Boneseeker (7 page)

My mind whisks through a litany of images, like thumbing through a mental photo collage. I think in pictures and after multiple conversations with John, have discovered this is not necessarily the norm.

“Yes. Father occasionally used it on me, and my unknowing playmates.”

I picture father, his long fingers probing through Henry’s tousled hair after he’d caught us blowing up the mailbox.
Again
.

“However, his deductions were completely at odds to
my
opinion of the person.”

Like telling me Henry was not a good match for me. Even as a friend. Which simply. Wasn’t. True.

Henry was the best friend I ever had; then or now.

Father thought his intellect beneath me. What he failed to realize was that no man, from any race or continent, would ever rise to his impossible-to-meet qualifications for my husband.

John raises one telling eyebrow, indicating he knows there’s more to this story than I shall ever divulge.

“It’s only an hour, Arabella.” His smile is bracing.

Henry has taken the stage with Stygian. I suck my breath in and bite the inside of my cheek.

I hate how he affects me. I am powerless to the attraction.

Henry’s beauty is staggering. His thin lips, deep set eyes and perpetually tousled hair gave him a permanently just-risen-from-bed appearance that no amount of coiffing could tame.

John tsk’s beside me. “That hair. I swear we should just shear it.”

I feel the laugh rising in my throat.

“Like a sheep. Honestly, his hair is like a horsetail.” John sighs.

I cover my mouth to hide the smile and feel the heat on my cheeks.

I know my face to be as red as the ridiculous feathered hat, blocking my view.

And the flush deepens.

The woman beside me stage-whispers to her daughter, “Wilhelmina. That man is an English thoroughbred among Philadelphia nags. You
must
attempt to speak to him after tonight’s presentation.”

John leans in and whispers, “Do you see? Even that woman agrees with my equestrian comparison.”

At this, my loud laugh breaks free.

I bristle as the woman in front of me fans herself; her wide eyes follow Henry’s every action on the stage.

Feathered-hat-lady, who blocks my view, finally removes the poor taxidermied creature, mercifully placing it on the seat beside her.

I once again vow never to become a lovesick, pandering female. This auditorium is bursting with them and seems to expand and contract with their every sigh.

I glance around. Every woman in the audience is glued to Henry’s every twitch. His attempts at taming his dark blonde hair have failed, as it is slowly rebelling to its normally chaotic state. His cheeks are high with nervous color.

His smile could incinerate any woman, like Medusa’s power in reverse, channeled through those smirking lips.

The sheer number of interested fools makes my skin prickle and I shift in my seat. I detest crowds.

So many people asking so many things at precisely the same moment.

I hear snippets of every conversation within five rows—and am unable to block them. Another inherited Holmesian trait. It’s useful for detective work, but not for living.

One row back.
“Do you see him, my stars; I’ve never seen a man so very handsome—”

Two rows to my right
. “Is he married? Engaged, then?”

I sigh.

My brain spits fireworks with the excess sound. A woman’s high-pitched cackle makes me jerk, raising every hair on my arms.

John’s hand pats mine. The man notices everything.

So does Henry.
It’s unnerving
.

For all of father’s genius, and deciphering the slightest change in surroundings, he rarely noticed when I was upset.

I picture my tiny self, weeping amid taunts of, ‘Where’s your mother, Arabella? Did she think you odd—so she left to find a normal girl?’

No hugs from father, no confidential talk. Instead, he bought me a new dog.

I shake my head, banning the memory.

Or perhaps father did notice, but not having the slightest idea how to handle the female persuasion, chose to pretend otherwise?

“Welcome.”

Stygian’s black eyes and booming voice immediately hush the low thrum of the crowd.

My eyes narrow on the stage.

“Our demonstration this evening will focus on the controversial science of phrenology.” He gestures to a chart beside him. The title at the top of the poster proclaims, “Know Thyself”.

Henry’s eyes dart to the illustration of the human skull, sectioned into parts.

“From the size and shape of one’s cranium, many deductions may be drawn,” Stygian continues. The yellow stage lighting casts shadows across Stygian and Henry’s faces; the black bruises beneath their eyes, reminding me of corpses.

