Camille (11 page)

His last words sent a shiver through me.

Strider’s long legs gave him a distinct
advantage as we walked. I was near to skipping in order to keep up.
He seemed to sense my struggle and slowed his pace. “That’s a bonny
dress you’re wearing.”

This morning I tried in vain to convince
myself that my only reason for choosing a dress was because the day
looked to be quite sunny, and I did not need the warmth of
trousers. But I knew it was a lie. “I did not wear it because of
anything you said,” I insisted. “It was too warm for trousers
today.”

The morning sky was clear, but a chill clung
to the air. Strider pulled his coat shut against the cold. “Aye,
it’s warm indeed.”

“It is early still.”

We passed two young women walking arm and
arm, dressed smartly in jewel toned velvet and cashmere shawls. One
of the lady’s parasols dropped just as we passed. Strider rushed to
her, picked it up, and returned it to the owner with a smile and a
bow. The blush on the lady’s cheeks convinced me that she had
dropped it on purpose. They giggled behind gloved hands as they
continued on their way.

“Dr. Bennett seems like a respectable sort.
But it’s odd that he lets you travel the streets alone so
much.”

“He trusts me.”

“But what about all the untrustworthy people
in the streets? If I had not been at Tussaud’s yesterday…”

“I’ve never had trouble like that before.
Besides, I never would have gone there if I hadn’t been looking for
you.”

His face dropped down, and we walked in
silence for a few moments. “Your lifestyle is quite different than
most girls at your station and age. That you must admit.”

“I admit nothing. Dr. Bennett has been an
excellent guardian. And if growing up reading science books and
professional papers rather than sipping lemonade and poking a
needle through fabric is abnormal, then I’m happy to be so.” I
stopped him and pointed across the street. We waited for a cab and
an omnibus to rush past and walked on. “And you, Nathaniel Strider,
you are not exactly a candidate for conformity.”

We stopped and faced each other. “Yes, but my
situation is quite different than yours, and I am a man.”

“I can handle myself just as well as any
man?”

He stared at my face without saying anything.
A side of his mouth turned up. He lifted his finger and touched my
bottom lip, barely making contact with it. “Did you know that when
you’re angry your bottom lip shakes?”

I kept my expression stern, but my legs felt
like currant jelly. I caught my traitorous lower lip with my teeth
and walked on.

A crush of laborers and customers circulated
around the stalls of Covent Garden. Pots filled with imported
flowers and hampers of fruit made the air rich with fragrance.

One of the flower women jumped up from her
crouch and held a shabby bouquet in front of Strider’s face. “You
look like a lad who likes to buy flowers for his girl.” She winked
at me.

“This girl?” Strider motioned to me with his
head. “Why, there is no flower fine enough to compliment her
sweetness.”

“You’re a sweet one yourself, laddie,” the
woman said and returned to her position on the pavement.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” He picked up a red geranium that
had fallen from a pot.

“Charm every girl you…”

Before I could finish, he reached forward and
tucked the blossom behind my ear. Twice his fingers brushed my
cheek, and I realized I was holding my breath until he had finished
fashioning it in my hair. “Now, what were you asking?”

“Never mind.” His talent was so effortless;
he didn’t seem to realize he possessed it. I tapped the petals of
the flower. “I thought no flower was fine enough.”

“Well, except if it is free.” He put out his
arm for me to take. “How did you get that unusual streak of white
in your hair?”

It was a question I had not expected. I
considered making up a fake story, but then he and I were connected
now in this incomprehensible situation, and he should know. “It
happened when I was ten. My father was a research scientist like
Dr. Bennett. He was an expert in cellular biology studying
transmutation.”

“Your father was a transportation expert in
celery?”

“Yes, he studied at Oxford and learned how to
move green, stalky vegetables across London.” I pulled him to a
stop. “My father spent his life looking for a way to stop humans
from becoming werewolves.” A long, black curl had landed on his
face, and before I could stop myself, I was reaching up to push it
back. His breath picked up speed, or at least I imagined it
had.

“You mean like me?” he asked. His words were
quiet, but I heard him clearly over the clamor of barrows and
voices.

“My father’s experiments took a horrible
turn. Somehow he contaminated his own blood with that of a
werewolf.” All the moisture dried from my mouth and speaking became
a chore. I had never told the story aloud to anyone. I’d gone over
it again and again in my head but never aloud. Not even with Emily.
Of course there was no need to tell it to my sister. She’d
witnessed the entire event first hand. The cold clamminess that
washed over my skin whenever I thought of it swept over me now.

Obviously sensing my distress, Strider placed
his fingers over my lips. “Say no more.” He picked up my hand and
led me to a sunny corner. We leaned against the building and
watched as a man sorted flowers.

Heat from the sun comforted me and I relaxed.
I could not make sense of my thoughts. The anguish that overcame me
when I thought too hard about my father’s death seemed to be
overshadowed by the possibilities I now faced. The tragic ending to
my father’s story could easily repeat itself, only, for the time
being, the boy standing next to me had no idea how this might end.
Up to this point, Dr. Bennett and I had been rather elusive about
our plans. And suddenly, it dawned on me that I had very likely
lured Nathaniel Strider to his death.

