Camille (13 page)

Back inside, the kitchen stove was cold, and
the room was dark, but I did not have the enthusiasm to start a
kettle or light a lamp. Something crunched under the heel of my
shoe as I climbed onto the stool. No doubt it was a splinter of
porcelain from the broken cup. Loneliness crept into every bone in
my body. It was an emotion I’d often fought to keep under control
so it would not overwhelm me. Tonight it had caught me weak and
defenseless, and I had no will to battle it. I placed my arm on the
table and lowered my head to rest.

****

Wavering candlelight woke me from a dreamless
sleep. I lifted my head and squinted toward the flickering flame.
The sound of Dr. Bennett’s voice cleared the fog from my mind. “Ah,
there you are, Camille. I wondered where you’d scuttled off to. We
are in need of a quick supper.”

I yawned and stretched. “I’ll fix you
something, but I’m not hungry.”

“Fine, but you and I are not the we I meant,”
he said. His words confused me, and I didn’t know if I was still
groggy or if Dr. Bennett needed rest of his own. He lowered the
candle flame and lit the wick of the oil lamp. Warm, yellow light
filled the kitchen.

Then I saw the tall figure standing behind
him. Soaking hair and clothes did nothing to lessen the impact he
had on a room and on me. The faint smile on his mouth softened the
pained expression in his eyes. My mind argued with itself about
whether to adhere to proper etiquette or whether to fling aside all
modesty and throw my arms around him. My feet chose the latter
before my mind had a chance to settle it. I flew off the stool and
landed in his embrace. Freezing rainwater drenched his coat and
shirt. His arms wrapped around me tighter, and there was nothing so
right as being pressed against Nathaniel Strider.

Waiting is such an interminable activity. I
have spent a great deal of my short life waiting, but never, it
seems, for splendid things like a new pony for Christmas, or a new
party dress from the seamstress. Instead, I’ve waited in a deserted
cemetery for a fanged beast, outside the mental ward of an asylum
for a pensive sister, under the kitchen table for a beloved father
turned monster.

The door to the lab finally opened. I raced
to it. Dr. Bennett stepped out and, obviously weary, smacked into
me. The impact toppled me backward onto my bottom.

“My God, Cami, I didn’t see you there in the
dark.” He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet. “If you ate
more, you wouldn’t be so light and easy to knock over.”

“How is he?” I asked trying to control the
angst in my voice.

“He’s sleeping soundly. Your idea worked
well. Come inside the lab. I want to show you something.”

The only light was the small oil lamp which
remained in the corner, far away from the flammable chemicals and
next to the portable cot. Strider’s feet dangled off the end, and
one of his arms hung limply to the ground. The shirt sleeve was
rolled up and the arm had been wrapped with a clean bandage. I
walked over, picked up his hand, and lifted it back onto the cot.
The light from the lamp illuminated his face. He looked almost
sweet lying there so quietly with long dark lashes shadowing his
cheeks. I brushed a strand of hair off his face. He stirred a
moment then slept quietly.

“Bring the light over here,” Dr. Bennett
called from the back of the room. A chart of some sort was tacked
to the wall where he stood. As I moved closer I recognized it as
Mendeleev’s periodic table of elements. “I wanted to explain my
plan. Sometimes it sounds better if I speak my ideas out loud to an
educated ear.”

I smiled. I did have a good grip on
scientific theories in general. How could I not? While other
children listened to bedtime stories and nursery rhymes, my father
would tell us theories on how the galaxy began and why plants died
without sunlight.

“As you know, Mendeleev has organized the
elements into groups and periods. We know that silver,” he pointed
to Ag on the chart, “stops the cells from mutating. Unfortunately,
it also kills the cells and the organism.” The animation in his
voice was a common occurrence whenever he spoke of a new theory. “I
mean to administer some elemental compounds to Mr. Strider’s blood
cells to see what effects they have. I thought I would begin with
some of the elements which fall in the same group and period as
silver. Copper, zinc, even gold may be the answer. They all share
some properties with silver, but they are atomically
different.”

