by Ava Morgan
Abigail took her nephew and niece and escorted them to their respective dormitories. Once that was done, she was forced to address another important task. Her shift at the apothecary wasn’t scheduled to end until eight that evening. If she hurried back, she could earn enough to recoup some of what she loss during the afternoon.
With a collective breath, she buttoned her woolen coat up to her neck and exited the academy.
#
Both Mr. and Mrs. Macklethorpe were waiting for her at the apothecary when she returned. Mr. Macklethorpe, a medium-built, thoughtful-looking man with an intelligent brow, was usually pleasant when he greeted her. This evening, no smile graced his mustachioed face.
“Miss Benton, we need to speak with you. Put the closed sign up on the window, please.”
She did as she was told, even as an uneasy feeling settled in her belly. The Macklethorpes never closed the apothecary during normal business hours unless there was very good reason.
She went to stand before the counter. “Yes?”
Mrs. Macklethorpe scowled at her before casting an expectant look upon her husband. Mr. Macklethorpe smoothed his cravat. “It’s come to our attention that your work in the shop has suffered lately. This afternoon you took leave without proper notice.”
“Mr. Macklethorpe, I informed your wife that I had no choice but to escort my niece and nephew back to their academy. Their parents are away, and I’m the closest relative they have.”
“Yes, Mrs. Macklethorpe told me.” He glanced at his wife, who started busying herself by wiping the counter of fingerprints. “You know the rules about visitors during work hours. The children were here for more than ten minutes, and they broke store merchandise.”
“But I cleaned it up. It won’t happen again.”
“Miss Benton, this not only concerns your niece and nephew. A customer had a grievance against the way you treated him.”
Abigail’s palms sweated. Dr. Valerian must have spoken to Mr. Macklethorpe about her. She must have left quite a foul taste in his mouth if he had already taken the time to return to the apothecary and voice his complaint, especially after saying that he had a lecture to attend. “If I may ask, who had the grievance?”
Mrs. Macklethorpe stopped wiping fingerprints from the counter. “It was the gentleman who came in with his wife shortly before one-thirty this afternoon. He needed an insomnia remedy and you sold him castor oil to put in his tea instead of chamomile.”
“Oh, dear.” Could she really have been that careless?
Mrs. Macklethorpe continued. “His wife came back while you were out, and oh, did she give us a piece of her mind. Her poor husband will be shut in the privacy of his privy for days.”
“I’m so sorry.” Abigail looked from the apothecary owner to his wife, but neither was receptive to her imploring gaze.
“It’s clear that you’re distracted, Miss Benton.” Mr. Macklethorpe reached for an envelope on the counter beside his hand. “And you have been since we hired you last spring. These incidences with your family keep you occupied more than your work here. That’s why it’s best for all that we end your employment. Here is your severance pay.” He held out the envelope.
Abigail stared at it for several seconds. “Mr. Macklethorpe, please. Today was simply a trying one. I can do better than this. I know I can.”
“Today you caused a man to be in some discomfort, but what if you had given him a stronger medicine by accident? He could have suffered severely or worse.”
Abigail shuddered to even consider that possibility.
“Take the envelope. It doesn’t please me to do this, but the welfare of our customers is of utmost importance.”
With shaky fingers, she grasped the envelope that held the last of her wages. Mr. Macklethorpe smoothed his cravat again before leaving the front of the store.
Mrs. Macklethorpe stayed, but never ceased to wipe the now sparkling, immaculate glass countertop. “On your way out, don’t forget to turn the sign over from Closed to Open.”
Abigail waited for her to raise her eyes, but when that didn’t happen, she left the store as a paid employee for the final time.
#
Jacob left the lecture hall New Britannia College of Science and stepped outside in the dim of the evening. Overhead, charcoal-colored smoke streaked the sky, wafting from the factories further east down by the river. The cold frequently made his right leg hurt. This fierce winter looked like it would offer him only more of the same.
Clutching his parcel from the apothecary, he used his walking stick to hail one of the oncoming hansom cabs. The driver guided his horse near the curb and pulled on its reins.
“Where to?” The driver hopped from his perch with enviable ease and proceeded to open the cab door.
“Nineteen Locksford Lane in Bloomsbury. I’ll pay you an extra shilling if you get me there fast enough.” Jacob sank into the plush interior of the cab. Once the driver started the cab off, he unwrapped the parcel and lifted the box lid.
There it was. The ether solvent. He lifted the small bottle gingerly in one hand, being careful to cradle its base in his palm. At last, the final key to his experiment.
Most apothecaries never carried ether solvent in stock, but had to place a special order with a small chemical manufacturer in Scarborough. The druggist Macklethorpe worked a miracle to get his order of the solvent to London in less than a fortnight. Jacob considered using the apothecary to purchase his supplies from now on, despite what he uttered in haste to that inquisitive, green-eyed female store clerk.
He couldn’t recall if she told him her name. She did, however, tell him just about everything else about her life in a span of five minutes. Her father had been a doctor at some point in his life. She once worked as a missionary in India.
