“My brother is not a rodent, sir.” Miss Balfour looked from Peckwood to her brother, doubt leaching the previous enthusiasm from her tone. “How can we know this will not cause irreparable harm? That he will not end up at an asylum, broken in mind and body?”
“Dear lady.” Peckwood rounded the sofa to collect her hand and pat her fingers. “It is my job as a surgeon to do no harm. I have every belief that the preoperative measures I shall train Mr. Lambert to administer will guarantee the success of the surgery. You do wish for your brother to live out his years in happiness, do you not?”
“Without question.” She pulled away her hand.
“And,” Peckwood continued without missing a beat, “as I discussed over many months of correspondence with your father, that is exactly what I intend to give him.”
“Who is to say I was not happy in my country refuge?” Mr. Balfour asked.
His sister stared up at him, head tipped to a curious angle. “But, Colin, do you not wish to lead a normal life?”
“Normal is but a state of mind, Sister.”
Graham clenched his hands, fighting off a strong feeling of unease. Miss Balfour may desire the best for her brother, and Peckwood surely had good intentions, but did neither of them notice Mr. Balfour’s hesitation? Were intention and desire enough reason to proceed with such a dangerous surgery? He shook his head. “This is quite an undertaking. I wonder if any of us are ready for it.”
Balfour heaved a great sigh. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Now see here, my friends.” Peckwood advanced, standing front and center of them all, hands clasped behind his back. An orator’s stance—one that instantly put Graham on edge.
“Great achievement,” Peckwood began, “is never obtained without great risk. This is more than just an operation on one mere man, but a whole new revolution for those who suffer from the same malady.” He lifted his chin at Mr. Balfour. “You do the world a service, sir, by consenting to a treatment that is sure to be life changing. And for your daring, you will be given a new visage. An entirely new beginning. The question is will you accept the challenge? For such did your father assure me of your courage.”
The speech landed like rotten meat in Graham’s gut, sickening him. He’d heard such monologues before—preceding a battle wherein he was left with mutilated bodies and buckets of blood.
Mr. Balfour appeared unmoved, his cool stare unwavering. “I understand, Mr. Peckwood. It is a big decision. I should like to take the day to think it over.”
Peckwood inhaled so sharply, his nostrils nearly closed. “As you wish, but I must warn you that time is of the essence. I have my own upcoming research project to attend, so if we do not begin the ministrations within the next week, your surgery will by necessity have to be put off for several years. Such is the magnitude of my next venture. So, you see,nowis the time for your transformation.” He pulled out a folded paper and set it on the tea table. “We will move forward once you sign this document of agreement, and with that, Miss Balfour, Mr. Balfour”—he nodded at each in turn—“I bid you good day.”
He strolled from the room without so much as a backwards glance, leaving them all in an awkward silence. Both Balfours swiveled their heads to Graham.
How was he to salvage this? He clenched his hands to keep from loosening his collar. “My colleague is…we have other patients, and…”
And what? There was no defending a man in the throes of a tantrum. He stepped near Miss Balfour’s chair and peered down at her. “If your pain increases, miss, do not hesitate to send for me. Good day to you both.”
With a sharp nod, he exited, only to face a thundercloud in a black serge suit pacing on the front stoop. “If you ever question my practices again, Mr. Lambert, especially in front of a patient of such distinction, you may take your bag and seek elsewhere for a partnership. Am I quite clear, sir?”
Hmm. Quite the churlish if not childish response. Apparently, the doctor’s sentiment of “an inquisitive mind is never to be condemned” did not extend to him. Though it never came easy to admit defeat, he dipped his head. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Peckwood. I misspoke and I deeply regret the matter.”
“Well.” Peckwood sniffed. “Very good, then.” Retrieving a slip of paper from his pocket, the doctor handed it over.
12 Pinnell Street, Redcliffe
Graham looked up. “What’s this?”
“Your next patient. Oh, be a good man, would you, and lock up the surgery when you’re finished tonight? I shall be indisposed for the rest of the day. And by the by, I shall be taking the gig. Good day.” With a pat on his hat, Peckwood strode off.
Graham watched him go, trying to disregard the rising unease he felt about the man. Perhaps this partnership had been a bad idea. Not only was he doing all of the work, but the work that Peckwooddiddo could very well be questionable at best. And at worst? Criminal.
Especially if Balfour did not survive the man’s revolutionary surgery.
SIX
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
What was one to do when handed two sacks—one filled with ambiguous promise, the other with the unspoken risk of premature death? Colin flexed his fingers. The doctors had left both outcomes in the sitting room, forcing him to choose between the two, neither desirable. Saints above! He cracked his neck one way then another. How he longed to get back on the ship that brought him here and sail into oblivion.
“You are troubled, Brother.”
His sister’s sweet voice drew him around. “As is to be expected, I should think. My life is at stake, Amelia.”
