Darke London Page 3

  His sympathy scoured her. He’d saved her life, and here she was worrying about something as inconsequential as scars. What a vain simpleton he must think her.

  “This stitching is extremely fine,” she remarked, determined to meet this challenge with all the composure she could muster. “Is that your doing?”

  He inclined his head. “I took as much care as I could, but…” He lifted his shoulders.

  “No, I’m very grateful to you.” She lowered the mirror. “For everything you’ve done. I can’t thank you enough.”

  He rolled up the soiled bandages. “You won’t require these anymore.” He stood to leave. “You should rest. We’ll speak again later.”

  When he had left the room, she raised the mirror again and studied her reflection for several long minutes. Her hair was lank and matted with sweat and dirt. Apart from the angry red scars, her skin was like putty, grey and slack. Heavy dark circles hung beneath her eyes. She could barely recognise herself. She looked like a grotesque patchwork doll torn apart and haphazardly stitched together again by a drunken seamstress. Coupled with her defiled hand, she was an abnormality, a freak in a menagerie. A woman like that should be hidden away, locked behind bars.

  Her chest heaved. Disgust and fear welled up. She flung the mirror away from her. It crashed into a dim corner and broke with a tinkle of glass. She pulled the covers over her head, but the mocking shadows were inside her, and there was no escaping them.

  Chapter Three

  Three days later the last of the fever had vanished, and Nellie was strong enough to leave her bed. The temptation to hide beneath the covers still assailed her, especially when she woke each morning and remembered afresh where she was and how she had come to be there, but she knew the only way to overcome her difficulties was to seize them by the scruff of their necks.

  This morning she was sitting on the edge of her bed when Mrs. Tibbet arrived with hot water. The housekeeper had been assisting her with her ablutions each morning, but today Nellie was resolved to manage on her own.

  “You’ll feel better on your own two feet,” the housekeeper opined as she set down the jug with a thump. The woman was small, round, dark and wrinkled, and resembled nothing so much as a walnut. A few whiskers sprouted from her bulbous chin, and she spoke with a peculiar whistling lisp. “There’re some clothes I’ve aired for you in that there wardrobe, if you’ve a mind to join the family for breakfast.”

  “Oh, thank you. I think I will go downstairs.” For the past few days she’d been fed only watery gruels, and the thought of a proper breakfast gave her extra impetus to emerge from her room.

  “Have your wash, then, m’dear, and I’ll help you to dress.”

  Nellie opened her mouth to assure the housekeeper that she could dress herself, but the muscles in her arms and shoulders were stiff and aching, constricting her mobility, and she realised she’d need some assistance.

  She rose to her feet and approached the washstand. Her legs were not completely steady, in part because of her lingering torpor, but mainly because of what she would see in the large bevelled mirror above the washstand. Ruing her cowardice, she marched across the room and glared defiantly at herself in the mirror. She might look macabre, but she would wash and make herself presentable and go downstairs for breakfast like any normal person.

  Clumsily she washed herself using only her right hand. Yesterday Julian Darke had removed the stitches from her face. He’d worked with remarkable finesse, barely causing her any discomfort. She knew she was lucky, that most doctors would have left her face a butchered mess, but she couldn’t help flinching at the ruins of her once perfect complexion. She sighed in exasperation. What could she expect from others if she was so squeamish herself?

  She put on the clean chemise, drawers and stockings Mrs. Tibbet handed to her. There was no sign of any corset, but she didn’t need one when she slipped on the white dress and saw it was fashioned in the Empire silhouette, a style that had been popular decades ago. Made of cotton and embroidered silk, the dress floated over her body, as gauzy and delicate as a cloud. The frock was simply beautiful, something a well-to-do young lady would possess, and she, plain Nellie Barchester, with red scars crisscrossing her cheeks and a disfigured hand, had no business appropriating it. But there were no other clothes for her to wear, and Mrs. Tibbet was already fastening the buttons down the rear of the dress.

  “Eh, you do look a treat,” the housekeeper said with some satisfaction as she handed a pair of cream slippers to Nellie.