A small moan came from the corner, and we
both turned our attention to the sleeping specimen. He looked
anything but experimental. He was solid and genuine and
breathtaking.

I had to admit I felt some disappointment in
the route Dr. Bennett planned to pursue. In my mind, I’d hoped, no
prayed, he had come up with something infinitely more profound. “I
think it’s a wonderful idea,” I lied. “Although, I wonder if you
should also try elements without the same properties as silver.” I
pointed to the far end of the table. “Perhaps some of these from
the opposite side of the chart. What about the nonmetals?”

“I’ve considered those but I feel this is the
best way to begin. Besides, it is not easy to get some of these
substances in elemental form or in any form for that matter.”

I nodded and tried not to show my
disappointment. I knew science worked slowly, but in this case, we
needed fast results. Plodding through the periodic table one
element at a time made the whole thing rather hopeless.

I tiptoed over to the cot and pulled the wool
blanket up further over Strider’s chest. He sighed in his sleep. I
needed to start thinking of my own solution. I refused to accept a
tragic ending.

****

The clouds parted like misty blue curtains on
a stage, with the sole performer, a waning yellow moon returned for
its endless encore. Each hour passed with heavy slowness. I’d
loafed in the sitting room, crinkling my nose with every sip of the
bitter tea I’d prepared and rereading every passage of the book I
held. And still, I had no idea what I’d been reading. After my
fourth inquiry to Dr. Bennett about whether or not he gave Strider
the correct dose of chloral hydrate, he speared me with a quelling
glare, slammed shut his own book, and marched off to bed.

The clock chimes in the entry announced
midnight, lifting me from a state that hovered between conscious
and unconscious. Tired as I was, my bed provided no comfort. I
threw off the covers, pulled on a wrapper, and lit a candle. If
Strider woke with a thirst, he would need a glass of water. Of
course, I knew I was fooling myself. The glass of water was merely
an excuse to check on him.

He’d slept all afternoon and evening and
halfway through the night. It dawned on me that I missed talking to
him. It seemed ridiculous. How could I miss someone I’d known for
less than a fortnight? Yet not talking to him for the whole evening
had left me feeling hollow.

On slipper covered toes, I crept into the
lab. The water sloshed over the rim of the glass as I stepped
methodically across the floor. The gaslights on the streets below
sputtered uneven bits of light through the small window, but my own
flame lit the way. Still tucked in the wool cover I’d thrown over
him, Strider slept soundly. I lowered the glass to the small table
and lingered for a moment watching him. It was an incredibly
handsome face even in slumber. And even fast asleep as he was, he
seemed full of spirit.

In leaving, I managed to tread on the loosest
floor plank in the house. Strider bolted upright as the creaking
sound interrupted the silence.

I lifted the candle. He scrubbed his face
with his hands and squinted at me from the cot. “Tis you, Camille.
I thought you were a bloody ghost in that long white gown.” He shut
his eyes then opened them again. “Christ, it feels like someone’s
taken a hammer to my ‘ead.”

“Shall I get you something for it? I think
Dr. Bennett has some concoctions on the shelf that are remedies for
head pain.”

He held up his hand. “No more of Dr.
Bennett’s concoctions.” His arm dropped, and he glanced at the
sterile cotton wrap encircling it. He lifted the bandage and looked
at the cut in his arm. “I look and feel like I’ve been to battle.”
His body swayed forward, and I dashed toward him. My hands clutched
at his shoulders to keep him from falling.

“You’re still feeling the effects of the
chloral hydrate. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

I sat next to him.

He scooted away, but before the bitter taste
of hurt caught up with me, he laid his head on my lap. My fingers
trembled as I lifted my hand to stroke his hair. Within moments,
his steady breathing told me he was sleeping again.

Everything was as Dr. Bennett and I had
hoped. We had Strider here and now there were plenty of blood cells
for the experiments. A cure might be within our reach. The black
curls of our specimen were soft under my palm. I sucked my bottom
lip in between my teeth to keep it still and glanced at the rows of
bottles lined up across the lab table. Somewhere amongst the acidic
powders and alkali liquids there must be a cure for heartbreak.

