by Ava Morgan
“I see no harm in helping one woman,” she protested, looking back.
“You may not see the harm, but that doesn’t mean others are not watching you from the alleys.” Jacob heard his voice becoming harsh, but it fell upon him to protect her. She could be annoyed at him for it if she wished.
They walked seven blocks, getting closer to the outskirts of Bloomsbury, but still near to the St. Giles parish, as well. Another factory building took up the street’s north end. Thick black smoke churned from the chimney, blanketing the moon from view. The street and buildings surrounding the factory were covered in a film that lent the area a stilted, dull appearance.
The smoke got into Abigail’s lungs. She coughed.
“Does the lady need a glass of water?” a voice mocked.
Jacob instinctively pulled Abigail closer to his side as he surveyed the area. Three shadowed figures emerged from the smoke-filled path ahead of them as they came into the pale light emerging from the factory windows. He assessed the men.
Dressed in dark, ragged trousers and patched, frayed coats, they possessed a lean, hungry look. They came closer until they stood less than ten steps away. It dawned on Jacob that they were the three men who passed him and Abigail just minutes before.
“Look wot we got here, lads,” the one who stood in the middle spoke. “A bloke out on an evenin’ stroll with his lady.”
“Yeah, Tim.” The man on his left, looking barely older than twenty, joined in. “Looks like he’s a rich bloke, judgin’ from the handle of that walkin’ stick. Is it ivory, Perry?”
“I don’t know.” The scraggly-bearded one on the right shrugged, hands in his pockets. Jacob knew he had a weapon in one or both of them. “The skirt hangin’ on his arm is wot I got me eye on.”
Abigail tensed under his leer. Jacob drew himself up, moving his walking stick from his side to the front of his feet. His fingers moved over the carved handle until they found the smooth depression at the base. He maintained them there. “Gentlemen, we want no trouble with you.” He kept his words civil and spoke calmly, but he intended for the men to hear the warning in his tone.
Tim, the leader, laughed. “Who said there’d be trouble, chum? Do you see any trouble, lads?”
Perry gave Abigail a gap-toothed smile before he raised a brass-knuckled hand to scratch his whiskers. “Not in the least.”
“I agree.” Tim patted his pocket. “All I see is a wee woman and a cripple.”
Jacob bristled at the term. The gang leader saw it and laughed. “We’d be willin’ to let the lady go, provided she hand over the coin she was gonna give to that old hag.” Tim advanced towards her. “We know she has money. You both do.”
Jacob got in front of Abigail. “Leave her alone. I will give you money.”
A hard glimmer reflected in Tim’s black eyes, like the crows that scoured the streets in the daylight hours. “I want her money. Then she can go.” The flash of a knife appeared in his hand.
Jacob felt Abigail’s grip on his arm tighten. He needed her to be as calm as possible right now, and to follow his instructions. He prayed she would listen. “I hate to ask, Miss Benton, but it seems we have no choice. Your reticule, please.”
He moved his right hand behind his back and turned it over. He waited. He heard a rustling of wool and muslin lining, and two moments later, he felt the weight of her small reticule land in his palm. He closed his fingers around it and presented it to the gang leader.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Tim jingled the coins in the reticule. “And to show you that I’m a man of my word…the lady paid her toll, lads. Let her pass.”
The other two men stepped apart from each other. Jacob got a bad feeling. What were they up to? But as long as he could get Abigail away from them, he would be willing to bear the brunt of what they had in store. “Go, Miss Benton,” he said, never turning to look at her, but keeping his face always towards the men whose desire to rob appeared to remain unappeased.
Abigail hesitated. Jacob sensed that she didn’t want to leave him alone to face the three men. Along with their combined strength, they possessed knives and brass knuckles. He had a walking stick. But he would use it. “Go,” he repeated to Abigail. “It will be alright.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Abigail started forward. Perhaps if she reached the Bloomsbury outskirts ahead, she could find a constable to intervene. But Jacob doubted they would make it back in time.