Stygian’s voice commands attention. “From one’s instinct for reproduction to predicting a person’s pride and vanity—to whether one has the heart, or mind, rather, of a murderer.”

A murmur rushes through the crowd like a wordless ripple.

Chills lick my neck. John uncrosses his legs at the inference. Apparently it makes him nervous, too.

I whisper, “This
science
is more like voodoo. But that hasn’t stopped people from arranging marriages around it, or hiring or firing staff based on its
predictions.
” The disdain coats my voice. I hear my tone rising and rising, like one of my blasted butterflies. “Perhaps we might employ fortune tellers to predict our next scientific discovery.”

“Arabella, quietly!” John blurts in a harsh whisper.

Feather-lady glares at me.

On stage, Henry has extracted a large caliper.

“We need a volunteer. Two actually. Miss Holmes, perhaps you might grace our stage?” Stygian’s voice drips sweetness.

Three rows of jealous feminine eyes turn to glare.

My eyes meet John’s. He cocks his head slightly, his eyes screaming a silent message—
m
anners, Arabella
.

I stand and walk up the aisle, which appears to have magically elongated, as several females shoot envious scowls overtop their fluttering fans.

I resist the urge to snap them in half.

Time seems to have slowed and I focus on not kissing the carpet as I pass the staring crowd.

Henry and Stygian both study my face. My breath quickens, and the back of my neck prickles with panic.

“And Miss Earnest, if you please,” Stygian says, staring over my head.

Priscilla.

Stygian is orchestrating a scene, baiting me. He somehow knows of our convoluted triangle.

I raise my chin in defiance and stop at the foot of the small staircase. I force myself to meet his gaze. Stygian quickly walks down, extending his hand to assist me.

The heat of a hundred sets of eyes sears my back as convention forces my hand into his.

I sneak a glance at Henry. His eyes are forward on the audience, but a muscle bulges in his jaw.

Stygian gestures me toward the plush, crushed-velvet chair.

“Please, sit.”

Says the spider to the fly.

I sit carefully, almost expecting nails to jut out and impale me to the thick fabric.

Priscilla arrives; all flounce and bounce as Henry escorts her up the stairs. She shoots me a smug little smile before arranging herself and her skirts before him.

Priscilla’s whole body trembles; her long neck and face remind me of a high-strung greyhound, quivering in anticipation of his touch.

Montgomery lopes up onto the stage, long fingers outstretched. Stygian slips off a heavy ring, placing it into his palm. I catch a glimpse of it before it disappears into Montgomery’s pocket. Gooseflesh rises on my arms along with a flash of recognition.

I have seen a ring like that before, but where?

Henry’s arms bend theatrically, referring to the diagramed phrenology head. His warm voice carries into the crowd, “Different parts of the brain perform different functions. Phrenology is based on the premise that when part of the brain is used more fully, the corresponding spot on the skull will rise to accommodate the growing brain beneath.”

“May I?”

“Of course Dr. Stygian.” Priscilla flashes the audience a winning smile.

Stygian’s fingers slide through her blonde locks as Priscilla’s eyes drift closed. She exhales softly.

“Miss Earnest lives up to her name. Her skull shape is indicative of perseverance and passion.”

Both of their eyes flick to Henry. He looks aghast.

Stygian continues, “Her child-bearing map is ample and her musical ability very prominent. I say, do you play, Miss Earnest?”

She bats her eyelashes, “Why yes, I do. Amazing Doctor. Everything you’ve said tis too true.”

I turn my head so only Henry might see and roll my eyes. I’m forcibly reminded of snake-oil salesman and traveling medicine shows.

Stygian mumbles, “Henry, you must be thrilled to hear of that child-bearing map, eh, my boy?”

Henry squints incredulously, but says nothing.

Stygian removes his hands from Priscilla’s hair and strolls to my side.

He tugs the singular stick from my hair, sending an auburn curtain tumbling into my face.

His thick, heavy fingers thrust into my hair.

I suck in a breath.

Out of my peripheral vision, Henry takes one protective step closer. His fists ball at his sides.

The audience is hushed, waiting. The expectation is palpable, as if every patron is holding their breath.