Jacob turned the ether solvent bottle in his hand as the cab’s wheels rolled over cobblestone below. Even though he left India four years ago when his country’s army sent him back home on a ship, injured, he still remembered his time spent there as though it were yesterday.
The pain and loneliness resulting from the campaign wouldn’t let him forget.
The wheels struck a hole in the road, jolting the cab. Jacob closed both hands around the ether bottle and shifted to block the rest of the items from tumbling out of the box on the seat beside him.
Spilling the ether solvent on the floor of the cab would have made Jacob become well-acquainted with the bricks used to pave the street. Spilling the nitrous oxide would have made him too riotous with laughter to care about being trampled under the cab’s wheels.
Jacob placed the ether solvent back into the box and secured the lid until the cab came to a stop. He heard the driver jump to the ground.
“Nineteen Locksford Lane. Made it here in under fifteen minutes, I did.”
He paid the man an extra shilling as promised and hurried to the two-story property that housed both his residence and practice, where he outfitted amputee patients with artificial limbs. His valet Struthers opened the door just as his hand touched the knob.
“Good evening, Doctor.”
“Good evening, Struthers. Where is Maria?” He referred to the valet’s wife, who worked alongside her husband in Jacob’s employ as a cook and housekeeper. Both employees were longstanding, and Jacob treated them as his family.
“In the kitchen, preparing supper,” Struthers answered. “Will you be dining with us?”
“Not tonight. You and Maria may have the evening off.”
“Very good, but what of your practice?”
Jacob paused. “I didn’t forget an appointment today, did I?”
“No, sir, but the area still has in prominent display your papers and the steel plates you assembled this morning. Shall I remove them?”
Jacob forgot to clear the space in his rush from the house. He pictured what the practice looked like. His notebooks sat piled on the examination table. Tools and prosthetic models lay in groups on the floor. “I really must place an advertisem
ent in the Times for a new assistant. It’s a shame my last one gave his notice. What did he say it was about?”
Struthers placed his hands behind his back. “I do recall, as you said, ‘some nonsense with the physicians’ practices in Cavendish Square being less cluttered’.”
“Oh, yes. Right. Well, the young medical student should have realized that my specialty is not one of convention . Prosthetic devices take immense patience and time to craft.”
“Indeed, Doctor.”
Jacob realized that he had still to answer Struthers’ inquiry about tidying up the practice. “Before you leave, if you would please see that the area is fit to receive patients, I would appreciate it. And I will place that advertisement tomorrow.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of doing so. It’s been listed in the Times for six days. Let us hope someone will answer it soon.”
Struthers’ reliability never failed to impress. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, Struthers. I’ll see you and Maria in the morning.” Jacob continued on his way, without handing Struthers his coat to put on the rack.
With walking stick and box in his hands, he traversed the hall and opened the door at the end of it, leading to the cellar. Down the steps he went, his right leg protesting the journey after a full day traversing lecture halls and the streets of London, but he soon arrived to his workroom.
In the dimness of light seeping through the doorway above, Jacob flipped a switch on the wall to turn on the lamps. Their experimental electric coil bulbs crackled on.
Everything was where he left it. Glass tubes and containers sat on the long table. Across the room, the door leading to the blast furnace on the rear lawn, where he forged the mechanical prosthetics, remained locked. On a shelf beside the door, notebooks lay scattered, evidence of his prior assistant’s departure over two weeks ago. He truly could do with a new one soon.
Jacob approached the table. The sample he had worked on yesterday evening remained covered under a piece of cloth. He lifted the cloth. A six-inch square of copper resided on a steel tray. Now that he had the final ingredient, he could complete his experiment.
Jacob set his walking stick and box to the side, removed his jacket, and began to work. He took a knife and started cutting through the edge of the metal. Once he had a sliver, he set it inside a glass bowl.
Jacob then took the ether solvent out of the box. He removed the wax seal and cork stopper, tilted the bottle over the bowl, and let one drop fall on the metal sliver. He held his breath as a single wisp of smoke arose. The ether drop bubbled and spread over the metal, merging and penetrating through the layers until there was no longer a solid mass, but a liquid that coated the bottom of the bowl in a viscous layer.
“It works.” Jacob’s whisper matched the soft rasp of the ether solvent as it finished its work. He put the cork back on the bottle and set it aside. Then he lifted the bowl and brought it under the lamplight. What he saw brought the corners of his mouth upward. “I knew there was something about the properties of this Aspasian metal.”
He didn’t care that the statement was directed to no one. His theory proved true after weeks of speculation.
In the previous autumn, he learned of a Mediterranean island called Aspasia that produced iron and copper that showed excellent conductivity of sound, far better than ordinary metals. These Aspasian metals were already being experimented with in automatons. The metals granted the machines the ability to respond to the human voice.
News of such a marvel gave Jacob an interesting theory to test: What if the metals could improve functions of other devices, such as weapons or prosthetics worn on the body?
If his theory proved true his theory, it had the potential to help many people, especially his patients. Then the real work could begin.
