Boneseeker

by Brynn Chapman

  He leans forward plucking up my journal, my locked journal, from the bedside table. “What secrets do you keep in here?”

  “None of your bloody business.”

  His fingers trace my neck and my heartbeat surges. I freeze, wanting more, but unable to ask. My face falls as he slips his finger under my necklace.

  He tugs it gently and I feel it slide up my stomach and between my breasts till it appears on my chest to reveal a key.

  He smiles wickedly. “I assume this key, fits in this lock.” He gives the journal a little shake.

  His attention shifts again and he drops the journal into my lap.

  He sits beside me and leans closer and I’m lost again in a deluge of his scent.

  My heart skips a too-long beat in my chest as his lips pass so close to mine. Anticipation and want dizzy my head as he plucks a letter from my nightstand.

  “You’re—” I try to swallow the tremble in my voice. “You’re in rare form. Are all my private papers your personal expedition?”

  He smiles. “You don’t reveal much. So I’m conducting research. I’m not often privy to the cave of the reclusive genius.”

  He’s clutching father’s letter. I don’t care. I’m almost bloody unconscious.

  His eyes scan the perfect penmanship and he looks up. His smile is crooked. “Digger? He calls you digger?”

  I snatch the paper from his hands. “Yes. What of it?”

  “May I call you it, too?” His lips are trembling as he tries not to laugh. He stands.

  I spring.

  He leaps out of the way, running around my bed.

  I chase him and grab hold of his sleeve. I hang on as he tries to throw me off and manage to off a punch at his chest.

  “You are a brute. An awful, sophomoric little boy in a man’s body.”

  Newton’s bark is sharp, his hackles rising in my defense. He bears his teeth.

  I point at the door. “Go, you imbecile! You shouldn’t be in here in the first place. We’ll both be let go!”

  Henry runs out the door, but turns to look through the crack. “Good night, Digger.”

  I throw my shoe and he slams the door shut.

  Chapter Eight

  Judgment Day

  Racing down Mutter Hallway

  Henry

  I flip my hair from my eyes and hurry down the Mutter hallway, checking my watch. My boot-falls echo wildly off the high ceilings.

  I grit my teeth as a curse slips out; I am going to miss the meeting about Arabella.

  “Blast.”

  A nightmarish blur of images fly past me on either side—a plaster cast of a fifteen foot colon, my wax specimens of syphilis and smallpox. I avert my eyes, breaking into an all-out dash.

  I skid to a halt outside the boardroom door and make a last, futile attempt to smooth down my hair.

  Father sits at the massive circular table, his hands folded calmly before him. They itch to strangle me for my tardiness, I know.

  Dr. Jeremy Montgomery sits at the one end, looking even younger than I. Father informed me he was three years my senior, but his smooth, clean-shaven face reminds me of my pupils back home.

  Dr. Earnest sits at the table’s head. His watery eyes crinkle with delight when I enter. “Henry! Welcome. We are very excited to have you join the Mutter. Your father’s reputation precedes him—so I have no doubt we’ll see some wondrous things from you!”

  My smile feels like a cringe. “I shall certainly do my best, sir.”

  My eyes flick to father. I bristle at the grin playing at the twitching sides of his mouth.

  I slide in between father and Jeremy, while Earnest prattles on to a secretary about the excursion.

  Jeremy shoots his hand in mock-introduction, and I give him mine. He gives it a vigorous pump, as if we’ve never met.

  “Glad to have you, Henry.” He leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have someone of my own species on board. It’s been a lonely three months.”

  “You’re new to the Mutter, as well then?”

  “Yes. I am a Philadelphia native, born and bred. I’ve heard rumors about you from the staff.”

  My eyebrows rise. “Such as?”

  “Your reputation with the ladies. I could use some help with one particularly recalcitrant female. Perhaps you might scribble some of that infamous poetry of yours—”

  The door opens and Jeremy breaks off and sits utterly still like a naughty schoolboy caught cheating.