Perry and the youngest gang member stepped back for her to pass. They wouldn’t allow her to go around them. She stared straight ahead. The men stayed put as she went between them. She tightened her grip on Jacob’s medical bag that she still carried in her possession.
Something didn’t look right. “Abigail, look out.” Jacob’s shout reached her just as one of the men seized her arm.
Jacob saw no more of her as Tim descended upon him, knife extended. Jacob pressed the button on his walking stick. Immediately, the casing fell away from the handle and its blade. Before Tim could drive the knife home, Jacob deflected with his cane sword, sending the small blade sailing through the air. He then drove the sword deep into the man’s shoulder, cutting through muscle until the blade bit into bone. Tim let out a cry of pain, diving to the ground. His hands outstretched, he grabbed onto Jacob’s right leg. Before he could do anything, Tim’s grip on the mechanical limb tightened.
“What the—?” The gang leader exclaimed as he realized that his grip came upon steel, aluminum, and brass. “What are you?”
Jacob kicked him off before his right leg became completely unhinged. He fell backwards as his center of gravity shifted. Tim also fell, landing on his back. Tim scrabbled along the cobblestones to regain his footing.
Jacob looked to Abigail. She struck Perry with his medical bag, sending the man back. She turned it onto the youngest one, striking him in the jaw. Perry, meanwhile, righted himself. Jacob saw the flash of Perry’s brass knuckles before they came into contact with Abigail’s temple. She dropped the bag. Perry picked it up and ran off with it, followed by his young accomplice.
The brawl was over as quickly as it commenced. The leader Tim scuffled to his feet like an injured dog. He grappled for his knife in the slush.
Jacob pointing his cane sword at Tim’s throat. “Leave.”
Tim backed away clumsily, clutching his shoulder. He followed after the two men. They went down the street and right before disappearing in an alley next to an abandoned storehouse.
Jacob’s focus turned elsewhere as soon as they departed. “Abigail?” He saw her on the ground. She rolled onto her hands and knees. “Answer me.”
Shakily, she got to her feet. A look of horror permeated her features as she looked at Jacob’s mechanical right leg.
Chapter 11
The look on Abigail’s face summarized everything that Jacob spent the past several weeks trying to avoid instilling in her.
Shock. Fear. Confusion. Her lips parted as she stared at the steel and aluminum apparatus that was his mechanical limb situated on the ground beside him. Was it horror? Disgust?
“Are you injured?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” came her small reply.
Jacob dragged himself through the grime and coal dust-encrusted slush of the street to get to his mechanical limb.
Abigail started forward. “I’ll get—”
“No.” He snatched the limb by the boot before she could come closer. His rebuke stopped her short.
In the sting of humiliation, he turned his back to her, set the cane-knife down, and worked furiously to attach the limb back on his knee. He shook his head as he went through the process of rolling up his trouser leg, searching for the straps that were attached to a belt at his waist, yanking them past his thigh, and hooking them through the prosthetic’s closures. All with the indignity of having to do so in the middle of the street. Finally, he cinched the band that strapped over his knee and pulled his trouser leg back down over the top of his boot last.
Jacob pushed himself to his feet, his back still to Abigail. He dared to turn. She remained standing in the same spot. Her eyes were large as she stared at him. “Those men will come back with reinforcements. We’re almost to the main road where we can find a cab.”
He picked up the cane-knife and found the shell of his walking stick nearby. The knife slid in with a small click. But then he noticed that Abigail brought her hand to the corner of her brow and kept it there.
“Abigail, what is it?”
She shook her head, wincing. “Nothing. I thought…that man with the brass knuckles…he grazed me with the side of his fist.”
Jacob crossed the space between them and took her hand away from her face. “You’re bleeding.” He saw the dark wetness that stained her gloves. She winced again as he moved back the hair that stuck to her forehead. Blood trickled from a bludgeon wound.
