the candle aloft to light their way down the staircase. As they stepped out into the freezing night air, he said to her, “I heard from my father about Mr. Derringer startling you earlier tonight. I must apologise for him. Gareth is an old family friend but a bit of a scallywag, and sometimes he forgets his manners. He didn’t mean to distress you.”
She pressed her lips together. “No, I should be the one to grow a thicker skin. People will stare at me, and I need to become accustomed to that.”
Her grimness took him by surprise. It seemed ludicrous that she should be so ashamed of her appearance. To him the scars on her face were not hideous defects but symbols of her grace and strength of character. Hers was not a soft, soothing beauty but one tempered by adversity. Her body, scarred though it was, was infinitely lovely, and the way her diaphanous gown flowed over her curves only served to highlight her attractions.
“If a man stares at you, you should not automatically assume he’s repelled by your appearance,” he couldn’t help saying. She gave him a startled glance, but aware he’d said too much, he ushered her into his workshop and busied himself lighting some lamps as he quickly changed the subject. “I’ve always been interested in mechanics, and my work as a doctor led me to a fusion of ideas. I’ve been experimenting with the notion of creating artificial body parts, not just rigid bits of metal, but actual functioning pieces. You’ve seen Figgs’s appendage. It’s a crude implement forged many years ago by a blacksmith. For the past six months I’ve been working on a proper replacement hand for him. It’s been problematic, but when you, ah, arrived, it got me thinking that perhaps a couple of missing fingers would be easier to replicate than an entire hand.”
He waved her towards the bench and opened the wooden box she’d seen earlier. This time, he spread the glove out on the bench so she could study it. At first glance the glove appeared to be made of grey lace, but in reality it was made of a very lightweight metal mesh, almost like chainmail but much finer and more flexible.
“You made this yourself?” She picked up the glove and examined it closely, turning it this way and that. “The craftsmanship is most impressive.”
A spurt of gratification flashed through him, and he couldn’t help grinning at her. “Thank you, but I think what’s inside is more amazing.” He picked up the metal glove carefully. “You see, where your missing fingers are, I have inserted fully functioning fingers made of steel and rubber.” He wiggled one of the digits. “Look, its articulation allows it to act just like a human finger.”
“But how does it move of its own volition?”
“It cannot, unfortunately. But there is a ring inside the glove that goes onto the wearer’s index finger. The ring is connected to the two artificial fingers and has specially designed springs which work so the two fingers will mimic the movements of the index finger. Therefore, should you curl your index finger, so will the substitutes, and similarly when you stretch it out. At least, that’s what it does in practice. I haven’t been able to test it fully on an amputee yet.”
He proffered the glove towards her. She gazed at it with some trepidation as if she feared it would bite her, but after a moment she stuck out her hand towards him. “Go ahead, put on the glove.”
This time, it was he who hesitated. “I must warn you, you might experience a little pain in your wounds.”
She uttered a choking laugh. “After this past week, I’m well acquainted with pain. Don’t worry. The pain will be nothing.”
Slowly he took her hand in his and gently probed the stumps of her fingers. He tried to examine her with a doctor’s dispassion but couldn’t help a sudden rush of pleasure at touching her. The skin on the back of her hand was soft and smooth, the flesh of her palm firm and sturdy. The warmth of her hand triggered a sensuous fervour like a burst of apple-scented sunshine. Ambushed, he sucked in a quick breath, only to realise it wasn’t just his hand quivering, but hers too.
“Am I hurting you, Miss Barchester?” he almost stammered.
She blinked at him, a dazed look
in her green eyes. “Pardon?”
“Do you wish me to continue?”
Nervously she licked her lips, which caused a sudden stab of desire in his loins. The urge to press his lips to the softness of her inner wrist almost overwhelmed him. Never had he experienced such a precipitous onslaught. Surely she must sense his arousal. Great dickens, he must look out if he were not to make a colossal fool of himself! He was a physician, she was his patient, and he ought to conduct himself with the proper decorum.
She nodded her head. “Please continue,” she answered firmly.