  Stygian enters.

  The temperature in the room drops a degree and the hairs rise on the nape of my neck.

  He sits and all eyes around the table fly to his attention. Except father. His eyes tick up in polite regard, but quickly return to scanning the document before him.

  Stygian inhales, his barrel-chest protruding. “Gentlemen. I shall not waste your time with small talk; we all know the purpose of this council meeting. There has been a motion to add Arabella Holmes to the expedition team. We are gathered to present arguments both for and against this appointment.”

  Earnest clears his throat. “I will begin. I will admit, when Mr. Holmes wrote, requesting we appoint his daughter to the staff, I was more than a little reluctant. But knowing his reputation as I have the past twenty odd years—I knew he would never let his personal feelings override his judgment.”

  My eyes lock with father’s in silent agreement. Feelings? What feelings?

  Father looks away before a smile erupts.

  “I have not been disappointed. Her education is impeccable. She is competent in two languages, anatomy and basic physiology.”

  “Don’t forget fingerprinting, ballistics and is an expert chemist,” father says, adding an ingratiating smile.

  Stygian looks murderous; a vein throbs in his forehead, cutting a path across his pallid skin, reminding me of a blood-trail through snow.

  He stands, leaning forward, his long fingers splayed on the tabletop. “I have come to terms with Miss Holmes as a curator. My concern for the acquisition team is obvious. Arabella is female. Our archeological expeditions are often quite dangerous. I need every man to be able to pull his weight—not have to be coddling a woman.”

  “Sir, respectfully.” I sit up straight and wait till his black eyes challenge mine.

  “Arabella is like no woman I’ve ever met. I’ve known her all my life. I’ve seen her scale trees, swim more proficiently than I, and ride like a champion equestrian. She will not be a burden.”

  Stygian’s dark eyebrows bunch. His fingers twitch and I get the distinct impression they’re itching to throttle me.

  Capital. Put superior number two against me straight away. Well done.

  “Thank you for that glowing testament, Mr. Watson, but I have another concern. Whatever her mind, she is utterly…female. I’m worried her presence will distract the team, or worse, put her in more lascivious dangers.”

  You mean, from others, not just you.

  Jeremy snickers. I give him a glare.

  He shrugs, murmuring, “Sorry. He has a point, Henry. Walking icicle or no, the girl is an eyeful.”

  Father raises his hand, but doesn’t wait for permission. “Arabella is quite capable of protecting herself, I assure you. I was involved in planning her education. She is as well rounded as my sons.”

  Stygian drops his head. “Enough. Let us vote. Those in favor of letting Miss Holmes join the expedition.”

  I raise my hand. Jeremy slowly raises his own, but only after watching mine.

  “Opposed?”

  My heart pounds and I feel a light sheen of sweat on my forehead. I force my hands not to wipe it.

  Earnest raises his hand, avoiding father’s glare.

  Stygian smiles triumphantly. “Well, it seems we are at an impasse. I move to stay this loggerhead and reconsider at a future date. She shall not embark on this first expedition—”

  Father cuts acr
oss him, eyes blazing. “Dr. Earnest? Have you had word from Mr. Holmes in regards to your grant for the museum’s new hothouse?”

  Stygian’s face flickers with surprise. “What?”

  The portion of Earnest’s face not covered by mutton-side chops turns puce. “Yes, Fredrick. We are running low on funds. I petitioned Mr. Holmes about a new hothouse, where we might experiment with exotic breeds of plants, to draw a more genteel clientele into the Mutter.”

  Father’s eyes are shrewd. “Yes, and I am sure Mr. Holmes will be even more disposed to produce such funds when he finds his one and only daughter was barred from the expedition on the basis of prejudice.”

  Earnest sighs and clears his throat, his thick hand rising. “I am sorry Fredrick. I change my vote. The motion passes.”

  Stygian’s face is livid-red. “Fine. Three to one.” His eyes shift to father. “If Miss Holmes meets some bitter end, I am very glad you were here to bear witness, Dr. Watson, and I hope you shall convey my opposition to Mr. Holmes.”