“Is it bad?” she asked.
“There’s not enough light for me to see the extent of it. Are you dizzy, disoriented?”
“No…” Her halted speech told him that she was still reeling from the shock of being attacked. He had to get her back to his practice. “We’re closer to my residence now than we are the hospital. We can’t linger here.” He withdrew his handkerchief and placed it against her brow. “Keep this pressed to your temple.”
She followed his instructions and started walking beside him again, matching his stride. Jacob’s knee ached from where the gang’s leader Tim pulled him down. If I had both my legs, I could have been faster. Then Abigail wouldn’t have been injured.
But the fault was still his. He took too long making his rounds at the hospital. They should have left earlier. Then they would have had the afternoon light and a cab waiting to take them back to the practice.
Jacob kept a close eye on the darkened alleys and street corners as he and Abigail went up New Oxford Street. He saw a cab on the adjacent corner and hailed it, increasing his pace even as the driver acknowledged him.
He made sure Abigail got inside the cab even before the driver hopped down from his perch. “Nineteen Locksford Lane. And hurry.” He climbed in and shut the door himself.
Very little of his tension eased as the cab started to move. He turned to Abigail. “Lift your hand.”
The gaslights they passed did little to let him see the exact site of the wound, or even how big it was. “Continue to keep it compressed.” He remained on the edge of his seat, studying her.
“I didn’t realize I was injured when you asked the first time,” she said. “I was surprised to see—I’m sorry.”
She didn’t have to say it. He knew why she was distracted from noticing the full extent of her injury.
The cab sped through town and stopped at Jacob’s address. He opened the cab door to see his valet and housekeeper hurrying from the house.
“We were worried something happened to you and Miss Benton,” Struthers said. His expression turned to distress when he saw Abigail clutching the bloodstained handkerchief to her head. “My God.”
“Struthers, pay the driver from my despatch box on the console. Maria, if you would help me get Abigail into the office where I can treat her.”
His housekeeper took Abigail’s arm as Jacob helped her step down from the cab. “There now, dear.” She put a supportive hand on Abigail’s back as well. “It’s going to be alright. You’ll see. The doctor will take good care of you.”
Like I did in the industrial district. Jacob bitterly recalled, as he helped Maria take Abigail to the examination table. Then he threw off his coat and went to wash his hands before coming back.
“Is there anything else I can do for Miss Benton?” Maria asked, holding Abigail’s coat in her arms.
“Prepare the guest room. Tell Struthers to get the fireplace working in there. Miss Benton will not be going home in this state tonight.”
“Right away, Doctor.” Maria exited the office.
“I can’t stay here,” Abigail voiced. She took the handkerchief away from her head.
“Now is not the time to be concerned with propriety.” Jacob lit the lamp next to the table. “You have a head wound that needs looking after.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head in the path of the light. A portion of hair was matted over her left temple. He brushed it back with his fingers as gingerly as possible.
She tensed under his touch. “How is it now?”
“The bleeding stopped.” He spotted the origin of blood just below her hairline. “The skin broke neatly. Some bruising and swelling, but I don’t think you’ll require stitches.”
A shudder went through her.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He went to a cabinet for antiseptic and cotton gauze. “I’m used to speaking plainly to my patients.”
“It’s fine. I’m a patient tonight.”
“And that’s my fault.” He closed the cabinet after getting what he needed and placing the supplies on a tray. He found her reflection in the cabinet mirror staring at him.
“You didn’t know those men were going to ambush us.”
“It could have been avoided had we left the hospital earlier.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we could have been attacked in daylight.”
“It’s not as likely.” He carried the tray to the examination table. “I won’t be inattentive like that again, not when you’re with me.” Jacob dotted antiseptic on the gauze. “This will sting.”
He touched the gauze to her brow. Her eyes welded shut. Her jaw clenched. Still, she made no protest as he wiped at the blood and cleaned the wound.