The gaslights lining the stage suddenly seem to blaze like the sun and I fidget against their heat.

Stygian’s fingers massage every bit of my head, from behind my ears to my forehead and back again.

“Easy Miss Holmes,” he croons. “Mr. Watson, might you perform the measurements?”

Henry steps in front of me, and I shiver as the cold metal of the calipers touch either side of my temples.

He slips his boots alongside mine beneath my dress, and gives a little squeeze with his legs. Trying to reassure me he’s right there.

My heart
. How it twists when he’s near.

I want to pull it from its protective box, still beating, and place it in his palm. To be done with it; give it to him.

In the space of a breath, the caliper and his reassuring touch are gone. His fingers scribble down the measurements. He hands the clipboard to Stygian, stepping out of the way.

“Mr. Watson, record my observations, if you please.” His eyebrows rise, and he pushes the clipboard back to Henry.

Stygian’s fingers probe again and I shiver, remembering the unmistakable lust in his eyes as he cornered me in the lab.

His fingers locate a lump on my skull and hold, palpating back and forth, back and forth.

The world swirls and blackness presses against my wits. I inhale deeply, trying not to swoon.

Quietly, so only we on stage might hear, Henry whispers, “Bella. Are you alright?”

Stygian growls, “She’s fine, Henry. She’s just not used to masculine… contact.”

Priscilla quietly snickers.

I am very poor at discerning people intentions, but not so with animals. I am seized by the impression that his behavior is like a dog’s, marking his territory.

I swallow compulsively, again and again. Trying to maintain control.

Tension
rolls
off Henry. His legs bend and tense, reminding me of a tightly-coiled spring, ready to explode with the slightest nudge.

He steps toward me, as if to strike Stygian, right now, right here on stage.

I give him a quick look. His chest is heaving. He’s furious.

I picture the headlines in the Philadelphia Examiner.

Dr. Watson’s son assaults Mutter Professor.

He’ll be fired and publicly humiliated in one impulsive punch.

His life and promising career over at the ripe old age of nearly-twenty and three.

“I’m fine, Henry. It’s alright.”

Priscilla’s eyes flit back and forth, watching our exchange, and her full pink lips draw into a scowl. She flips her blond curls forward, huffing and crossing her arms like a child.

Henry steps to Stygian. “Miss Holmes doesn’t look well. Please hurry so that she may return to her seat. If she loses consciousness, you’ll be hard-pressed to find more willing victims,” Henry forces between his gritted teeth.

Stygian turns away to address the audience. “According to my assessment, Miss Holmes has a good deal of pride, a greater deal of intellect, and an extraordinary memory.”

Henry points to the map of skull attributes as Stygian ticks off my proposed personality. His nostrils flare and his fingers tremble slightly where he touches the poster.

The audience applauds. I search and find John’s pinched face embedded in the crowd. His walking stick is propped and he’s leaning forward as if he’s prepared to stand.

“She also seems to have no inclination in the child bearing map, a serious lack of forethought, but is gifted in music.”

My chest flushes with hot-red embarrassment. So far, he’s spot on, except the musical predilection. He has confirmed my own suspicions, but to have him proclaim I’m not fit for motherhood, though, to an entire assembly is…

Flashes of sneering boarding school girls detonate in my mind. My breath rattles in and out and I try desperately to maintain control.

Their taunts are spatial whispers in my ear, coming and going as if they’re in the room.

“
Babbage’s adding machine. That’s how warm you are, Ar-a-bellllaaa. Is your heart made of coal, Ar-a-bellla?”

Stygian finally looks alarmed; I know for his lecture, not my welfare.

“You are dismissed, Miss Holmes. Mr. Watson, would you like to choose more volunteers?”

Henry’s eyes are slits. “No. I think you should do it,
sir,
as you have so much more experience. I’ll escort Miss Holmes from the stage.”

Priscilla scoffs, muttering her displeasure.

Henry takes my arm and motions to Montgomery to take his place.

I lean on Henry as the audience applause bombards my ears. I wince. The loud voices are physically painful; as if someone is jabbing a fiery poker in the center of my ear.

I fight the urge to cover them. As a young girl, I would’ve bolted. I grind my teeth.