  Father nods, unruffled. “Of course.”

  Stygian storms out of the room, his black cape flung over his arm.

  Father shakes everyone’s hands, flashing a genuine smile. “Arabella will be so pleased.”

  My stomach tightens. I am so pleased.

  ###

  Jacoby Manor

  He knocked, again and again, breathing heavily; his exhalations ghosting up and away in the cold air like the specters in the night.

  The butler’s eyes narrowed as he opened the door a crack, “It is a most ungodly hour—“ His chastisement died on his lips as his eyes widened in frightened recognition. “Sir, do excuse me—”

  The man shoved him aside, striding in the foyer as if the manor were his own.

  “Jacoby!” he called up the stairs.

  The butler hurried past him, taking the steps two-at-an-undignified-time. “I shall rouse him, sir.”

  In mere moments, the portly man waddled down the stairs, white tufts of hair flying as fast as his feet. “Fredrick, what on earth has happened?”

  He reached the bottom of the staircase, huffing.

  “Miss Holmes has been approved for departure.” He shoved an envelope into Jacoby’s pudgy palm. “Here is what is to be done. Read it. Memorize it. Destroy it.”

  He whirled toward the door, his black cape swirling about him like a bat in flight. “I obviously must take charge of her situation, as disappointingly, not a one of you seem to have the stomach for it.”

  He stepped out into the night, not bothering to shut the door.

  ###

  Henry’s cottage

  Henry

  I glance out the window at the dimming light, fading to pink streaks on the horizon.

  It’s almost dark, we’re almost late for the fund-raising ball.

  I stride to my chest of drawers and whip out a tie.

  “Father, I thought we agreed I’d meet Priscilla, not pledge my immediate, undying love on first sight.” I rip the black tie off and begin again, eyeing him in the mirror.

  One dark eyebrow arches. “Really, Henry? Pray tell, what is not to like? She is utterly gorgeous and well-connected to the museum. She is the perfect prospect.”

  “You court her, then.” I wrestle with my tie, roughly slipping the knot up to my neck. I sigh, and spin to face him. “What’re you up to, then? The truth?”

  Father’s chest and eyebrows rise simultaneously as he sucks in a breath and then exhales dramatically between his gritted teeth. “You are…”

  “Difficult?”

  “Yes, but not relevant to this part of the conversation.”

  “Brilliant?” I interject.

  He half-smiles, as he does when I infuriate him. “Yes, also not relevant. Might I find my own word?”

  I turn back to the mirror. “I’m growing old waiting for it.”

  “Unsettled. Unfocused. A rogue. Have too many interests—”

  “I’m nothing like James, you mean.”

  His eyes flare at the mention of my older brother. “I said nothing of the sort, Henry.”

  “But you were thinking it.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “And so marrying would cure me of my many shortcomings?” I turn back to him and give my lapels a rough tug to busy my hands. So I don’t poke him in the chest.

  “The right woman, yes.”

  “And Priscilla, is that woman?”

  He bends, picking up his hat and cane. “You’ve only just met her, give the girl a bloody chance. Henry—” he stops dead, revelation lighting his features. “You’ve already someone in mind, don’t you?”

  I will my hands to stay still.

  His eyes immediately snap down. “Your hands are limp as dead fish. This is as much a giveaway as if they were fidgeting.”

  “You are impossible.” I give up and permit my fingers free reign and crack my knuckles.

  “Likewise.” Father’s lips purse as he considers. Comprehension and horror dawn as his mouth twitches beneath the mustache. He jams his eyes shut, shaking his head once. “Not Arabella? I thought we were past all that.”

  They fly open, waiting.

  I shrug, and slide my hands over my already slicked hair. I walk towards the door.

  Escape. Flee. Freedom.

  “For the love of all that’s holy, Henry. That’s almost like being married to Holmes.” He gives a little shudder.

