by Ava Morgan
She stepped inside the house. Immediately her feet sank in the plush rug near the door. The interior of Dr. Valerian’s foyer was not filled with elaborate décor as was the current style, but it was clean, well-lit by gas lamps, and most important of all, warm.
His servant directed her into the parlor and to an armchair in front of the hearth, where a fire crackled below the mantle. “Wait here.” He walked down another hallway.
Abigail sat for no more than a few minutes before he returned. He held a leather-bound book in his hands. “This is Dr. Valerian’s ledger. Since you don’t have a card, I thought this would suffice to, oh dear, this isn’t good.”
“What is it?”
He lifted several sheets of paper from the ledger. “The doctor forgot his notes. He’s give a demonstration of one of his armored devices today. In less than thirty minutes, in fact.”
Abigail looked at the grandfather clock beside the mantle when it struck eleven. “Where is he giving the demonstration?”
“The lecture hall at the New Britannia College of Science. But my wife and I must remain at our posts in case the first afternoon patient arrives early.” The domestic servant broke into a brisk pace for the door. “I must find a courier to bring this to him at once.”
“I’ll do it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Abigail left the cushioned embrace of the armchair and the fireplace’s warmth. “I’ll do it. I’ll take Dr. Valerian’s notes to him. That lecture hall is walking distance from here.” Her father spoke at the college several times when he sought to raise funding for his missions.
Dr. Valerian’s servant gave a vehement shake of his head. “I cannot simply give the doctor’s notes to a stranger and trust they will be delivered safely.”
“But you are giving them to a stranger, the courier. That is, if you can find one in time. I can make it to that college before eleven-thirty if I leave now.”
The man’s right eye twitched again. “Young lady, what did you say your name was?”
“I’m Abigail Benton.”
“Why should I entrust you with these notes?”
“I’ve come here seeking work. It involves making sure Dr. Valerian has everything he needs, including his notes. Let me demonstrate that I’m a suitable candidate.”
He cast a second worried glance at the clock. “You’re right. There isn’t time to send for a courier. Remain here.” He left the waiting area again and returned with an envelope. He placed the notes inside. “This may be the most confounded thing I have ever done, but I trust you to personally see that this gets to Dr. Valerian. If you fail in any way, I can lose my position.”
“We won’t have that.” Abigail took the envelope from him. “I spent an hour standing in line at the employment office. I couldn’t bear to subject anyone else to the experience.”
Without waiting to be shown to the door, Abigail saw herself out and started her brisk pace for the lecture hall. She pulled her scarf tighter about her neck with one hand while clutching Dr. Valerian’s notes with the other.
She passed people on the streets, darting between pedestrians and newsboys still selling the morning edition on the corner. She hurried up three blocks, breezing through a standing flock of pigeons and sidestepping a pile of rubbish spilling from the gutter before the college stood before her across the street. She walked through the door of the lecture hall.
An attendant met her inside. “Your ticket, Miss.” He looked about her as though he were searching for her escort. Of the handful of ladies that were present, all of them hung on the arm of a gentleman.
She raised the envelope before the attendant’s eyes. “I’m Dr. Valerian’s acting assistant. I’m here to deliver his lecture notes.”
“He’s in his office. Next hall, fourth door on your left. Say, what happened to Ollie Pickens?”
“Who?”
“Valerian’s first assistant.”
“I wasn’t told. Excuse me.” Abigail left the lobby and followed the attendant’s directions to Dr. Valerian’s office. She knocked on the fourth door.
“Yes, what is it?” The now familiar voice answered from the inside. Abigail imagined she saw a flurry of small movements through the frosted glass window.
She opened the door and stuck her head in. The movements turned out to be papers. Sheets of them, flying in the air, falling to the floor, getting caught in the crevices of the bookcases and furniture. “Dr. Valerian?”
One last sheet made its descent before his silver-blond head appeared from behind the desk, though his back was towards the door. “I said, what is it? The demonstration begins in five minutes and I can’t find my notes.”
Abigail stepped inside. “I have your notes.”
Dr. Valerian finally turned. He stared at her for a moment before recognition settled upon his refined features. “You’re that clerk at the apothecary.”
“I no longer work there.” Raising on her toes, she tipped through the spaces between the sheets of paper blanketing half the floor. She extended her hand to give him the envelope.
He took and opened it. “How did you come by my notes?”
“I visited your address this morning in answer to your advertisement.”
“You wish to be my assistant?”
She nodded in the face of his disbelief. “Your manservant saw that you left the notes and permitted me to bring them to you.”
“Struthers allowed you to—” He stopped and thrust the notes in his jacket pocket. Like the one he wore the first time she’d seen him, this one also possessed brass embellishments and a close fit that suited his tall, trim frame. “I’ll question him later.” The limp in his right leg was noticeable today as he went past her and grabbed his walking stick and a long metal case by the door. He locked the office after she exited behind him.
She walked alongside him in the hallway. “Should I wait in the audience?”
He shoved his spectacles over his eyes. She noticed the lenses were now clear instead of dark. “Really, Miss…?”
