“Tell me, Miss Mims.” Retrieving a handkerchief, Mrs. O dabbed the corners of her wide mouth. “How do you like the flowers?”
Amelia glanced around, but nothing currently bloomed in the yard other than an untended bed filled with some washed-out astrantia. “I am not sure—”
And then it hit her. The vase of roses Colin had clumsily knocked over.Thosehad been sent by Mrs. O. She smiled back at the woman. “Yes, of course. The blooms are exquisite. Thank you for the kindness.”
Mrs. O nodded, an unsettling sight, for skeletons ought not move. “It was the least I could do in light of your father’s recent demise. Of course, you have my condolences. You and Master Colin must attend me for dinner. Tonight suits.”
Amelia teetered on the crutch. How could the woman know Colin was here? He’d arrived in the darkness of the wee hours. “While I appreciate the generous invitation, I am afraid that will be impossible. My brother is not well.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” She leaned forward, chair creaking—or was the eerie crackling her bones? “Though that does account for Mr. Peckwood’s recent visit to Balfour House, which I’d assumed to be for your lame foot.”
A dull headache pulsed in Amelia’s right temple. From here on out, it would be a challenge to obscure things from the woman’s all-seeing eyes—and ears. She lifted her chin. “My foot is but a trifle. My brother’s condition, however, is serious enough to warrant his not leaving the house.”
“I see.” Mrs. O cocked her head like a raven about to peck. “I suppose we can put it off a few weeks, though he shall definitely have to miss the tea when the new neighbours arrive, for I expect them any day.”She lifted a bony finger, indicating the house with the immaculate lawn. “Quite the scandalous pair, I am told. One questions whether they are legally wed or not. And you, Miss Mims?” Her anemic gaze returned to Amelia. “I see no husband has accompanied you to Balfour House, though you are seven-and-twenty.”
Amelia stifled a gasp. The woman’s tongue was as unmanageable as a gypsy pony she’d once ridden. She searched deep for the will to force a smile. “I suppose I have been too busy to settle down.”
“Ha ha!” Mrs. O slapped the arm-rail on her chair. “Too busy gadding about the world, are you? Prague, most recently, was it not? Naturally, I must have a signed copy of yourRambles through the Bohemian Crown.”
“I will be happy to accommodate.” She dipped a small curtsey. “But for now I am afraid I must bid you good day, madam. I am required in the house.”
“I imagine so. That young scamp must keep you on your toes.” She nodded. “Good day, Miss Mims.”
Brow wrinkling, Amelia maneuvered the gate shut. While Colin was a good seven years her junior, he was no young scamp. Perhaps the sharp-minded Mrs. O was beginning to slip a bit, which sadly could work to their advantage. If the woman did chance a glance at Colin and spread gossip about his horrific visage, perhaps not many would believe her.
Heartened, Amelia left behind the grey day for an even greyer corridor, working her way towards the sitting room, where a small spot of scarlet near the baseboards caught her eye. Balancing with her crutch, she bent to swipe up the object. Lying on her palm, a soldier saluted her, one leg broken off and his shako completely missing. Another toy. But this time inside the house. How had a young boy’s plaything landed here in a passageway that was swept clean every night?
And more importantly, to whom did it belong?
Perplexing. Graham’s gaze followed the coils of wires from one voltaic pile to another. How the contrivance would actually help Mr. Balfour was beyond him. Though he had a rudimentary understanding of the process, a lecture here and a journal reading there were scarcely enough to sufficiently explain how an electrical charge could alter a human brain for the better.
Peckwood, however, methodically connected one tall glass tower to another, each movement confident. The whole assemblage looked like a medieval torture device, and Graham inwardly shuddered to think of what pain it might inflict. But it didn’t seem to bother the doctor in the least. The older fellow hummed an old bawdy tune while he worked, as if he were merely setting up for a rousing game of whist.
Graham kneaded the back of his neck. Perhaps the pang in his gut was for nothing. After all, the surgeon bested him by more than two decades of experience. Surely he knew what he was about. Besides, Graham himself understood better than most that oftentimes agony preceded a full and complete healing. Did not the removal of a gangrenous leg, while hurting like devil’s fire, preserve the life of the infected man?
“Watch carefully now, Mr. Lambert.” Peckwood held up a brass hook attached to a silk-wrapped cord, then caught it through a corresponding metal loop on the top of a rod at the center of the five towers. “It is very important the connection here is secure. Otherwise, the energy will discharge into the air instead of into Mr. Balfour’s skull, which could result in injury.”
Graham bent, peering closely at the assembly. “In what way would it injure him?”
“Not him, Doctor. You. Without the disbursement pads”—he pointed to a series of felt-covered discs attached by cables—“a concentrated arc of such magnitude would sear the flesh in an instant and cause blindness should it catch the eye.”
Graham backed away instinctively.
A disturbing leer stretching his lips, Peckwood rubbed his hands back and forth. “And now we are ready.”
While the doctor summoned the housekeeper to alert the Balfours, Graham once again studied the machine. Carefully. After today, he’d be solely responsible for administering the treatment. A formidable task, that.
He turned at the sound of voices and swish of a gown. Colin Balfour dwarfed his sister physically, yet the resolute way Amelia Balfour held her shoulders, the adeptness with which she managed her crutch—and particularly the keen mind he’d detected at their last meeting—made her every bit as notable as her brother.
Mr. Peckwood ushered them into the room with a flourish of his hand. “We are ready to begin. Miss Balfour, Mr. Lambert, this shall suit as the best place for your viewing.” He indicated the sofa. “Mr. Balfour, over here in this chair, if you don’t mind.”
The big man frowned. “And if I do mind?”
“Come now.” Peckwood patted the high back of the cushioned seat. “Are you not eager to begin the journey to normalcy?”
“Eageris not quite the word I would choose. Nonetheless, the sooner we begin, the sooner this shall be over with.” He closed the span in two great strides.
Graham pulled a stool close for Miss Balfour’s foot before he sat beside her. Though she’d made use of the crutch he’d sent over, he doubted she’d taken his “stay put” advice to heart.