Once more Julian bent to his task, willing himself to ignore the delightful feel of her skin. From the innards of the metal glove, he teased out the metal ring which he slipped onto her index finger. He instructed her to curl her finger, and when she did so, a look of amazement broke over her face as she saw the artificial digits of the glove move in unison. She repeated the movement and each time the glove faithfully copied her. Satisfied, Julian drew the rest of the glove over her hand and fastened it at her wrist.
She twisted her fingers this way and that. “It’s a miracle,” she exclaimed. “Quite ingenious.”
Julian grinned back at her, deeply gratified by her reaction. “It works better than I’d hoped. I will need to adjust the length of the fingers; they’re slightly too long. There’s one more function I’d like you to test. Hold up your hand and squeeze your thumb hard against your index finger.”
Nellie did as he asked. The glove emitted a minute click, and two tiny blades shot out from the tips of her synthetic fingers. “My God! Switchblade knives.”
“Small, but sharp. They wouldn’t kill anyone, unless you nicked a major artery, but it would inflict a nasty cut, and it has the element of surprise. I thought you could do with some hidden protection, but if you don’t like them they can easily be removed.”
She tested the finely honed instruments on a piece of paper. The blades cut through cleanly.
“No, leave them,” she said. “How do I retract them?”
“You simply squeeze your thumb again.”
She practiced the triggering mechanism several times. “They’re like the claws of a cat. Rather apt, considering the stripes on my face.”
The glove, he saw, had given her new confidence. She looked different, more assured, altogether more attractive.
He smiled at her. “Miss Barchester? You look quite fierce now that you’re armed. I should hate to accost you in a dark alley.”
She blushed faintly and smiled back at him. “‘Miss Barchester’ is so stuffy and formal. Please call me Nellie.”
His grin widened. “As long as you’re happy I’m not taking liberties. And of course you must call me Julian.”
“Thank you, Julian.” She flicked the blades up one last time. “From here on, no one will be taking liberties with me.”
Chapter Five
Two days later, the lowering sun squinted through the trees as Julian plodded towards the house on his tired mare. The animal slowed to snatch a mouthful of winter grass from the verge, but Julian didn’t have the heart to hie her on. At least one of them ought not to suffer after the miserable outing.
As he approached the house, Figgs loped out to meet him and take charge of the horse.
“Is my father home yet?” Julian asked.
“Nay, sorr,” the man whistled through the cleft in his lip.
Julian entered the house, relieved that he wouldn’t have to speak to Elijah for a while. He needed some time alone, time to make sense of all that had occurred today.
“Julian? Has something happened?”
The shadowy interior of the sitting room shifted, and Nellie moved towards him. She stood calm and poised, a piece of sewing in her hands, her coppery brown hair thick and glinting on her shoulders.
“I’ve had some bad news,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to speak about his afternoon, but now he had, and it seemed he might as well continue. “Someone I know has died.”
“Oh, no.” She started towards him as if she meant to touch him, but appeared to change her mind and instead gestured towards the nearest settee. “Please, sit down. You look exhausted.”
Through his disquiet, he was dimly aware that the sitting room looked far neater than before. The windows were clean, the carpet swept, the dust banished, the clutter put away. All Nellie’s doing. And the shirt she’d been mending was one of his too. He dropped onto the nearest settee, and as soon as he hit the cushions a grey cloud rose up from his clothes.
“My goodness, you’re covered in ash.” Nellie tapped the sleeve of his coat, eliciting a further puff of dust. “Where have you been?”
“In the city, sifting through the remains of a burnt-out house. It belonged to a retired jeweller, a Mr. Cazalet. He died in the fire, in his bedroom upstairs.”
“That’s terrible. When did this happen?”
“Last night. I went to visit him today, but it was too late.” He rubbed his gritty eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as frustration welled up once more. “Too damned late.”
Nellie’s skirts rustled as she stood. He heard the chink of glass against bottle, and a moment later she nudged a tumbler of brandy into his grimy hands.
“Tell me what happened,” she said as she reseated herself.
Nursing the tumbler between his hands, he gazed at her, grateful for her presence. After the horrendous hours he’d passed, she was a gust of fresh air, a drink of pure water. She was the one person he wanted to confide in. Needed to confide in.
He dug into the inner pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a small brooch. “See this? I was left on the doorstep of this house wrapped in a plain woollen shawl and nothing to identify me except this brooch.”
