by Anne Renwick
He hadn’t. It was still the same problem. The neuromuscular junction always failed to hold. And when a mouse discovered itself unable to walk, often it reacted by chewing at the fine gold wires, growing increasingly stressed until blood loss and panic simply overwhelmed the tiny creature.
Amanda sat back, punching a button to release the gasses. The microscope hissed and spat, echoing her frustration. She wanted to scream, to fling the spider against the wall and weep for all the hours lost in her futile efforts in this smelly, dim room barely worthy of the term laboratory. She took a deep breath and pushed away the urge.
If only she had a properly equipped laboratory and trained colleagues.
Instead, she picked up the small neurachnid from its shelf and racked her brain looking over the myriad gears and pins, clicks and rivets. If she only could deduce what the problem was, she could devise a solution. But it looked as it always had. She needed fresh eyes. She needed help, competent help that could provide a leap of insight.
She’d tried communicating by post, seeking help from notable neurophysiologists. Most ignored her missives outright, but the handful that responded suggested she abandon her project, citing its impossibility.
But it couldn’t be impossible. And she wouldn’t quit.
Ned had to walk again.
Chapter Three
THORNTON STOOD AT the front of the lecture theater frowning as students filed into the room. The men jostled and shoved, laughing and joking as they crashed about, eventually managing to land in seats. He supposed he’d been much the same as them. Once.
Lister University School of Medicine, founded by the Queen as a co-educational institution to seek out the brightest young medical minds, had not yet managed to find an equal number of women who were capable of passing the rigorous academic exams required for admission. Only three women, all dressed in dark hues, filed into the back row of seats, perching there stiff and solemn, staring down at him intently, like a murder of crows. He distinctly recalled being told there were four women in this class. One of their number was missing.
What had the dean been thinking forcing him to take on this task? Thornton belonged in his laboratory, pressing the boundaries of neuroscience, consulting with the Queen’s agents to stop a murderer who sought to turn Britain’s own technology against them. Not stuffing anatomical facts into impenetrable brains.
Ordered by the Queen to the Orkney Islands to investigate a sudden spike in reported sightings of selkies off the coast, Corwin, professor of anatomy, had headed north late last night. The suspicion was that Iceland was dispatching altered Inuit for reasons yet to be determined. Thornton didn’t envy the man the dark and cold October nights he would spend perched on the rocky coast. Nevertheless, it meant Professor Corwin required a replacement for the term, and Thornton’s physical injuries were no longer considered sufficient excuse for him to avoid teaching obligations.
But lectures were just the start of it all. There would be students in his office asking all manner of questions. Most of them would be ridiculous. Both the questions and the students. So many of them couldn’t think their way out of a paper bag. Even worse, there would be exams. Exams he would have to grade. Thornton sighed thinking of the sheer quantity of red ink he would require in the near future. Waste of his time, all of it.
He walked to the podium where the limelight lantern rested, glass projection slides of the human nervous system at the ready. He twisted the gas lines providing both oxygen and hydrogen into “on” positions, picked up the striker and lit the cylinder of quicklime.
There was a lull in the conversation. Thornton cleared his throat and looked up at his audience, expecting all eyes to have focused attentively upon him. Instead, he saw the backs of fifty odd heads and only one face.
A very beautiful face. One with deep pink lips, high cheekbones and a dainty nose between wide eyes that had just a hint of an exotic tilt. Smooth skin, all surrounded by elaborately coiffed hair the color of midnight. Unlike the crows in the back who rolled their eyes in disgust, this woman was garbed in the latest of fashions, a tightly corseted and bustled teal gown with a low cut neckline that had all the men leering.
All but him, of course.
Striking blue eyes met his gaze.
He lifted his eyebrows and drew out his pocket watch to consult the hour. It was five past. She was late.
Her lips curved upward at his obvious reprimand, but she made no effort to hasten her steps. A gentleman in the front row stood, gesturing to a vacant seat he clearly intended for her to occupy. She nodded in greeting, then with the twist of a knob at her waist to collapse her bustle, she removed her feathered hat and settled into the chair beside the smug-looking gentleman.
Instinct told Thornton she would be a problem. A woman with such obvious physical charms expected attention. Best to not provide it. He waved his hand at his assistant and the room plunged into darkness. Sliding home the first glass plate, an illuminated image appeared on the large screen hanging at the front of the hall.
Tomorrow, he would not wait. If she could not manage to arrive promptly, she could damn well stumble her way down the stairs or sit in the back.
“Neurons and glial cells,” he intoned. “Later in the laboratory you will closely study the features of both.”
~~~
Amanda leaned forward in her chair, entranced by the deep, booming voice of this new professor. The light cast by the limelight lantern threw his angular face into sharp relief. What captivating facial bone structure. Prominent zygomatic arches and a long square jaw made the planes of his face appear wide and harsh. Between his dark eyebrows, nasal bones stretched into a long, straight and distinctive nose. Damp hair severely slicked back from his forehead betrayed the man by daring to curl at its tips. Full lips formed words in a tone that made the features of a neuron sound utterly entrancing.