****

Deep voices rolled down the hall, waking me.
I’d slept through most of the morning. After an hour with Strider’s
head resting in my lap, I’d grown cold and weary. Reluctantly, I’d
slid off the cot and returned to my own bed. Dr. Bennett was
already working in the lab, but it was Strider who was bent over
the eyepiece of the microscope. He looked up and smiled at me. “I
can see things now. Not sure what I’m looking at, but I can see
it.”

“You’re feeling better, then?” I asked.

“Aye. My head still hurts, but at least it
doesn’t feel like a blacksmith is forging horseshoes on it
anymore.”

“Maggie’s downstairs. She already made us
something to eat. Why don’t you go down and get something, Cami.
You look pale,” Dr. Bennett said.

I nodded and turned to leave. Strider
followed me into the hall. “Camille.”

I turned and looked up at his face. He stared
at me, and his mouth moved as if he wanted to say something but
nothing came out. With his face so close, there was nothing I
wanted more right then than for him to kiss me. But it didn’t
happen.

“I’m headed to the Strand this morning. I
need to talk to a friend of mine.”

“You’re not a prisoner here. You may come and
go as you please,” I said, reminding myself more than him.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d take the walk
with me. Unless you’re too busy.”

“Well, of course, I’ll have to check my
appointment book, but I imagine I can squeeze in time for a
stroll.” The subdued smile I gave him belied the euphoria I was
feeling.

My trousers begged to be worn. A downpour
threatened and the air was dank, but I put on a blue dress and my
warmest mantle.

Traffic was heavy as we strolled around
Leicester Square. Some people sauntered through the park taking in
the scenery, architecture, and wide array of statues. Others
hurried along with purpose. Strider shrugged the naval coat higher
on his shoulders and held his arm for me to take. For a coat that
had surely seen better days, it looked perfect on him.

“Did you leave home when your brother did not
return from sea?”

“Aye. There was nothing left for me to do but
leave. My mum didn’t want me. She was too busy worrying about
herself. I was only in the way.”

“And your father?’

“He died two years before my brother. Rotten
liver from too much gin. I was happy to see him go. The only thing
he left me was a hide full of scars from daily beatings.” There was
no self-pity in his tone.

While my life had taken a hideous turn, my
younger years had been filled with love and laughter. “How hard it
must be to be young and live in constant fear.”

“My lucky day,” Strider said as he bent down
to retrieve a coin from the sidewalk. He slid it into the pocket of
his coat. “Fear quickly turns to hatred when you spend a great deal
of time hiding. By six years old, I was plotting ways to kill the
bastard. I’m only disappointed the gin beat me to it.”

My own horrid secret crept into my thoughts
causing me to stumble. Strider held tightly to my arm to keep me
from falling face first. “I am such a clumsy dolt.”

“I wouldn’t expect to see you in any of these
theaters performing a dance, but I like the way you move. You’re
rather like a feathery sprite with just enough swishing from side
to side.”

Curse the involuntary blush that was
impossible to hide. “I swish? Exactly what part of me swishes?” I’d
brought up his family, but I was relieved we’d changed subjects.
Even though this subject was making my cheeks burn.

He grinned down at me. “All the right
parts.”

A man in a faded black bowler sat on a bench
in the square surrounded by the few birds who had not yet taken
flight to warmer grounds. A dry chunk of bread landed at our
feet.

Strider bent to pick it up and held his palm
face up with the food. Two gray pigeons landed directly on his
forearm and pecked at the crumbs on his hand. “When I was younger,
my brother used to walk me to Regent’s Park with a bag full of
bread. I would sit for hours with birds of every shape and size on
my arms and shoulders.” The bread gone, the birds flew off.

“Weren’t you afraid they might peck you? I
like birds well enough, but in large numbers they’re rather
intimidating.”

He shook his head. “I was never afraid of
them.”

What a foolish question. He had grown up
living in constant fear of being beaten by his drunken father, how
could birds have frightened him. “I imagine there is little that
scares you.”

Strider grew silent and stared at the ground
as we left Leicester Square. “I’m scared, Camille.” The quiet words
mingled with the surrounding clamor of hooves and wheels.