  Nellie fingered the intricate embroidery, marvelling at its fineness. “But whose dress is this?” As far as she knew, Mrs. Tibbet was the only other female in this house.

  “Why, yours of course!” Mrs. Tibbet stared at her. “The master will be pleased to see you in his favourite dress.” Before Nellie could question her further, the strange little housekeeper bustled out of the room.

  What on earth could Mrs. Tibbet have meant? It made no sense at all.

  Nellie’s hand shook as she opened the door. For a moment the familiarity of her room pulled her back, but she stepped out with a firm tread and made her way downstairs. To her relief, Julian stood waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mrs. Tibbet advised me you’d be coming down.” He greeted her with a smile, and she found herself smiling back in return. Now that she was upright, his handsomeness hit her afresh. Besides being tall and graceful, his unruly black hair and golden skin lent him a certain exotic air, and there was a spark in his jet black eyes as he surveyed her. “You look very well,” he added.

  She smoothed down the front of her dress uncertainly. “I’m not sure who this dress belongs to. Mrs. Tibbet seemed to think it was your favourite…?”

  “Mine?” Julian looked startled before his expression cleared. “Oh, I think she might have been referring to my father, there. You see, that dress belonged to his late wife. She passed away many years ago, hence the outmoded style of the frock. Mrs. Tibbet gets confused at times.”

  “I understand. But won’t your father mind me wearing his late wife’s clothing? I wouldn’t want to cause any distress.”

  “Elijah won’t mind in the least, I assure you. He was called out early, so we breakfast alone.” He ushered her into a dining room. Here, ancient oak beams, timber panelling, dark furniture and faded carpets all conspired against the wintry sunlight leaching through leaded windows. Opaque portraits of long-dead ancestors peered down at them from the walls. Thick velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing a rambling, frostbitten garden beyond.

  When Mrs. Tibbet set a platter of beef rib roast on the table, Nellie stared in surprise, but Julian appeared quite unperturbed. “Thank you, Mrs. Tibbet.” He waited until the housekeeper had departed before addressing Nellie. “As I said, Mrs. Tibbet becomes confused about certain matters, especially when it comes to meal times. We are just as likely to get roast pork for breakfast as we are bacon and eggs, and similarly so at dinner.”

  Mrs. Tibbet returned with roast potatoes, stuffed onions and gravy. Julian carved some beef for Nellie and passed her the plate. She could eat only a few bites of meat and potato, her stomach rebelling against the rich fare. Fortunately, the housekeeper had also provided a pot of tea, and she poured herself a large, reviving cup.

  “Do you come from a long line of doctors?” she asked, tilting her head towards the portraits on the wall.

  Julian blinked at the paintings as if seeing them for the first time. “No indeed. Most of those men were wily aldermen and councillors. The Darkes rose to prominence during the Civil War. A tricky time for staking allegiances, but the Darkes managing to alter tack as the prevailing winds changed, so to speak.” He paused, an odd look on his face. “Perhaps I should clarify that my father adopted me when I was just a babe, so I’m a Darke by name, but not by birth.”

  “Oh.” Not knowing quite how to respond, she found herself blurting out, “My father is a doctor too.”

  “Your father?” Julian’s eyebro
ws shot up. “I hadn’t heard you mention him before. Will he not be anxious about you? Do you wish to send him a message?”

  Flustered, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Er, no, that would only cause unnecessary alarm. I—he lives in the Midlands, you see, and knows nothing about—about me being in London.”

  And even if he did, he wouldn’t care, except to curse her for deserting him. Once, he’d been a kind enough parent, but after her mother’s death he’d retreated, gradually losing himself in a haze of opiates, until there was nothing left of him except a bitter, selfish husk. No, she could never return to him or that life.