  “I daresay you’re one to talk. For years, you chose a life with Holmes over matrimony, so that argument is full of holes. Do as I say, not as I do?”

  Father’s face softens, and he lifts a placating hand. “I love Arabella too, you know that. But, be reasonable. She…doesn’t fit into polite society.”

  “Neither does Holmes and he’s almost legendary now.”

  “She is unruly, headstrong, and will never, ever listen.”

  “I know. She fascinates me.”

  Both his hands shoot palm-up into the air, and then fly to cover his mouth in a prayer position.

  I capitalize on his frustration to make my escape; walking swiftly for the door.

  “We are going to be late for the gathering. Don’t want to keep your pet, Priscilla, waiting. Really, father, Violet might be jealous at your obvious attachment.”

  “Love is too young to know what conscience is…”

  A game from childhood, started by my mother. A perpetual contest between James and me—the most Shakespearean quotes meant the most sweets.

  His stare burns a hole in my back. I whirl, and glare back and grind my teeth. I always won.

  “Let every eye negotiate for itself, and trust no agent.”

  Father’s mouth pops open. I shut the door before it closes.

  ###

  Faculty Ball

  “Remember your manners, Henry,” Father warns and proceeds to dive into the sea of well-dressed science. Within minutes I hear his warm, resonant laugh and smile to myself. Father doesn’t hold a grudge. Which is precisely why he and Holmes got on so well.

  A ball of tension is lodged firmly in my throat, and my stomach clenches spasmodically. Nervous. She actually makes me nervous.

  My eyes scan the room, from one gaggle of women to the next. Priscilla catches my stare, and beckons me over.

  “Pardon me,” I say, slipping past a portly scientist, whose name has completely vacated my obsessed brain. I weave through the finery till I finally arrive at Priscilla’s side.

  I nod. “Might I have this dance, if you aren’t otherwise engaged?”

  “Of course, Henry.” She boldly thrusts her dance card into my hand. “Pencil as many as you like.”

  Very few spaces are filed, which is unheard of for a woman of her beauty.

  She smiles, and her teeth are impossibly white, her lips a perfect shade of crimson. “And for whom else would I be waiting? I’ve been impatient for your arrival.”

  I try to smile, feeling li
ke it’s some odd, warped wince of my lips. I take her smooth hand in mind, twirling her into the fray.

  My mind contrasts it. Bella’s hands are so rough. Worn and calloused. I shake my head. Focus, man.

  “So, Priscilla, do you share your father’s interests in science?”

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid not. I do love languages, though. I take after my mother…”

  “My father’s told me you speak three languages. And paint, and play the violin. You are quite accomplished.”

  The waltz tempo slows, and with it our revolutions. Priscilla spins away, while I keep hold of her hand. She twirls back in to touch my chest, and whispers, “I love children. I so desire a house full of children, Henry. How do you feel about them?”

  Her perfume wafts into my nostrils, flowery and light.

  I spin her away; my head spinning along with the sight of her. This dance needs to end.

  She’s clearly looking to wed.

  She presses up against me again.

  Or at least, bed?

  I’m afraid I’m not available for either.

  Something has happened. I have no desire for her. It used to be anything in a skirt could garner any and all of my attention. My mind drifts to the late nights with my lads back home. It no longer seems appealing.

  Priscilla shifts, demanding my attention.

  She permits no space between us, making sure I feel her every curve. I struggle to ignore the press of her.

  I survey the crowd, and irrationally feel as if we are a magnified, glowing spectacle on the dance floor; our words broadcasted through a bull-horn so everyone is privy to our secret conversation.

  Her fingers squeeze my shoulder, trying to re-orient me. “I love society—living in the city. I find the country exceedingly dull and uncivilized. What about you—I’ve heard rumors about you Henry, but you’re so quiet I scarcely believe them.”

  “Hmm. What rumors?” I stare over the top of her head, still searching the crowd.

  “That you are quite the ladies man.”

  I drop my eyes, risking a glance.