by Coleen Kwan
His father uttered a deep sigh that seemed weighted with decades of melancholy. He screwed shut the bottle of carbolic acid, his hands shaking infinitesimally. At sixty, he was still a handsome, active man, but tonight the creases in his face were sharply accentuated, and he looked every one of his years.
“What is the truth? All I know is that I found you on my doorstep twenty-four years ago, and throughout those years you have been my true son, my only son. That is all I know, and that is all that matters to me. I wish it were so for you too.”
The simplicity of these quiet words pierced him. Elijah was right. They were father and son in everything but blood. That’s what mattered, that should be enough. It was enough. He didn’t want any other father but Elijah. But…but…rational reasoning was no match for illogical yearning. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was he abandoned? All questions Thaddeus Ormond knew the answers to, he was convinced.
“I only wish to talk to Ormond,” Julian said.
Shaking his head, Elijah wound bandage tape around Julian’s chest. He remained silent, but his grim expression spoke volumes. Finally he said gruffly, “Sir Thaddeus is an arrogant nobody puffed up on his lineage and not much else. Do you honestly wish to be associated with such a family, regardless of how illustrious their pedigree might be?”
Why did Elijah always have to sound so right? And why did that merely make him more stubborn?
“Sir Thaddeus couldn’t possibly be my natural father, of that I’m satisfied, but he knows the truth. He knows who gave his sister that brooch. If he would only tell me—”
Elijah uttered a frustrated growl. “That brooch is cursed! I wish to God I’d never told you about it. I wish I’d thrown it away years ago.”
Julian’s fist clenched. “You would do such a thing? The only link between me and my mother?” The night he was left on Elijah’s doorstep, he’d been wrapped in a woollen blanket, the folds secured by a brooch in the shape of a bee. That brooch was his. He would never part with it for all the riches in the world.
“Yes! If I’d known it would come to this, then a thousand times yes.” Elijah waved agitatedly towards the table in the centre of the room. “Instead of that poor child, it could have been you lying on that table, your face slashed to ribbons. Or worse. You could be sinking to the bottom of the Thames, or bleeding to death in the slums, or battered senseless in a dark alley. Until tonight you have only been disparaged and ridiculed by Ormond, but now everything has changed. Don’t you see the danger in your reckless pursuit?”
Julian stared. He’d never seen his father so impassioned, almost distraught. Guilt stung him, as it always did when he disappointed his father. He owed Elijah so much, and his compulsion to discover the truth about his parentage was verging on obsessive. Perhaps it would be prudent to rein in his pursuit for the time being. The injured woman was not safely out of the woods yet. Infection could set in, and she would be shocked by the scars on her face. She needed his attention, and besides, there were other ways of pursuing Ormond without confronting him. The little Huguenot jeweller, Mr. Cazalet, who had identified the brooch for him, he might have more information to impart. Julian could pay him another visit whilst also tending to the woman and finding out more about her.
“I’m always careful, Father. And after tonight I will be doubly so. I have a patient to watch over for the next few weeks. I’ll have little time to chase after Ormond.”
His father snorted. “Yes, you’ll have your hands full caring for that young woman, but I doubt that will take your mind off Sir Thaddeus, since you’ve no idea what her connection is to him. For all we know, she could be his secret mistress whom he wished to be rid of.”
Julian’s jaw dropped. How stupid of him not to suspect that. Certainly the woman possessed a unique allure, and she had accompanied Ormond willingly enough. But she didn’t seem the right type for a mistress. Her modest dress, her lack of adornment, her firmly muscled body and short fingernails—all were indications of someone who led a more active life than simply pleasing a man. His teeth clamped together. No, she couldn’t be the kept woman of a pompous fiend like Sir Thaddeus. But why was the notion so repugnant? Was it because he found her desirable himself? He thrust the unwelcome thought from his mind. Until he was sure of her, he couldn’t make any assumptions.
“I’m sure she’ll tell us when she’s regained consciousness,” he answered stiffly.