He handed it to Nellie.
“It’s not particularly valuable in monetary terms,” Julian continued, “but it’s the only link to my true parentage.”
Nellie nodded slowly as she traced the circle of tiny diamonds surrounding the ruby. “A delightful piece, nevertheless. It must be a comfort to you, knowing that your mother left this with you, that she didn’t abandon you out of choice.”
Grimacing, he took a swallow of brandy. Was it a comfort or a curse, possessing that brooch? Wouldn’t it have been better if his mother had left no clue? Plenty of newborn babes were abandoned by their mothers. He would have grown up happy and grateful for Elijah’s care and love, and not spared a thought for the woman who’d given birth to him. But instead that wretched bee brooch had needled him all these years, taunting him with the promise of finding his parents, reminding him each time he looked at it that beneath his veneer of success he had no history, no antecedents, no identity.
“Six months ago I decided to try to track down the owner of that brooch,” he said, his voice roughening as he recalled his quest. “I trudged from one jeweller to the next, making endless enquiries. As I’ve said, the brooch isn’t very valuable, so few people were willing to trawl through their records of twenty-odd years ago. I almost gave up, until I met Mr. Cazalet. He was retired and had plenty of time on his hands. He was happy to go through his old books, and eventually he found that yes indeed he’d repaired that very brooch more than twenty-five years ago.” He paused as he realised he was coming to a crucial part of the story. He sat up, the better to gauge Nellie’s reaction. “The person who brought in the brooch was a young woman called Ophelia Ormond, the sister of Thaddeus Ormond.”
Her skin paled, throwing her scars into rough relief. “Ouch.” She winced as she pricked her finger on the pin of the brooch. A tiny bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. “I know nothing about Ophelia Ormond,” she muttered, averting her eyes as she dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.
“You don’t?” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “She’s been dead many years, but I thought perhaps Sir Thaddeus might have mentioned his sister to you.”
“What makes you think that?” She tipped up her chin defiantly.
“Because I know you’re conn
ected to Thaddeus Ormond in some way.” She twisted her head away, but he continued, “Nellie, you’ve suffered a terrible assault, and your life has been irrevocably altered. As a physician, I’m aware I should allow you all the time you need to recover, but a man is dead—an innocent, harmless old man who did nothing wrong except help me with my enquiries, but now he has perished, and I fear I’m to blame.”
Nellie spun round, her eyes wide with shock. “But…you said the old man died in a house fire.”
“I told Thaddeus Ormond about Mr. Cazalet.” Julian pushed to his feet and gulped down the last of the brandy. The alcohol bit into his empty stomach, but there was no relief. “You see, I went to Ormond with my bee brooch, foolishly thinking he might be able to shed some light on my mother, but he was outraged at my impertinence. His family traced back to the Norman conquest, how dare I turn up on his doorstep casting aspersions upon his dead sister! I grew angry with him, insults were exchanged. I hammered him with all the facts I’d gathered.” Up and down he paced the carpet as his memories tormented him. “I told him about Mr. Cazalet, about Ophelia having the brooch repaired, and now…now Mr. Cazalet is dead, and it’s my fault.” Coming to a halt, he smacked his fist against the mantelpiece.
“But you can’t be sure of that.” Nellie jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. “Houses burn down all the time. It could have been an accident.”
“Perhaps, but my gut tells me otherwise. Sir Thaddeus warned me never to go near him again before ordering his footmen to throw me out of the house. I thought he was malignant and arrogant, but I didn’t comprehend how dangerous he was until I witnessed your abduction.”
“So…you were shadowing Sir Thaddeus that night.” She drew back slightly. “It wasn’t mere serendipity.”
“I should have known how ruthless he could be. I should have warned Mr. Cazalet that he was in danger.” But instead he had dallied at home, ministering to Nellie’s needs. Not that she required much help from him in her recovery. She was rapidly mastering the metal mesh glove and could manipulate the artificial fingers with expert dexterity. As for her facial scars, they were healing as well as could be expected and didn’t need a doctor’s attentions anymore. But he had continued to whittle his time away with her, telling himself his interest was merely professional, but knowing deep down it was much more than that.
