“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.”
“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.
