But a few grains of sand remain in the hourglass of my life. Would that I could turn the hateful thing over, for never are regrets more poignant than during one’s last breaths. Yet I will not trouble you with the requisite pleas for mercy and forgiveness. You are not heaven’s gatekeeper.
Instead, I charge you with the guardianship of your brother, leastwise until the revolutionary surgery I have scheduled for him can be carried out. At such a point, you will be freed of all familial responsibilities if you so choose, for at last Colin will be able to face the world as his own man. I have arranged for him to arrive in Bristol by dark of night, June 8. My solicitor, Mr. Walton, will supply you with the appropriate details and means for your travel to Balfour House.
To avoid a case of too little, too late, I will not suffer you with trite words of apology or endearment. But rest assured, Amelia, that you have been, and I trust forever will be, the most obedient of daughters a man could ask for.
As always, your father, Grafton Balfour
Father? What a farce.
Obedient? As ever.
But guardianship of her brother? She bit her lip. She’d always feared this day would come.
Amelia stared at the note, a scream welling up from the depths of her little girl heart that had only ever wanted unconditional love. Everything shook. Her legs. The letter. The tickets to Cairo. In one hand she held her future. In the other, her past.
And between lay the present’s ugly decision of who to disappoint—her editor, herself, or the man she’d called Father.
TWO
“I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage.”
Bristol
Any dream worth pursuing required toil and hardship, but must it also entail the ruination of a perfectly good pair of trousers? Graham Lambert scowled at a gash in the fabric and slight sting on his calf. Pacing in the shadows had seemed like a good idea until he’d snagged against that cursed nail. He ought to have waited in one place. Stood still. Dash it! Must rash behaviour always be his downfall?
He anchored near the lamplight pouring out the window of the Llandoger Trow public house. Neither the steady stream of sailors from the nearby docks nor the actors exiting the Old Vic Theatre captured so much as a bat of his eye. Instead, he focused on a white-haired gentleman in a Paris beau hat who conversed with two other fellows until a gig was brought ’round. Whoever said women were long-winded harpies had clearly never suffered a half-hour parting from three men who’d spent the evening swapping tales inside a tavern.
At long last, several hearty goodbyes traveled on the night air, and the men parted ways. Graham pushed off the wall and closed in on the white-haired fellow paying off a stable hand for retrieving his gig. “Mr. Peckwood, a word, if you don’t mind. I promise to be brief.”
Uriah Peckwood, a prominent and—as some claimed—rather provocative surgeon, turned on his heel. His hat dipped low over a wide swath of forehead, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he dissected Graham’s face. In person, the intelligence of the man’s gaze far outshone that of his image in quarterlies and journals. “Do I know you?”
Graham nodded. “Somewhat.”
“I’ve never cared for cryptic conversation, sir. State your name. Make it plain.”
“Graham Lambert, at your service.” He dipped a bow.
“Lambert?” His name rolled off the surgeon’s tongue like the tasting of a foreign sweetmeat—neither familiar nor entirely unpalatable. But then the man’s dark eyes brightened, and he lifted a finger. “Ahh, yes. Graham Lambert. I know the name, for you see, Ineverforget names, yet I am unable to place your face.”
“Through no fault of your own, sir. We have never formally met.” Graham stepped closer to be heard above a particularly boisterous ditty leaching out the tavern’s door. “I submitted a proposal for partnership several weeks back.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Peckwood stroked his clean-shaven jawline. “Did you not receive my correspondence on the matter, Mr. Lambert?”
The mere mention of the letter was a fresh punch to the gut, but defeat was not an option he’d willingly embrace. A trait that had served him well over the years. Mostly. “I did receive your letter, this very afternoon, in fact. Hence my immediate need to speak with you. I tried your office, but—”
“My office is always closed on Thursdays.”
“Yet itcouldbe open, were you to take me on as your partner.” Graham flexed his fingers then clenched them tight. Would the man welcome such boldness or scorn it as a sign of ill breeding? Peckwood’s unwavering stare gave no clue to his reaction, which put Graham off balance. An unnerving sensation for a seasoned seaman.
“Mr. Lambert, I believe I was very clear in my letter that I am not interested in a partnership. And with that, I wish you well and bid you good night.” He turned to his gig.
In one swift move, Graham sidestepped him and blocked his way. “Please, I simply ask that you hear me out before you drive off. That’s all.”
Peckwood turned, clearly annoyed, then heaved a great sigh. “Very well, Mr. Lambert. You have my ear.”
Graham retreated a step. This was it. His final shot. The one that would either make or break him. It took every jot of willpower not to grab hold of the man’s shoulders and impress upon him the importance of his acceptance.
“I am a diligent worker, Mr. Peckwood, a surgeon and an apothecary. Dependable to a fault. In my years as a naval surgeon, I learned to push past the usual physical limitations, developing innovations in technique and acquiring the skill to think quickly on my feet. I have seen diseases most have only read of in textbooks and am a practiced hand with injuries of any sort. Though you may look far and wide, you would be hard pressed to find another candidate as well qualified to work alongside you.”