She rather thought she could be content to spend the entire morning listening to him read the index of her anatomy text. Clearly brilliant, he was also the best physical specimen she’d laid eyes on in a long time. Too bad about that clause in the school’s charter forbidding professors from entering into relationships with their students.
A flush rose upward across her face. Such thoughts. She forced her gaze to the projection on the screen. Focus, Amanda.
He was proceeding at such a rapid clip that she would soon be left behind if she could not pull her head out of the aether.
Though she put pen to paper, she could not stop herself from asking. “What happened to Professor Corwin?” she whispered to Simon, or Mr. Sommersby as she addressed him in public.
Simon shifted to lean his shoulder lightly against her own. Male instinct, she supposed, to mark her as his own. Behavior she’d encouraged. “No idea. But it seems Lord Thornton is to finish the lecture series.”
Her indrawn breath was audible.
Lord Sebastian Talbot, Earl of Thornton and renowned neurophysiologist teaching a course! She’d known he was on staff, but it was rumored that he never lectured. Whatever forced him to the podium, she did not care. Fortune had finally smiled upon her. He might have ignored her attempts to open a scientific correspondence about the possibility of using gold filaments to conduct neurological impulses, but he could not ignore her physical presence in his office as his student.
Excitement must have shown in her face as she contemplated this unexpected windfall, for Lord Thornton’s eyes flickered toward her. Did she detect surprise in the slight drawing together of his eyebrows? Hard to be certain, for his words never slowed. She had to convince him of the merit of her work. Convince him to allow her to demonstrate the function of her neurachnid, for his insight would be profound.
He’d already taken notice of her. Twice.
She winced. Not the best first impression. She had been late, and he’d sent quite the scowl in her direction.
If not for the overturned horse cart in the street—horses and steam coaches did not mix well—she would ha
ve been punctual. Amanda hated arriving late, enduring the disapproving stares of the other women, the speculative leers of the men. She’d fully intended to politely perch in the back. But when this new professor had met her gaze, seeming to challenge her right to enter, neither fire nor brimstone would have kept her from her usual center seat in the front row.
It was a matter of principle. She’d set a precedent she intended to uphold. Amanda was polite and collegial, stubbornly refusing to be relegated to the dark edges and corners of the room where most male classmates seemed to think she and the other three women belonged.
If only they’d join her.
Betsy, Joan and Sarah clung desperately to the notion that the best manner in which to succeed in medicine as a woman was to efface their sex with severely tailored dresses. Dark colors, long sleeves and high necklines revealing only the oval of their faces. They worked diligently at making themselves unpleasant and uncomfortable. Amanda saw no need to dress the dowd. She took pride in her appearance, and if her ladylike and professional behavior set her apart from others, so be it.
Lord Thornton paced back and forth across the dim lecture hall, a slight hitch to his step, while expounding upon the wonders of the neurological system, changing glass slides with astonishing speed.
Like her classmates, Amanda wrote furiously, her hand cramping. But instead of directing her eyes to the projected images, she stole glances at the man.
With an emphatic wave of his arm, a lock of his hair began to free itself. Another followed. Curls began to assert themselves, twisting tighter and sending waves along each strand. Lord Thornton’s hair took on a life of its own, falling across his brow in playful waves.
Though they’d never met, he was ton and rumors reached her ears at the various society events she’d been forced to attend. He’d been involved in a terrible dirigible accident, no doubt responsible for the slight limp she detected, but most of the gossip had centered upon his new-found eligibility. For unknown reasons, his long-time fiancée had jilted him mere months before their wedding. Not that any hopeful brides cared why. He was titled and therefore a matrimonial target.
Another slide change. More words rumbled from his throat. His voice was pure intellectual delight. She wrote faster. Really, she must start focusing on the images and not the man. But pressing concerns about the neurachnid’s design rose to mind. Here was opportunity. What questions might she put to the great neurophysiologist before her? What flash of brilliant design might she reveal? What was the best path toward winning his regard?
Suddenly, the opportunity was upon her.
The screen went dark, and the room brightened. “If there are no questions,” Lord Thornton began. “Tomorrow I will discuss…”
He would send them on their way with no opportunity to engage? She added arrogance to the list of his defining traits. “Professor, with regard to the ganglion, would you consider it possible to transform neurility into electricity via a rare earth metal?”
As intense, blue eyes turned to stare at her, Amanda fancied she’d caught the slightest slackening of his firm, square jaw before it tightened so much his lips thinned. She waited for his answer in breathless anticipation.
“My dear Miss…?” His eyebrows rose in both question and challenge.
“Ravensdale,” she supplied. Something in his eyes crystallized, not into ice, but into something much harder and denser, something with razor sharp edges, and she met that piercing gaze with the uneasy sensation in her stomach that things were about to go badly awry.
“Miss Ravensdale. From your… fantastical question, I can only conclude that you have spent far too much time reading texts beyond your comprehension without adequate guidance. Despite their high electrical conductivity, insertion of such elements into the human body would be ethically reprehensible.”