“Almost done,” he said.
She opened one eye suddenly. “I didn’t thank you for fending off those ruffians.”
“If I still had my—forget it.” He set the gauze on the tray and reached for a fresh one and bandages. He felt the weight of her contemplative stare.
“Why didn’t you say anything about your leg?”
“Should I have?” He secured the fresh gauze to her temple and proceeded to wrap the bandage around her head.
“Yes. I would have understood, then, why you avoid the topic of India.” She held her hair up in back for him to tie the bandage. “Is that where it happened?” She forced him to look directly into her eyes, eyes that held compassion and not the horror he misinterpreted in her expression before.
“Yes.” Jacob knew where this was leading. He did not want to venture there, but after what Abigail went through, she deserved to know why his past influenced him to work as he did. “I don’t tell people about my amputated leg because I don’t wish to be pitied.”
“You defended me tonight. You have my gratitude, not pity. Do Struthers and Maria know?”
“They are part of a very small group of friends and associates who do. Having a walking stick is one thing, but even among my patients, it’s quite another to know that the physician treating them is without one of his legs.”
“I must disagree with you, especially if you haven’t ventured to reveal that fact to them.” Abigail must have seen his surprise at her spirited declaration, for she promptly toned down her voice and added, “What I mean is, I think your patients would respect you all the more, knowing that you’ve gone through what they’re experiencing. Others would, too, if they knew of your sacrifice for New Britannia.”
“It isn’t as though I haven’t considered your point. My life changed after I came home from India. I was expressly told by my father that no permanently disfigured son of his would inherit the family lands.”
Abigail shook her head. “That is regrettable as it is reprehensible.”
Jacob agreed, but he was long past the anger towards his family that she now displayed. “But it was understandable. I was the eldest son whose pastimes involved chemistry and metalworking, not learning how to run an estate. I left Sussex for London to become a doctor and eventually joined New Britannia’s armed forces, where I could at least put both my skills to practical use. I was given orders for Madras.”
“When
I was in India, New Britannia and France were still fighting over Madras’ surrounding provinces.”
“That’s where my injuries occurred. I was a medic at a combined soldier and civilian hospital camp outside the city. A handful of rogue legionnaires disregarded the rules of war and released mortar rounds into the camp.” He paused as the memories rushed back.
The air whistled with the sound of mortars flying. Screams tore through the camp. Gunpowder burned Jacob’s nostrils before he saw black smoke rise.
He was on the ground, his hands riddled with broken glass. He could no longer feel his right leg, only immense pain. His skin stung and his eyes burned from a liquid that splattered across his face. He could feel the heat from the burning tent flaps as he crawled away from them. But he heard the patients still trapped inside. They were dying even as they screamed for help. And there was nothing he could do to save them…
“Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?”
Abigail’s voice and her touch penetrated his senses. The vision dispersed. He was in his office again. At his address in London, thousands of miles away from Madras.
“You should be seated,” he told her.
“I got up because you looked like you didn’t know you were here.” She slowly loosened her fingers from his. Jacob felt the absence of her touch just as poignantly as he did the initial contact of her hand. He wanted to reach for her and keep her close, but controlled the urge.
“It doesn’t happen often, but the past comes back to me. I can’t predict when it does.”
“It must have been brought on by our discussion.” Abigail sat on the divan. “That attack was a terrible thing you suffered.”
He felt like every secret he had was laid bare before her, but as uncomfortable as that was, it also brought a sense of release. She surprised him by her unwavering resolve to listen without being frightened off. “Not many in the camp survived the legionnaires’ incendiaries and the experimental weak acid they used. A mortar round shattered my leg. The acid, originally used to dissolve vegetation surrounding the provinces, got near my eyes and weakened the retinas. It’s where the scar comes from.” He touched the faint webbing of scar tissue on his face. “That’s why I must wear lenses that tint in bright light.”