Megan Shepherd - The Madman’s Daughter

He smirked. ‘A dried-out old git, am I? You’re a pretty one, but you’ll have to cool that temper if you want to keep your job. Now come to my office and do as you’re told, and there’ll be a sixpence in it for you as well.’

A bilious mix of fear and disgust rose in my throat, but my lips felt sewn together. I had to get out of there, quickly. He was twice my weight. If I tried to run, he’d be on me in an instant.

His spindly fingers pried the basket from my hand and set it on the entry table. My thoughts beat in time with my frantic pulse, trying to devise a solution. He reached for my waist, but I stepped backward.

The thin line of his mouth tightened. ‘I’m losing patience with these games of yours. I’m going to have you tonight, and you might as well be a good girl and you’ll get something out of it.’ Wax dripped from the half-forgotten candle in his hand onto the floor. I’d have to clean that hardening wax before this night was out. My fear started to harden, too. My eyes caught the blade of the mortar scraper in the basket, and all sorts of ideas came to mind of what I’d like to do with that sharp point. I might be cleaning up splashes of his blood, too, unless he left me alone.

‘You’re a lucky girl, Juliet, that I still take an interest in you even after your father’s transgressions. Not every man would show such kindness.’

Kindness . A bitter laugh sounded in my head. The last thing Dr Hastings showed was kindness. If he only knew about Montgomery, the man he’d just accused me of having been with. Montgomery would have slammed his fist into Dr Hastings’s lump of a nose. My eyes drifted back to the basket. The mortar scraper was within reach. The palm of my hand was hungry to hold its worn handle. To do something … I might regret.

Dr Hastings took my silence as consent. He snaked a hand up my arm, his fingers squeezing my flesh like ripe fruit. Run , I told myself. But what about the next time? He’d retaliate. He’d come at me harder.

There couldn’t be a next time.

‘It’s a good thing your father’s dead,’ he said, his fingers curling around my shoulder, suggestively rubbing the place where my worn lace collar met bare skin. ‘He wouldn’t want to know all the vulgar things I’m going to do to you.’

I started to twist away, but he pushed me against the entryway table. My hip connected with the sharp corner as a bolt of pain shot through me. I winced, and he took the opportunity to pin me against the table with the weight of his own body. His fingers found my throat greedily and ripped the collar of my dress. Buttons rained to the floor.

My cleaning basket was just behind me. His thin lips breathed a disgusting moan against my collarbone. Although he had me trapped, my right hand was free. A tiny voice warned me I’d regret what I was about to do, but my head echoed with a roar. My fingers had already closed over the mortar scraper. A sort of madness took me over, pushing away the fear and terror. Before Dr Hastings realized what was happening, I had the sharp edge of the mortar scraper pressed against the fleshy triangle in the base of his palm where all the flexor tendons met.

His face twisted with anger, but I pushed the blade harder, almost breaking the skin. I didn’t want to enjoy this. But I did, so much that my hands shook with the silent promise of the blade in my hand. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll sever every tendon in your hand,’ I hissed. ‘My father was a surgeon. I know how important motor function is to you, Doctor. I can end your career in about half a centimeter of flesh.’

‘I told you I was tired of these games,’ he growled. ‘Now put the knife down and finish taking off your dress.’

‘It isn’t a knife. It’s a cleaning tool, but I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference.’ I pressed harder, barely able to restrain myself. ‘And I’ll use it unless you swear to never touch me again.’ I let the blade dip into his skin, just enough to draw a dark line of blood.

‘You’re as mad as your father!’ he cried. He spit a thin stream of saliva that landed on my cheek. ‘I’ll see you run out of town just like him.’

My hand tightened around the mortar scraper. Anger snapped in my nerves, shooting electric rage though the synapses.

To hell with it .

I thrust the blade into his pale skin until I felt the edge of the flexor tendon attached to his right index finger. A flick of my wrist was all it took – no more pressure than cleaning blood from the mortar. And my God, as wicked and wrong as it was, I enjoyed it.

He howled and crumpled to the floor, clutching his hand. I dropped the mortar scraper, realizing what I had done with a growing horror. I wouldn’t need the scraper anymore. My employment was over.

I found the doorknob behind me, turned it, and ran into the cold November night.

The next morning I sat in Victoria Gardens with a tattered carpetbag and seven shillings, my entire savings. The carpetbag, a parting gift from Mrs Bell at my dismissal, was probably worth more than the contents – a few threadbare dresses, Father’s Longman’s Anatomical Reference , my Bible, and the embossed wooden box containing the syringe and a small supply of medication. Only the diamond ring Mother had left me was valuable. I took off my glove to watch it sparkle. I’d have to sell it. Even that would give me lodgings for only a few weeks. And staying in London was no longer an option.

‘Oh, Juliet, I’m so sorry.’ Lucy jogged across the lawn and collapsed on the bench, throwing her arms around me. She pulled back and touched a gloved hand to my face. ‘Is it true, what they’re saying?’

I nodded.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sure he deserved even worse,’ she said, her voice brimming with anger. ‘He’s lucky you didn’t sever his other appendage.’

I gave a weak smile. But not even Lucy’s friendship could get me out of this mess, and we both knew it. Dr Hastings had gone straight to the police, wanting to have me arrested. Mrs Bell had shown up at my lodging house an hour before dawn, banging on the door so hard that even Annie woke. She thrust the carpetbag into my hand along with the week’s wages and told me to leave town before the police came inquiring.

A man reeking of whiskey passed by our bench, and I hugged the carpetbag closer. My chest felt hollow. How would I even leave? I hadn’t money for a train, and surely my reputation would follow me. I’d never find employment as a maid again.

‘What will you do?’ Lucy asked.

I fiddled with the carpetbag’s leather handle. ‘It’s either the workhouse, or …’ I didn’t need to finish. My mind drifted to the girl outside the Blue Boar Inn, with the hollow eyes and stained silk dress.

Lucy pushed a few coins into my hand. ‘I took these from my father’s desk. It’ll get you as far as Bedford. There must be something you can do. A shopgirl, maybe.’

I counted the coins. Enough for the train, but not room or board. I’d have to spend the night in the station, and from there it was a short – and usually forced – leap to the gutter. Had my mother faced a similar dilemma? She’d done what she did out of desperation, and at least it kept us clothed and fed. My father had left with no note, no parting words, nothing. Was he really the kind of man to simply walk away from his family? Was he really the monster they said he was?

The truth was, I knew next to nothing about him. He was little more than a hazy memory and a slew of scandalous rumors. But he was alive . Out there, across oceans. Living. Breathing. For the first time in my life, I could simply ask him if the rumors I’d heard about him were true.

Lucy glanced across the park. Her mother had caught sight of us and was striding straight through the grass. My stomach tightened. If Mrs Radcliffe didn’t approve of me before, she must positively detest me now.