Elijah tugged at his bottom lip. “Whoever she is, I hope she possesses inner strength. Your skill with the needle is remarkable, but nothing can save her from severe scarring. If she was a kept woman, her days are well and truly over.”
With that sombre prognosis, Elijah exited the room, leaving Julian alone to nurse his bruises.
Chapter Two
In the dim glow of Nellie’s lamp, the walls of the corridor ran green with moisture. The dank, musty smell of earth pressed down on her mouth. A longing for fresh air assailed her, but she forced herself on. Consider yourself lucky you are not one of the inmates, she told herself sternly. These pitiful creatures passed their endless days here in the isolation ward, their only relief the laudanum her father, the hospital’s resident doctor, doled out miserly.
A sudden howl from close by caused her to cringe. That was the poor woman who’d arrived three weeks ago. At first, she’d been allowed to mingle with the other patients, but her constant crying upset the others, and when she’d attacked one of the wardens with a fork, they had dragged her away to the isolation ward. Out of sight, out of mind. Down here no one could see her tearing at her hair day after day until bald patches peppered her scalp. Phillip, Phillip, she moaned intermittently. That must be the name of the well-to-do gentleman who had delivered her to the asylum, her husband perhaps, or her brother. Whoever he was, he’d seemed enormously relieved to be rid of her.
At the door to the woman’s cell, Nellie stopped and peered through the small, barred opening. Darkness swallowed up the room, a darkness thickened by the sour stench of human waste.
“Mrs. Lancaster?” she whispered.
Silence, and then a hoarse sob emanated from the suffocating blackness.
Nellie rooted in the pocket of her apron for the dried apricots she’d brought with her. “Mrs. Lancaster, it’s Nellie. I have something here for you.”
“Who is that?” a reedy voice quavered. “Is that you, Phillip? Have you come to take me home? Oh, I knew you would come. I knew you would not forget me. Oh, Phillip.”
“N-no, it’s not Phillip.”
“But it must be you, Phillip. It must.” The voice grew querulously stronger. Out of the shadows, a figure shuffled towards the door. “So cruel, so cruel, Phillip. I’m not yet dead, but already you have buried me. Buried me alive.”
“Mrs. Lancaster?” Nellie’s heart started to thud as the dishevelled shape appeared out of the darkness. Be calm, she is behind bars. The unwashed stench thickened.
“My name is not Lancaster.” The woman grabbed hold of the bars with filthy hands, the fingernails torn and bleeding. “It’s Barchester.”
“But it can’t be! That’s…” Nellie lifted the oil lamp higher. Like a bruise the yellow glow crept over the woman’s face. “Barchester is my name…”
“Then I must be you. I must be Nellie Barchester.”
No. No. But the woman behind the bars was indeed herself. Her eyes were rolling, her hair crazed, her dress filthy, and her face smeared with drool and snot and unspeakable things. But she was unmistakeably Nellie Barchester. Locked up and forgotten. Legally dead. Buried alive.
Horrified, Nellie stepped back. The lamp slipped from her grasp. It crashed to the floor and burst into flame, setting her dress alight.
Nellie shrieked. The flames leaped up and ravaged her face. She clawed at her cheeks. The pain, oh, the pain was unbearable…
A vortex of agony sucked her up. Fire and darkness shuddered and roared before abruptly dissolving. Her eyes peeled open, and she realised she’d been dreaming. A terrible dre
am, an unspeakable nightmare, but she was safe, she wasn’t in the asylum. She was lying in bed and her heart was pounding—
A face swam into her vision. A face bent and buckled and folded, with a gaping cleft splitting his upper lip and eyes like beads sunk into his doughy flesh. The face of a man-beast, a pagan creature… Someone screamed; she realised it was her. The creature frothed at the mouth, his guttural grunts sounding like an antagonised bear. He flapped his arms at her…except one of his hands was not flesh and bone but an ugly metal pincer, gleaming with menace as it lunged towards her.