  “Is there anyone else you wish to contact?” Julian asked. “Anyone else who might be concerned about you?”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her, and just like before she shook her head. She couldn’t contact Pip. Not yet. A part of her longed to think Pip would be distraught over her sudden disappearance, but that was the romantic fool in her. She had to be sure of her facts before she revealed herself to him. And besides, there was another, far more primitive, reason for her reluctance. Of their own volition her fingers strayed to her cheeks and traced the bumpy outline of her cicatrix. How would Pip react to her flawed face, her disfigured hand? He used to call her his buttercup, his sweet pea. But what would he call her now—goblin, troll?

  With a shiver she balled her napkin in her lap. “No, there is no one.”

  “You’re recently arrived in London then?” Across the table Julian’s expression softened. He had beautiful eyes, dark, almond-shaped, fringed by thick lashes. And he gazed upon her without the slightest trace of revulsion, in fact, almost the opposite, as if he enjoyed looking at her. But then, he was a doctor, and she was his patient. No doubt he was only admiring his handiwork.

  Again she nodded. “I, er, have been looking for work. I’ve some experience as a nurse.” Pip had objected to the idea. Even though they were living in penury, he couldn’t countenance the thought of her labouring for a wage.

  “I suppose you assisted your father with his patients?”

  “As much as I could.” Increasingly her father had come to rely on her. The governors of the asylum were none too particular about the medical attention given to the patients, but some semblance of competency had to be maintained. Her father’s slide into dissipation had been gradual, but as it worsened she feared his ineptness would be uncovered and they would be thrown out on the street. So, bit by bit, she’d taken over much of her father’s routine duties, and as long as the patients were kept docile, the wardens had seen fit to look the other way. Since she had left, her father would have to fend for himself, a fact he’d be none too happy with. If he’d been more of a father to her, if he’d at least protected her from the abhorrent advances of Mr. Crawley, she might have stayed. But it was all too late for speculation.

  “However, I doubt I’ll find much employment now.” She lifted her left hand and ruefully waggled her remaining fingers. “My hand is not much use, and my appearance is enough to give a child nightmares.”

  “Don’t lose all hope, Miss Barchester. You’re only at the beginning of your rehabilitation. I predict you’ll be more sanguine in a week or so.”

  His confident tone made her study him curiously. “Have you been practicing long, Doctor?”

  “A number of years. I’d spent some time studying at Edinburgh University, but returned here to assist my father. He’s involved with setting up a new hospital nearby, and cannot see as many patients as before, so I’ve taken up the slack, so to speak.”

  She was impressed, as the medical school in Edinburgh was renowned for its research in anatomy and surgery. She could not have asked for a better-qualified physician to operate on her damaged face.

  Julian set down his knife and fork and wiped his chin with his napkin. “Now, if you’ve finished breakfasting, I shall show you the rest of the house.”

  Monksbane House, as it was called, had started off several centuries ago as a small Tudor manor, and over the years successive owners had demolished bits and added other wings in haphazard fashion. Julian led Nellie through a maze of rooms, some surprisingly spacious and airy, others so cramped he had to bend his head to avoid the ancient, blackened beams. Generations of Darkes had left behind a multitude of furniture, paintings, porcelain and carpets, everything cluttered and dusty.

  “I’m afraid this house is too much for Mrs. Tibbet,” Julian apologised, as if noticing for the first time how unkempt some of the rooms were.

  “Could you not hire some maids to help her?” Nellie asked.

  “We do, but they constantly refuse to stay. Mrs. Tibbet tends to frighten them off.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed her being particularly fearsome.”

  They were standing in a dim gallery where the sunlight struggled to penetrate the dirty windows. Julian blew at a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. “Mrs. Tibbet is prone to seizures. Some people—many people, in fact—find them frightening, especially ignorant young maids, all of whom think Mrs. Tibbet is possessed by demons, despite my repeated explanations.” He frowned. “You don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense, do you?”

  “No, of course not.” She’d witnessed plenty of seizures in the asylum and had grown accustomed to them, though the spasms and frothing of the patients had always distressed her.

  Julian nodded. “If you do happen upon Mrs. Tibbet when she’s having a seizure, you need only ensure she’s not choking on something and roll her on her side when the convulsions subside. Contrary to popular belief, you do not have to restrain her, and she will recover in due course.”

