“The skin—especially that covering the zygomatic and temporal bones—here and here”—the doctor unfolded his arms and pointed to Colin’s cheek and temple—“is not loose enough to guarantee the shrinkage that will be needed once the cranial capacity is reduced.”
Lambert’s brows suddenly mirrored Amelia’s. “Can the skin not simply be surgically removed?”
“Of course it can.” Peckwood flourished his fingers in the air. “But with the increased risk of scarring and blood loss, I should like to avoid as much unnecessary cutting of Mr. Balfour’s body as possible.”
“So would I.” Colin frowned. The recovery would no doubt be brutish enough as is, without further slicing and dicing.
Amelia smoothed out the lacy handkerchief square she’d been toying with all morning. Was this talk of blood and gore getting to be too much for her? Admittedly, his elder sister was no fainting flower, but even she must have her limits.
“I think we are all in agreement that the less invasive the surgery performed on my brother, the better, but Mr. Lambert raises a valid point. Would it not be more expedient to remove the excess skin during the procedure instead of having him suffer through these daily treatments?”
“I am afraid,” Mr. Peckwood said, “such intricacies are beyond the feminine psyche to comprehend.”
“Now see here, Doctor!” Lambert crossed the room to her side, sweeping out his hand in a protective manner.
Colin hid a smile. The man was proving as defensive of his sister as he.
“Miss Balfour is as capable of understanding your explanations as I, and so I echo her question. Why continue this”—with a nod of his head, Lambert indicated the pile of medical contraptions on the table—“when it is possible to cut, remove, and suture any extra tissue?”
Peckwood’s chest puffed out several inches as he gripped the lapels of his suit coat. “Because after extensive research and practice, this is the way I deem best, not to mention this procedure is the one I presented to the patriarch of this family before his demise. Who, by the way, was in full support of giving me control over any and all medical decisions, the extent of which I have in writing. So either we do this my way or not at all. Mr. Balfour?” His blue gaze sharpened on Colin. “Are you in agreement?”
Though something in his gut twanged, he met the man’s gaze and nodded. “I am.”
The sharp angles of Mr. Peckwood’s face relaxed. “Good. Then you shall require two more weeks of my prescribed regimen, three at most, and I shall require a banknote of forty pounds for the extra time and effort involved.”
Amelia shot to her feet. “Forty pounds!”
“So much?” Lambert grumbled beside her.
Colin blew out a long breath, annoyed at them all, but mostly with himself. He never should have come here. He should’ve ignored Father’s wishes. Stayed in Devon. Shut himself away from humanity. Spared his sister the diminishment of their inheritance and the rise and ebb of hope that wreaked havoc with his own peace of mind.
Rising, he faced Peckwood, anxious for this to be over. “My sister will see that you are paid.”
“But, Colin!”
The distress in her voice struck a nerve. He crossed to her and pried the now wadded-up handkerchief from her hand. After smoothing out the bit of lace, he refolded it into a neat square and handed it back, patting her hand before he let go. “It is only money, Amelia.”
“Forgive me. Of course it is only money.” Her palm rose and rested gently on his cheek. “I merely wish to end this daily suffering of yours.”
“And soon it shall be.” Pulling from her touch, he nodded at Peckwood. “If you’ll excuse me, I bid you good day, sir.” His gaze drifted to Lambert. “Until tomorrow, Doctor.”
Leaving them all behind, he strode out of the room and stalked to the rear of the house, then paused with his hand on the back door. Going outside was a risk, one Amelia would no doubt take him to task for later. But hang it all! He needed a moment—just one—to feel normal again instead of like a specimen caged for experimentation.
He twisted the knob and stepped out into freedom—and didn’t stop until he was halfway into the yard. Lifting his face, he filled his lungs with fresh air and the leftover sweetness of spent linden blossoms. Surely this was heaven. Thechacker-chacker-chackerof a starling. The quivering green leaves high overhead, swooshing in the breeze. The scrape of wood and scuffle in the shrubbery at his back.
The what?
He wheeled about. In the wild tangle of an overgrown weigela near the corner of the house, the whites of two eyeballs peered out at knee level. Human eyes. Or were they? Was this just another laudanum-induced delirium? Pressing the heels of his hands to his own eyes, he rubbed, then squinted and looked again.
The weigela remained, but nothing gazed back at him.
Colin advanced then crouched and parted the greenery, the sharp branches scratching the backs of his hands in the process. The way the lower branches were bent, it was conceivable something had squatted here recently, but not a man. There was no way a grown human could fit into such a small space.
He sank back to his haunches, frowning. Perhaps it was a good thing the surgery had been pushed back. Clearly he was not mentally ready for such a major procedure, not with hallucinations like this.
How could Peckwood’s operation possibly end well if he weren’t sound to begin with?
A slow burn simmered in Graham’s gut as he pounded the pavement of Bristol’s streets. Thunderation! He was sick of being angry. Again. All the time. This was the very thing he’d hoped to escape by settling in a town where no one knew him. Where he thought he could forget about the injustices meted out by impudent naval officers whose only care was for their own insatiable appetites. But then Peckwood happened. A doctor every bit the blackguard as Lieutenant Clerval had been.