She thrashed her arms at the man-beast as her screaming continued. Bellowing and sweating, the animal held her down by the shoulder. The cold metal of his pincer burned her skin. Her body shrieked with pain as the sensation of flames engulfing her face intensified.
“I’m here, Figgs,” a male voice spoke. “No need to panic.”
Her breath caught on a sob. That voice, so familiar and yet so strange, so comforting and yet so fear-inducing. Her heartbeat stuttered, then hammered faster. A dim shape hovered over her. She strained to make him out, but the effort only increased the itching agony searing her face.
“Hush, now,” the man said.
Hush now. She’d heard him say that before. Hush now. You’re safe. But how could she be safe when she was trapped behind bars? Her skin burned, her muscles convulsed, a scream built in her throat, but when the stranger placed his hands on her wrists, the sensation was oddly soothing, his calloused palms cooling the maddening itch, chasing away the fire ants crawling over her skin.
She moaned and blinked harder, struggling to make out the features of her comforter, but the fog around her curdled and swallowed her up, leaving behind only the imprint of his fingers on her wrists.
Nellie opened her eyes. For a few moments she wondered at the light around her, before she discerned it was weak sunshine seeping through a crack in the curtains. Dust motes floated in the milky light. She turned her head to look around but winced as instant pain seized her neck and shoulders. The room wavered around her. She shut her eyes and waited for the dizziness to subside before resuming her inspection.
She was lying in a large comfortable bed with clean linen sheets and quilts keeping her warm. A fresh fire burned in the grate. The room was haphazardly appointed with dark, old-fashioned furniture. Heavy damask curtains drawn across the windows maintained a dim twilight. It was quiet, and she was alone. Bandages encased her head, with apertures for her eyes, nose and mouth. Beneath the bandages her skin felt tight and raw and itchy.
Panic quavered in her stomach. Where was she? Why was she lying in a strange bed? And what had happened to her face?
The door opened, and a young man entered the room. His expression altered as soon as he caught sight of her.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he murmured, moving closer.
His voice sparked recognition in her. This was the man who’d chased away the man-beast of her nightmares. He’d saved her, and yet, as he approached the bed, she found herself shrinking away from him. Was this stranger friend or foe? He seemed so tall, and his eyes, deep-set in his angular face, were pitch black and intensely focussed on her.
He paused as he noticed her distress. “Don’t be alarmed. I wish you no harm.” He drew up a chair next to her bed. “My name is Julian Darke. I live here with my father, Elijah. We’re both doctors.”
He spoke as if being a doctor implied a certain trustworthiness. But her father was a doctor, and in the end she hadn’t been able to trust him. This young man didn’t look like the degenerate her father had become. He was rugged and masculine, dressed rather untidily, his necktie flopping loose, his black hair awry, his jaw lightly stubbled. His swarthy, earthy appearance was not unattractive, but she could not afford to trust him—or anyone—wholeheartedly yet.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were chapped and her tongue so dry her throat seized up. The man quickly poured her a glass of water and held it to her lips. The cool liquid eased the aridness of her mouth.
“My name is Nellie,” she eventually managed to croak out. “Nellie Barchester.”
She didn’t pause to consider why she dissembled about her surname, but every instinct warned her to tread with care. This young physician might have rescued her, but he was a total stranger and his motives might not be as pure as they appeared.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barchester.”
“How—how long have I been here?”
“Three days. You had a fever, but it’s abating and the danger has passed.”
Her heartbeat faltered. Was the danger truly over, or was it still threatening?
She moistened her lips. “Where are we?”
“This house is called Monksbane, and we are a few miles north of the city.”
The location meant nothing to her. She’d been in London only a few weeks and knew very little of its environs. If they were away from the city, that must account for the peacefulness outside.
The man leaned towards her, his expression tentative. “Miss Barchester, do you remember what happened to you the night of your attack?”