Amanda inhaled sharply at the implied reprimand. There were several smothered snickers behind her. Her eyes narrowed as they caught Lord Thornton’s gaze. No. She was right and he knew it. With great deliberation, he’d chosen to belittle her hypothesis before her classmates. All hope of a demonstration of her neurachnid followed by his assistance evaporated like a drop of water falling on a hot coal. She pursed her lips, and his eyes flashed with victory.
The arrogant bastard.
Beside her, Simon drew an indignant breath. Amanda pressed her gloved palm to his arm, stifling his impulse to rush to her defense.
Then without further acknowledgement of his audience, Lord Thornton strode from the room.
Chapter Four
THE FLAME OF THE gas lamp blurred as Amanda stared at it, chin propped on her hand. Her elbow slipped along the library table. Her torso swayed in exhaustion. On the brink of falling asleep atop her notes, her mind could absorb no more. With a sigh, she closed her books and rubbed her eyes. Evening social obligations were incompatible with exam preparation.
The dinner party Father insisted she attend had been horrid. At best, two potential husbands had been eliminated from consideration.
Lord Guntwaithe, seated to her left, had informed her with a leer that, as his wife, her marital duties would leave her no time to practice medicine. Lord Lowsley, seated on her right, had droned on about a new, silver-coated cloth that the company Airship Sails was employing to make their dirigible balloons impermeable to aether.
A bell rang behind her, the steambot alternative to knocking. “Lady Amanda,” Burton intoned in a formal, flat monotone overlaid by a horrible metallic screeching sound. His jaw hinge was acting up again. “Your father requests your presence in his study.”
“It’s nearly midnight,” she objected, but found herself speaking to the clock for Burton had already spun about and wheeled away. She pushed to her feet. One did not ignore Father’s summons, no matter the hour.
Heavy footfalls passing down the hallway had been what snapped her back from the edge of unconsciousness. Not that she’d paid them any mind. The Queen’s men came and went from Father’s study at all hours. The family had learned long ago to pay no attention to such activity. And to ask no questions.
She staggered into the hall, pausing before a large mirror to re-pin a few stray locks of hair and smooth her crushed skirts, but there was not much to do for her tired, rumpled appearance. Why would Father summon her at this hour?
Emily.
Fear crystallized in her mind, shocking her awake and quickening her steps.
Burton held the study door open.
“Father?” she asked, crossing the threshold. Her eyes quickly sought out his face, but he looked unconcerned. “Is anything wrong?”
“That remains to be seen.” Father rose from behind his desk. He waved toward an empty chair. “Please, have a seat.”
That was when she saw him. The entirety of her body tensed, refusing to bend itself to a chair. Her stomach clenched like a naughty schoolgirl called before the headmistress, though she’d done nothing more than ask a question. “Lord Thornton.” She forced herself to politely incline her head. She very much doubted he would seek her out in her own home to apologize, to admit he was wrong.
“Lady Amanda,” he scolded without rising.
She met his gaze. “Your assumption, not mine.”
His eyebrows rose as he scanned her from head to toe, as if her appearance justified his mistake. It irritated her that despite the slight shadow darkening his jaw, his hair was neatly combed, his clothes were unrumpled and his eyes were bright and alert.
She narrowed her eyes in return. Unfair. “But understandable, given your known indifference to ton affairs.”
“It’s true. I have no interest in the marriage mart.” His voice, low and gravelly, rumbled across her skin. “Though some might think medical school provides… alternatives.”
She inhaled sharply. Did he dare suggest her sole purpose in attending Lister University was to find a husband? Meeting Mr. Sommersby was a happy coincidence. Her eyes widened. No. It wasn’t possible. Certainly Lord Thornton had not p
resented himself to Father as a suitor for his daughter’s hand? A smart retort eluded her. She told herself it was the hour.
Something must have shown in her face, for she caught a faint twitch of Lord Thornton’s lips before they regained a bored expression. All that remained was a speculative glint in his blue eyes.
Father cleared his throat. “Amanda, Lord Thornton has come to me with an interesting request. He wishes to view your… spider.”
“Neurachnid.”
“Yes, exactly,” Father said.
Lord Thornton’s expression hardened, his stare intensified. She stiffened her spine. Perhaps he could bend his minions to his will with such a look, but not her.
“No.”
The flicker of surprise in Lord Thornton’s eyes was unaccountably rewarding.
“Excuse me?” Surprise echoed in Father’s tone. Not because she refused to comply with a lord’s implied command—he was accustomed to her arguments—but because she’d used Lord Thornton’s presence at Lister University School of Medicine as one of her arguments for matriculation at that school.
A co-educational school. One at which she’d expected to be treated equally.
She looked at her father. “No. Lord Thornton made it clear today that he believes my design unfeasible. So he told me and my entire class.” She paused to let that sink in. “Clearly, his curiosity indicates that is not the case, and his presence in your office at this late hour implies that he is not interested in collaborating but, rather, in forcing me to his will.” She crossed her arms and turned her stare upon her professor. “So, no, I will not hand over a device I have spent the better part of five years developing.”
Father nodded, leaning back on his desk and regarding his visitor in the light of this new information. “I will not force her, Lord Thornton, unless you can provide an extremely convincing argument in your favor.”