  Nellie listened to him with growing surprise. Many of the patients at the asylum had been brought there solely because of the seizures they suffered. They were thought to be mad and dangerous. Yet here was Julian Darke telling her these people didn’t need to be incarcerated or treated so harshly.

  “We have a hard time finding housemaids,” Julian said. “But Mrs. Tibbet has been with us for many years.”

  And so he and his father put up with their untidy surroundings and eccentric meals for the sake of the housekeeper. Such a benevolent attitude she’d never encountered before. Little wonder he hadn’t thought twice to come to her rescue. He was simply that sort of man. If it hadn’t been for him, she would now be a lifeless corpse rotting somewhere unspeakable.

  “Miss Barchester, are you feeling quite well?” Julian said.

  It must have been the thought of death that had made her pale. Biting her lip, she replied steadily, “Quite well, thank you.”

  “Perhaps a turn in the garden would do you good.”

  “Yes, certainly.” She nodded. She’d been cooped up with her dark thoughts for too long; some fresh air would help to clear the shadows dogging her mind.

  But a few minutes later, armed with boots and shawl, when she stepped outside with Julian, her nerves were not calmed but rather assaulted. Skeletal trees towered over them like the bleached bones of whales, piles of dead leaves rattled in the keening breeze, dried grass crunched underfoot like crumbling bone. From the garden walls, jackdaws cackled at her. Against the arid wind, her scars tightened and ached, and her eyes blurred and watered, unaccustomed to the harshness. Shivering, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Is there some shelter nearby?” she asked Julian.

  “Of course.” Seeming to sense her discomfort, he took hold of her elbow. “My workshop is just past this hedge.”

  He led her round a laurel hedge and into a large brick building. Inside, it was slightly warmer and smelled of sawdust and grease. As her eyes adjusted to the interior light, she saw it was indeed a workshop. There were benches and shelves filled with equipment and tools of every kind. In the centre of the workshop stood a wheelchair with some sort of engine attached to its rear. A man, who’d been polishing the smokestack of the engine, stood to attention as soon as they entered the workshop.

  Drawing in a quick gasp, Nellie halted
abruptly. It was the man-beast of her delirium, the hulking creature with the split mouth who’d frothed and bellowed at her. She’d thought him just a nightmare, but here he was in the flesh, his face screwed up in a ferocious scowl— And that hand of his clutching a cloth, that was not flesh but the eerie metal pincer she recognised from before… Her throat tightened as she recoiled from the creature.

  “Miss Barchester, it’s only Figgs, our manservant.” Julian’s calm voice broke through her gathering turmoil.

  His manservant? She swallowed and peered at the man-beast more closely. His scowl was more timorous than fierce, she perceived. It was merely the crags and bumps on his face that gave him such a forbidding expression. And the split in his mouth was due to his cleft palate, which was also responsible for his unintelligible mutterings. And the metal pincer was there because he had no left hand at all. He wasn’t a beast, just a humble servant regarding her with apprehension because of her reaction to his unusual appearance.

  Shame instantly engulfed her. With her facial scars and mutilated hand, she was every bit as deformed as this man, and yet she’d reacted towards him with such horror. Was that how she wanted others to treat her?

  “F-Figgs, I do apologise most profusely.” She stepped towards him and tried to give him an encouraging smile.

  Startled, the servant garbled something out which she couldn’t understand. For a moment she wondered if her smile had seemed hideous to him.

  Julian nodded at the man as if he understood him perfectly. “Very well, Figgs. Carry on.” He waited until the man had shuffled out of the workshop before addressing Nellie. “Figgs lost his hand when he was a boy, run over by a coach. He is a little hard to understand, especially when he’s nervous, but he’s a very loyal servant. He’s been with us for years.” He moved to the wheelchair Figgs had been polishing and ran his hand over the shiny smokestack. “What do you think of my contraption?”

  She examined the machine more closely. “It looks like a steam-powered wheelchair.”