“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.