Chapter 3
The female desk clerk at the employment office of east Holborn shut the book containing the weekly job postings. “So sorry, Miss Benton, but there isn’t any work available for ladies at the moment.”
It had been four days since Abigail was dismissed from employment at the apothecary, and how long she spent seeking another place to work. She remained optimistic at first, but as she prepared to leave the desk of yet another employment office empty-handed, her buoyant mood began to sink.
“There must be some work available. Christmas will be here soon. Do any shopkeepers have need of an assistant to help with additional customers?”
“We’ve already fulfilled requests for more store clerks. The last one was filled yesterday.”
Abigail looked over her shoulder at the line of men and women behind her who were also seeking work. She knew it wouldn’t do to stall the line’s progression, but she had to make sure to explore all prospects. “I do have some experience in supervising children. Are there any positions for a tutor or governess?”
The desk clerk shook her head. “You may have better luck if you come back next week.”
Abigail slipped from the front of the line. In the corridor outside the office, she saw two people reading the advertisement spread of the Times on the wall’s job posting board. She inspected it once they left.
The desk clerk was right. Hardly any positions available were suitable for women. Abigail skimmed a column until her eyes caught a notice for a physician’s assistant.
Ambitious and skilled person needed immediately for physician’s practice. In addition to normal business hours, must be able to work some evenings. Pay to start at 18 shillings a day. Inquire within at 19 Locksford Lane, Bloomsbury.
She kept her finger on the address. She had experience helping her father keep records of his patients. She even made rounds with him in the local Indian villages. This job would undoubtedly have similar responsibilities. And at eighteen shillings a week, it was worth applying for.
Abigail had nothing to lose, save her lodgings at the boarding house if she didn’t come up with rent money in the next week.
She committed the address to memory before leaving the employment office.
#
Locksford Lane was a respectable neighborhood of middle-class professionals, but like most addresses of central London, it was not far from the outskirts of industry. As Abigail navigated the populated street of drays, cabs, and fellow pedestrians, she saw the smokestacks of the paper mills rising above the residences.
Abigail walked further up the lane. The roofs of the houses held dustings of fine snow. Tiny icicles laced the edges of windowsills and clung to the gaslights lining the cobblestone street.
She stopped in front of a large, two-story residence at the very end of the street, spaced apart from the neighboring houses by an acre on each side. Abigail saw the engraved numbers on the sidewalk in front of it. 19. She cast her vision to the rooftop and saw a thin trail of smoke that appeared to be coming from the back of the house.
The path to the residence was swept clean of snow. A layer of coarse salt crunched under Abigail’s shoes as she drew up to the door. She shifted her eyes to the window on the door’s right. Drawn curtains discouraged passerby from peering inside.
Abigail lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. Then she noticed the small plaque beside the door. Doctor Jacob Valerian, physician and prosthetics outfitter.
She snatched her hand back. Could this really be the residence of the harried doctor that came to the apothecary four days ago? Was it he who placed the notice in the paper?
Abigail questioned whether she had taken down the correct address. If memory served, this was the right place. But what would Dr. Valerian make of her standing at his door, especially after she had unwittingly succeeded in irritating him only a short time ago?
Instinct prompted her to leave before someone answered the door, but she needed a job. This was the only one available. She had to try. Perhaps the doctor’s mood had improved.
The door opened. An older man, dressed in a dark uniform of neatly pressed trousers and suit coat, regarded
her with a calm, genteel air. “Good morning, Miss. Do you have an appointment to see Dr. Valerian?”
“No, sir.” She folded her cold hands together. “But I am here in answer to the advertisement.”
The man’s flicker of surprise went nearly undetected, save for the twitching of his right eye. “You’re applying for the assistant position?”
“Has it been filled?”
“No, but,” he trailed as he regarded her with obvious thought, “I believe the doctor was expecting the position to be filled by a man.”
Abigail was prepared for such a reaction. “I understand, but I have prior experience assisting in a physician’s practice.”
“That may be so, but Dr. Valerian’s practice requires somewhat of a liberal outlook to work in. More liberal than what you may be used to.”
What did he mean? Since he went to such trouble to cloak the details of the job, Abigail doubted that he would be more straightforward if she asked. “I can be very open-minded, sir. May I please speak with the doctor?”
“He’s not present at the moment.”
Of course any proper domestic servant would say that to be rid of unwanted visitors, whether or not the master was at home. But she wouldn’t give up that easily. “I’m willing to wait.”
“He won’t be back until noon. If you would leave a calling card, I’ll make sure he receives it.”
“I don’t have a calling card.”
The man gave a mild frown. “Do you have a reference letter from your previous employer?”
A cold wind made Abigail’s ears burn. “To be honest, I hastened here from the employment office in east Holborn as soon as I saw the advertisement.”
The wind painted rouge on the tip of the man’s nose. “I can take your name and your request for Dr. Valerian. But it’s quite cold out here. Would you care for some tea inside while you wait?”
Abigail nodded. Dr. Valerian’s domestic servant, though very dutiful in screening his master’s visitors, was courteous. “Thank you. I would.”