Ice flooded her veins. Even as her brain went blank, horrifying images flashed across her mind’s eye. The ride in Sir Thaddeus’s carriage. Hope turning to disbelief as he delivered her into the arms of her abductor. The deserted dock and the stench of the river. Fear and abject desperation as the knife blade slashed repeatedly into her. Falling to the ground, dirt and blood on her tongue. The terror of dying alone in the darkness.
“Miss Barchester?”
She had to get away. She must escape. She tried to pull herself upright, but her muscles refused to obey her.
“Miss Barchester! You must stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself.”
Why could she not free herself from the cursed bed linen? Why was she so limp and feeble? She pushed and pulled at the sheets, dully aware of a growing ache somewhere in her body, until finally she managed to thrust her arms out. She stared at the bandages wrapped around her left hand, at the gap where two middle fingers should be.
“My hand,” she gasped. “Oh…” She drew in a slow, quivering breath as the amorphous ache in her body crystallised around the stumps of her missing fingers. Her flesh was swollen, tender, but the physical pain was not as great as she might have imagined. Rather, it was the idea of the mutilation that made her mind go blank with horror.
“Your hand is healing well,” Julian Darke assured her quickly. “The threat of infection has passed.”
But how ugly her hand appeared. This…thing had no right being attached to her. She could barely look at it. She hid her left arm under the sheets. Using her right hand, she tentatively fingered the bandages around her head. “And my face? What happened here?”
He shifted in his seat as his expression grew wary. “You do not recall?” he asked gently.
Memory returned like a flood of boiling water. She remembered the flashing blade as it scythed towards her, her bleeding hands raised in defence, and then a faint stinging across her cheeks like the flick of a fine whip, followed by a warm wetness trickling over her skin. That was all. There’d barely been any pain then, unlike now, when her entire face crawled with a prickling sensation.
She fell back on the pillows. “Oh dear heaven,” she whispered.
“Who did this to you, Miss Barchester?”
His insistence made her heart thud painfully faster. An image of her assailant hovered over her. He was built like an ox, with pockmarks around his hard, murderous eyes. His fists were like rocks, and he’d stunk of sweat and animal fat. Her fingers tightened on the sheets as she glanced away. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.” She knew who had paid him, though, but for now she dared not share that information. “I’ve no idea who he is.”
He drew in a quick breath. “None at all?”
The sharpness in his tone made her look up. Medical concern had given way to exceptional interest. His burning black eyes sent an inv
oluntary shiver down her back. Julian Darke was not merely a good Samaritan; he was after something more.
“Why do you ask?” she countered. “Did you see something?”
He leaned back in the carved oak chair. “I will tell you what I saw that night, Miss Barchester. I saw you get into a carriage with a man called Sir Thaddeus Ormond. I saw you being abducted and taken down to a deserted dock. And I saw you almost stabbed to death before I managed to intervene.”
The mere mention of Sir Thaddeus Ormond was enough to turn her stomach to water. She clung onto the sheets as though they were a crucifix. Dear God, her instincts were right. Her rescuer wasn’t just a disinterested passerby. Somehow he was connected to Thaddeus Ormond, and therefore she couldn’t trust him. Not yet, not until she was more certain of his motives.
“Thaddeus Ormond?” She attempted a nonchalant shrug without much success. “Oh, he is merely an acquaintance.”
“A mere acquaintance, is he?” His hand curled into a fist on his knee. “A mere acquaintance who delivered you into the clutches of your would-be murderer.”
Beneath the quilts her legs trembled, but she refused to give in. “Why are you so interested in him?”
“Zounds! Why do you wish to protect him? After what his animal did to your hand, not to mention your face…” He gesticulated towards her, a lock of his untidy hair falling over his brow.
She tugged at the bandages encircling her head. “H-how bad is it? I want to see.”
His voice lowered. “Later, when you’re stronger.” He placed his fingers over hers. “I’ve been remiss in my duties. I shouldn’t have upset you with my impertinent questions.”
“I shall be even more upset if you don’t remove these bandages.” She yanked at the fabric, unease worming harder as she read the worry in his expression. “Will you assist me, or do I have to rip these off myself?”
