She examined the machine more closely. “It looks like a steam-powered wheelchair.”
“Exactly right. I call it my motor-chair. It can travel for two hours on one load of coal.” He grinned at her, pride in his machine showing through.
“I thought you were a doctor, not an engineer.”
“I’m a bit of both. I trained as a doctor, but I’ve always had an interest in making things. In Edinburgh I was able to combine my fascination with anatomy and engineering. These days I hope to use both skills to help my patients. This motor-chair is for an ex-soldier who lost both his legs in the war. Fortunately he’s wealthy enough to afford it. The motor-chair was easy enough to build, but other items are more of a challenge.”
She glanced at him curiously. “How so?”
“Well…” He gave her a considering look before beckoning her to one of the benches. “Come over here. I’ve been working on something recently. I wasn’t going to show it to you just yet, but since you’re here I see no reason not to.”
Thoroughly intrigued, Nellie moved closer. On the bench were a few pliers and cutters, together with coils of wire and a small wooden box. Julian moved around the bench to stand opposite her and placed his hands on the box. He studied her with an air of suppressed anticipation.
“Miss Barchester, unfortunately there is no remedy for your scars. I tried to stitch as carefully as I could, and of course the scars will fade a little, but you will never be rid of them.”
At his words, she lowered her head, unable to take the frank pity in his eyes. Julian had just acknowledged that she was ugly and unappealing, and would always remain so. Her heart dipped, and she had to clench her hands to stop them from trembling.
Julian began to speak quickly, stumbling over his words. “Deuce take it, I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Barchester. I—”
“No, no. I’m not offended.” She gulped but could not meet his eyes.
“I meant no offence. I merely wished to point out that—oh, dash it all. See here, I have something to show you.” He threw open the box and pulled something out. “Look, Miss Barchester. See what I have made for you.”
Hesitantly, she lifted her gaze until she spied the object in his hands which he held out for her inspection. “What—what is it? It looks like a glove.”
“Precisely, but this is no ordinary glove. It has two artificial fingers to replace the ones you lost.” Raising the glove, he waggled it at her.
Nellie stared at the disembodied fingers waving in front of her. She’d never seen anything like that before. They looked bizarre…grotesque…like spare parts for a broken marionette… Is that what she was to him? A damaged puppet for him to dabble with? A surge of nausea stung the back of her throat.
She glared at him. “How dare you.”
A look of complete confusion came over him. “But, Miss Barchester, I only wish to help you—”
“Help yourself, more like. Is this what you do, Dr. Darke? You experiment on devastated patients for your own gratification? Am I just another of your human menagerie, like Figgs and Mrs. Tibbet and your legless soldier? Well, you can think again. I won’t be a part of your sick endeavours.” She stared at her dismembered hand, and all the anguish she’d been suppressing welled up in a bitter tide. “I wish to God you’d never rescued me. I wish you’d left me to die instead,” she muttered, before she whirled around and fled the building.
Chapter Four
Julian spurred his horse on down the muddy road, eager to put distance between himself and Monksbane. Or rather, between himself and Nellie. The stinging words she’d flung at him reverberated in his head. Had he done her a grievous disservice in saving her life? He’d been so puffed up with his deeds that he hadn’t properly taken into consideration her sensibilities. And now she thought he viewed her as nothing more than a sideshow freak, a submissive patient with whom he could experiment. Intolerable!
He’d become too distracted with Nellie Barchester. He’d allowed his blossoming feelings for her cloud his judgement. Yes, he admired her instinct for survival, her deep well of inner strength, her grace that transcended her ravaged face and hand, but he knew very little about her. She was connected to Sir Thaddeus Ormond, yet she refused to tell him what that relationship was, and until she did could not be trusted. He had to remember that. And, too, he had other fish to fry, not to mention numerous patients he’d neglected in the past week.
The road soon reached the built-up areas that marked the creeping tide line of the encroaching city. Fields and woodland gave way to rows of terraced housing, quiet receded before rumbling trains and raucous traffic, and the grey sky faded to a dirty smudge. He had a few patients here, some humble factory workers, other more well-to-do folk who commuted on the train to the city—shop clerks, articled clerks, government workers. He did his rounds, and then was on his way again.
The city burgeoned like a great, grimy pudding smothered in a thick sauce of smog. Hunched across the landscape, hordes of factories belched out smoke like so many fire-breathing dragons. Fine specks of ash sifted through the air to settle on everything in a sooty film. Julian’s pace slowed as the roads became choked with all manner of carts, wagons, omnibuses and carriages. He’d enjoyed his years of study up north in Edinburgh, but London was like no other city, and the place did not agree with him. It was too dense, too avid, too clamouring, too vast. The day was half-gone, and he still had a way to travel, but he pushed on. His ears ached with the din of clattering wheels and angry drivers. Pungent odours assaulted his nose as he neared Mr. Cazalet’s street. Here were row upon row of narrow houses, many of their front rooms serving as shopfronts. Tailors, watchmakers, milliners and shoemakers plied their trade, while match girls, organ grinders and costermongers tramped up and down the road, hawking their wares.
The retired jeweller seemed pleased to see him again—perhaps he didn’t have many visitors—and ushered him into his modest house. An enormous fire roared in the fireplace, filling the small sitting room with a stifling heat. Mr. Cazalet, apparently immune to the heat, made coffee for his visitor before taking the armchair closest to the fire. While the old man chatted about the comings and goings of his neighbours, Julian sipped the strong, black coffee from a seat furthest away from the fire and surreptitiously loosened his necktie. After a while, he was able to steer the conversation back to the subject of his brooch. This time, he did not have specific questions for the jeweller. On his previous visit, Mr. Cazalet had already pulled out one of the many ledgers that lined the shelves of the room and showed him the entry meticulously recorded—one ruby-and-diamond bee brooch repaired for Miss Ophelia Ormond—that had finally pointed Julian towards Sir Thaddeus Ormond. This time, he merely wanted to know anything about the Ormonds that the jeweller might be willing to tell him.
Mr. Cazalet was surprisingly forthcoming. He’d sold several pieces of jewellery to the Ormond family, and they’d sent many of their repairs to him. That was some years ago. And then suddenly they’d started selling jewellery through him too.
“Not only jewellery, but silver plate too,” Mr. Cazalet said. “Rumour had it Sir Thaddeus’s father had lost the family’s country estate! Gambled away, they said, just before he died. The Ormonds were hard put to meet their debts.”
This was news to Julian. He’d been inside the Ormond’s West End townhouse, had seen all its showy grandeur. How had the family fortunes been restored?