Coleen Kwan - Darke London

“Miss Barchester! You must stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Why could she not free herself from the cursed bed linen? Why was she so limp and feeble? She pushed and pulled at the sheets, dully aware of a growing ache somewhere in her body, until finally she managed to thrust her arms out. She stared at the bandages wrapped around her left hand, at the gap where two middle fingers should be.

“My hand,” she gasped. “Oh…” She drew in a slow, quivering breath as the amorphous ache in her body crystallised around the stumps of her missing fingers. Her flesh was swollen, tender, but the physical pain was not as great as she might have imagined. Rather, it was the idea of the mutilation that made her mind go blank with horror.

“Your hand is healing well,” Julian Darke assured her quickly. “The threat of infection has passed.”

But how ugly her hand appeared. This… thing had no right being attached to her. She could barely look at it. She hid her left arm under the sheets. Using her right hand, she tentatively fingered the bandages around her head. “And my face? What happened here?”

He shifted in his seat as his expression grew wary. “You do not recall?” he asked gently.

Memory returned like a flood of boiling water. She remembered the flashing blade as it scythed towards her, her bleeding hands raised in defence, and then a faint stinging across her cheeks like the flick of a fine whip, followed by a warm wetness trickling over her skin. That was all. There’d barely been any pain then, unlike now, when her entire face crawled with a prickling sensation.

She fell back on the pillows. “Oh dear heaven,” she whispered.

“Who did this to you, Miss Barchester?”

His insistence made her heart thud painfully faster. An image of her assailant hovered over her. He was built like an ox, with pockmarks around his hard, murderous eyes. His fists were like rocks, and he’d stunk of sweat and animal fat. Her fingers tightened on the sheets as she glanced away. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.” She knew who had paid him, though, but for now she dared not share that information. “I’ve no idea who he is.”

He drew in a quick breath. “None at all?”

The sharpness in his tone made her look up. Medical concern had given way to exceptional interest. His burning black eyes sent an involuntary shiver down her back. Julian Darke was not merely a good Samaritan; he was after something more.

“Why do you ask?” she countered. “Did you see something?”

He leaned back in the carved oak chair. “I will tell you what I saw that night, Miss Barchester. I saw you get into a carriage with a man called Sir Thaddeus Ormond. I saw you being abducted and taken down to a deserted dock. And I saw you almost stabbed to death before I managed to intervene.”

The mere mention of Sir Thaddeus Ormond was enough to turn her stomach to water. She clung onto the sheets as though they were a crucifix. Dear God, her instincts were right. Her rescuer wasn’t just a disinterested passerby. Somehow he was connected to Thaddeus Ormond, and therefore she couldn’t trust him. Not yet, not until she was more certain of his motives.

“Thaddeus Ormond?” She attempted a nonchalant shrug without much success. “Oh, he is merely an acquaintance.”

“A mere acquaintance, is he?” His hand curled into a fist on his knee. “A mere acquaintance who delivered you into the clutches of your would-be murderer.”

Beneath the quilts her legs trembled, but she refused to give in. “Why are you so interested in him?”

“Zounds! Why do you wish to protect him? After what his animal did to your hand, not to mention your face…” He gesticulated towards her, a lock of his untidy hair falling over his brow.

She tugged at the bandages encircling her head. “H-how bad is it? I want to see.”

His voice lowered. “Later, when you’re stronger.” He placed his fingers over hers. “I’ve been remiss in my duties. I shouldn’t have upset you with my impertinent questions.”

“I shall be even more upset if you don’t remove these bandages.” She yanked at the fabric, unease worming harder as she read the worry in his expression. “Will you assist me, or do I have to rip these off myself?”

He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well, but you must remember the body takes time to heal.” She held herself still as he slowly unwound the cloth. The bandages coming off were spotted with dried blood, but she said nothing, simply waited until he had finished. She had to wait a little longer as he examined her face, probing her flesh gently with his long, sensitive fingers. From a drawer in the table next to the bed, he drew out a small round mirror and handed it to her.

Finally. Without hesitation she lifted the mirror and stared into it. A stranger gazed back at her. The stranger’s face was swollen and scratched, bruises blooming black, purple, green. Deep gashes marked both cheeks, the worst ones travelling the entire length from the outer corner of her eye down to the tip of her chin. Dozens of tiny black stitches, each one impossibly small, followed the splits, holding together the red, slightly distended flesh. Bits of dried blood and dead tissue sprinkled the fissures.

Her stomach clenched in denial. She sucked in a long breath, and then another. A frenzied urge to tear at her face almost overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength to remain perfectly still.

The man beside her cleared his throat. “The wounds are healing nicely. The inflammation is abating. I should be able to remove the stitches in a couple of days.”

She swallowed. The stony lump in her throat was immoveable. “Will—will I have scars?”

Stupid, stupid question . Of course she would have scars.

“I’m afraid so,” he said gently. “I am sorry.”

His sympathy scoured her. He’d saved her life, and here she was worrying about something as inconsequential as scars. What a vain simpleton he must think her.

“This stitching is extremely fine,” she remarked, determined to meet this challenge with all the composure she could muster. “Is that your doing?”

He inclined his head. “I took as much care as I could, but…” He lifted his shoulders.

“No, I’m very grateful to you.” She lowered the mirror. “For everything you’ve done. I can’t thank you enough.”

He rolled up the soiled bandages. “You won’t require these anymore.” He stood to leave. “You should rest. We’ll speak again later.”

When he had left the room, she raised the mirror again and studied her reflection for several long minutes. Her hair was lank and matted with sweat and dirt. Apart from the angry red scars, her skin was like putty, grey and slack. Heavy dark circles hung beneath her eyes. She could barely recognise herself. She looked like a grotesque patchwork doll torn apart and haphazardly stitched together again by a drunken seamstress. Coupled with her defiled hand, she was an abnormality, a freak in a menagerie. A woman like that should be hidden away, locked behind bars.

Her chest heaved. Disgust and fear welled up. She flung the mirror away from her. It crashed into a dim corner and broke with a tinkle of glass. She pulled the covers over her head, but the mocking shadows were inside her, and there was no escaping them.

Three days later the last of the fever had vanished, and Nellie was strong enough to leave her bed. The temptation to hide beneath the covers still assailed her, especially when she woke each morning and remembered afresh where she was and how she had come to be there, but she knew the only way to overcome her difficulties was to seize them by the scruff of their necks.