“Abigail Benton.”
“Miss Benton, my practice requires someone with a hearty constitution. Many of my patients are victims of horrific accidents. I cannot be hindered by delicate, feminine reactions of weeping and fainting. ”
Abigail steeled against his insult upon her gender. “That is most unfair of you, Dr. Valerian.”
“I disagree. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He turned a corner, where he slipped into the side entrance of the auditorium.
Abigail placed her hands on her hips. Dr. Valerian was stinging, a difficult man to please. But he paid well. She could handle his fussiness. She just had to make him see that she could perform the job of physician’s assistant as well as any man.
She darted into the auditorium’s side entrance, hoping that the next hour of the demonstration would give her an opportunity to do just that.
Chapter 4
How did Miss Abigail Benton manage to talk Struthers into letting her personally deliver his lecture notes?
As Jacob entered the auditorium, his mind still reeled from the sight of her in his office. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and probably exertion from running. The casualness with which she handed him the notes and the confidence in her voice, why, one would think she really was capable of being his assistant.
She brought the notes in the nick of time. He was grateful for that, despite her being a near perfect stranger in possession of some of his most guarded documents. But that had to be dealt with after the lecture. For the next hour, his full concentration needed to be on educating students and members of the public about his new device for self-defense.
Attendees filed into their seats as he neared the stage steps. Professor Markel, one of the lecture’s organizers, hastened to take the case containing the device from Jacob in order for him to grasp the stair rail and his walking stick at the same time. Jacob nodded in appreciation, but refused to grip the rail. He ascended the steps slowly and with deliberatio
n as the lecture attendees watched.
Jacob ground his molars, willing his face to not show the painful strain that the seemingly ordinary action of climbing the steps caused him. Some days his leg barely hurt at all. Others were agonizing, with lightning pains shooting up into his thigh and hip with every step.
Today fell into the latter category. Even with the specially-designed reinforcement steel plates he strapped on this morning, his right limb repeatedly protested being put into use.
At last he reached the stage. He adjusted his spectacles against the bright stage lights and took his chair beside the table that held the metal box. Behind the table, on the back wall of the stage, a target circle had been positioned.
Professor Markel clapped twice for the audience to quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to the College of Science’s weekly lecture series. Today we have speaking…”
Jacob scanned the auditorium while the organizer introduced him. The crowd was modest, about fifty attendees. However, there was someone else among them that he sought to leave a good impression .
Alistair Kidman, head administrative official of New Britannia’s premier scientific agency, the Cabinet of Intellectual Curiosities. Known simply as the Secretary, he was in charge of placing new inventions on the agency’s roster for acquisition and funding. Jacob received an inquiry from him in late summer, when one of Jacob’s prosthetic devices was needed for a visiting diplomat. Since then, the Secretary sought a commission from Jacob to design a wearable weapon that the COIC’s agents could use in their missions of espionage and defense abroad against New Britannia’s rival, France.
The Secretary gave a nod to Jacob from the right side of the auditorium. Jacob had to succeed in this demonstration. It was the first step towards getting the money needed to better fund his practice and help all of his patients.
“May I present Dr. Jacob Valerian,” Professor Markel concluded the introduction.
Jacob waited through the polite round of applause. He projected his voice to reach the back of the auditorium. “It is my pleasure to unveil the newest model in my wearable weapons line.” With that, he opened the lid of the box and lifted the device from its cushioned slots. “May I present the gauntlet gun.”
He heard a collective murmur as attendees leaned forward to get a better look. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Jacob walked to the stage front with the gauntlet. “To the naked eye, this is a contraption reminiscent of what our ancestors may have worn while riding into battle. But looks are deceiving. This is a modern weapon of defense.”
“Looks like a glorified piece of jewelry to me.” A student whom Jacob recognized from the school’s chemistry wing heckled from the front row.
How such dull-minded fellows gained the attention of the college’s admissions board was beyond him. “You can be certain that this device is no trinket. It can mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield or even in a back alley skirmish. I’ll provide the demonstration, but first, I need a volunteer to wear the gauntlet.”
The room became silent. Jacob looked in the direction where the sound of a man’s coughing originated. “Is there a show of hands?”
More coughs and nervous throat clearing commenced. Then a slender hand arose from the middle row of the auditorium. Jacob peered over the rims of his spectacles and saw that it was her.
Abigail remained bundled in her coat as she sat between two elderly men. No doubt she intended to approach him again about the assistant position after the demonstration was over.
Jacob looked to the left side of the audience, though he could still see her hand in the air. “I assure you, it’s quite safe to volunteer. We will all walk away from this demonstration in one piece.”
His comment produced a few chuckles, but no hands except the one he turned away from. Through his peripheral vision, he saw Abigail wave as though she were flagging down a visiting relative at Paddington Station. For goodness sakes, now she rose and stood on tiptoe. Couldn’t she see that he was deliberately ignoring her, or at least trying to?
The heckling student had no trouble seeing it. “There’s a volunteer for you, Doctor. Let the lady wear the bracelet.”
“I’d as soon give her your seat in the chemistry wing, since I hear you’re one letter grade away from no longer occupying it.”
While the audience laughed, Jacob tightened his grip on the gauntlet. Abigail could not be ignored now. He had to call her to the front. “Would the lady wearing the paisley scarf come forward?”
She practically climbed over the other people in her row before Professor Markel directed her to the front. She accepted his offered hand and proceeded to spill out in the aisle.
As Jacob awaited her approach, he took additional notice of her appearance. She was somewhat tall for a woman, and of slim build. She walked with precise purpose, quick and light.
Under the auditorium lights, her hair showed dark auburn, a flattering hue against the rose tone of her creamy skin.
Professor Markel took her coat and scarf before she climbed onstage. Jacob straightened as she came to stand before him. Where most people would very noticeably stare at his scar, she didn’t seem to be interested in focusing on that area. Instead, her soft green eyes were steady as they looked into his.
“You don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, do you, Miss Benton?” he remarked in a voice that only she could hear.
A smile budded on her pink lips as she gave a tiny shake of her head.
#
Though Abigail smiled directly at Dr. Valerian to show him that she possessed the necessary confidence to be his assistant, inside she was shaking. She had never spoken or done anything before an audience. Now she was to help him demonstrate the use of a peculiar, wearable weapon that looked as though it belonged in a museum collection of medieval armaments.
She stared at the gauntlet gun as he provided the audience with an explanation of its structure. The device bore the traditional structure of a knight’s protective armor for the hand and wrist. The cuff even extended upward in a chevron pattern, but where the gauntlet differentiated from its medieval predecessor, it did so greatly.
Wires protruded from the wrist to connect to copper fixtures attached to the top of the cuff. The fixtures housed small aluminum vials containing some unnamed liquid or gas component. A small lever extended from the heel of the hand. Abigail supposed that the lever, when force was applied, activated the panels along the cuff’s sides.
Dr. Valerian was a physician and prosthetics outfitter. She failed to see how the weapon he held could be considered a medical contribution.
“Your arm, Miss Benton,” he prompted.
She extended her right arm, unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, and rolled it up as though presenting it to him to draw a sample of blood. He looked at it and then at her before he slid the glove on her fingers.
Was it the coldness of the metal or the surprisingly warm, comforting touch of his fingers as he eased the cuff onto her wrist that caused her to tremble? The soft wool of his jacket sleeve gently brushed against her bare skin, making the hairs on her arm stand on end. She held her breath as he adjusted the buckles of the cuff.
“As you can see, the gauntlet can be adjusted to fit the arms of both sexes.” Dr. Valerian raised her arm high for the audience. The gauntlet was heavy. Once he took his hand away, Abigail worked to keep her arm from dropping at her side.
She came upon an observation that prompted an immediate utterance. “I see that I have a true firearm now.”
The audience chuckled at her unintentional play on words. Dr. Valerian remained stone-faced. Did he never smile? Even if the pun was rather weak, it still made the audience pay attention.
He certainly would do well to smile. Even sculpted features as his couldn’t soften the effects of such a sour frown.
Dr. Valerian displayed that frown directly at her before once again addressing the audience. “Now we will demonstrate how the pistol mechanism works. There is no need
to worry about the fatality of the projectiles. For the purposes of the demonstration, they are made of vulcanized rubber.”
Dr. Valerian turned from the audience, retrieved his walking stick from where it rested against the table, and walked six paces closer to the target. “The lady will now attempt to fire upon the bull’s-eye.”
Either he was the most maverick of medical practitioners or very confident in the failsafe construction of his invention. Abigail deemed it to be a combination of both. She went to him, the heels of her shoes echoing across the stage. “I didn’t think I would actually be discharging a weapon indoors,” she murmured.
“You did see the target onstage, Miss Benton. Surely you didn’t think it was strictly décor?”
Abigail raised her arm at the target, supporting the heavy weight of the gauntlet with her other hand. The audience ceased its soft stirring behind her.
Dr. Valerian leaned in close. His scent was crisp and masculine. “Have you fired a pistol before?”
“Yes. In In—abroad.” She caught herself before she could say the name of the country, knowing what reaction it produced in him the last time.
“The actions are essentially the same, only the pocket pistol will discharge from a compartment at your wrist. Keep your fingers in front to catch hold of the pistol. When you’re ready to fire, take your other hand and pull the lever straight back. Understood?”
Abigail managed a nod. Dr. Valerian must have read her lack of complete and total confidence. With a grumble, he raised his voice for the audience. “The lady will now attempt the first shot.” He stepped away to give her room.
Abigail shifted, so that her line of fire was directed at the target’s middle. She pointed her fingers out, as Dr. Valerian instructed, and pulled the lever towards her wrist.
Her entire arm jarred under the recoil as a pocket pistol sprang from retracted coils and landed in her palm. She pulled the trigger. A bullet shot out. She saw the target shake from the impact as the bullet lodged itself in one of the rings.