A costermonger strolled past with a barrow of
oranges. Strider bent forward to breathe in the fragrance. “I seem
to remember something about buying fruit.” he said

His smile obliterated my dismal thoughts.
“Indeed.” I pushed off the wall and as I did, a flash of red caught
my eye. “Red paper.” I hurried across the path to a table covered
with a wide variety of flowers. A man grouped them by color and
length before wrapping them in red paper. “Pardon me, I would like
to purchase two pieces of this.” I touched the paper on the table
which was wet with the moisture of fresh cut flowers. The man
looked at me suspiciously. I pulled out

my coin purse. “I will pay you two shilling.”
He eyed the coins on my palm, reached under the table into a
basket, and retrieved two pieces of red paper.

We walked away leaving behind a very puzzled
flower laborer.

“Most girls prefer the flowers,” Strider
said.

“It is for my sister, Emily. She is an
extraordinary artist.”

“Your sister? Where does she live? Is she
older than you?”

“Emily is my twin, although she was born
first so she considers herself to be older. She lives--” I paused,
embarrassed to tell him, “---she lives at Bethlem Hospital…for
now.”

“Bedlam? The lunatic asylum?”

“Emily is not a lunatic. She just does not
care for living in society, and I’m sorry I told you.” I rushed on
ahead of him.

He caught up and took hold of my arm.
“Forgive me.”

I stopped and faced him. He needn’t have
apologized with words. His incredible face made it impossible for
me to stay angry at him. Part of me wanted to reveal the tragic end
to my story. It would help explain Emily’s seclusion and reveal the
seriousness of his situation. But standing next to him, I could
feel sparks of energy radiating from him. His existence was
miserable, yet none of the misery showed. There was no need for him
to know at this moment.

“I ‘aven’t forgotten that you promised me
some pears. I can see a cart filled with them over there.” He took
hold of the bag from the apothecary. “I’ll carry that. You pick the
fruit.”

“Mind you, I’ve plenty of money so don’t pick
any fruit yourself.” I said.

“Yes, Sister Collins.”

“I’m beginning to think Sister Collins
deserved sainthood for putting up with you, Nathaniel Strider.”

He smiled. “Sainthood? Only if they’re giving
sainthood for being scurrilous.”

I busied myself picking the ripest pears I
could find. My companion wandered off. I paid the man and searched
for the black head of hair and found him moments later by a barrow
of apples. He strolled toward me with a grin of guilt on his face.
The fruit seller began yelling. Strider raced to me, grabbed my
arm, and pulled me along. We did not stop until we were well out of
view of the street stalls, by which point, I was sucking in breaths
as if all the oxygen had been removed from the air.

“Blasted, Nathaniel, I told you I had
money.”

“But you were over near the pears.” He
plucked the apple from the apothecary’s bag, and we both stared
wide eyed as the spring lancet came out as well, impaled into the
side of the fruit. He pulled the lancet out and held it up for
closer inspection. “Does this have something to do with me?”

My heart rate had finally slowed. I
nodded.

He dropped both the lancet and the apple back
into the bag.”Don’t really feel like apple anymore,” he said. He
reached into his trouser and pulled out a branch of green
grapes.

“Is there anything else hidden on you?’ I
asked.

He held out his arms. “You can search me if
you like.”

My cheeks warmed. “No, I’ll take your word
for it. What does it matter now? They are painting my name on a
chair in hell as we speak.”

We headed home eating grapes. “Hell won’t be
so bad, you know. After all, I’ll be there to keep you
company.”

“Splendid.” I pushed a grape into my
mouth.

“But do you really think they’ll let us use
chairs?”

We laughed the rest of the way home. And I
wondered how I was going to keep my heart from being crushed.

“Miss Camden sent some boiled rice pudding,”
Dr. Bennett called from the lab as we stepped inside.

“Did she? How thoughtful of her.” I called
back to him. “Miss Camden is a little lovelorn when it comes to Dr.
Bennett,” I whispered to Strider.

“Then he doesn’t return the affection?”

I shrugged. “Maybe a little, but John Bennett
has one true love and that is science. His books and theories are
all he needs for happiness.”

“Books instead of girls? Poor deluded man.
The bloke doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

I removed my shawl and hung it on the rack at
the door, but Strider made no move to remove his coat. “Perhaps, if
an expert like you were to write a book about lovemaking, he would
read it and become inspired.”

“I don’t know which part of your idea held
more sarcasm, the part about me being an expert on lovemaking or
about me writing a book.”

“I believe I can claim an equal amount of
mocking on both proclamations.”

He stepped face to face with me. The floral
wallpaper of the entry seemed to be squeezing in on us, and the
space grew smaller. The engaging thin lines around his mouth became
more prominent. “I believe only one deserves derision. While I can
write, I must declare that I would never be able to pen an entire
book.” He leaned his face closer to mine, and his gaze drifted from
my lips to my eyes and back to my lips. “But on the subject matter
of the aforementioned book, I possess more than my share of
expertise.” He leaned closer now, his own lips parting
slightly.

I froze, trying ridiculously in my head to
sort out my feelings, an unfortunate habit from growing up with a
man of pure logic. The kiss would not be entirely unwanted, I knew,
but surely, it would add more anxiety to an already bad situation.
He leaned so close I could feel a feather light brush of his lips
across mine. Then he lifted his face away, and I fell forward
slightly from holding my body rigid with anticipation. Acute
disappointment assured me I wanted it desperately. I was in deep
trouble.

We moved to the sitting room. As I pushed
open the door, Dutch flew out, snarling like a rabid animal and
swiping at the air with his claws.

Strider pushed up flat against the wall as
the cat took a few swats at the legs of his trousers before
skittering off to its hiding place in the kitchen. He peeled
himself off the wall. “That bloody animal is vicious.”

“Dutch doesn’t like anyone,” I lied.

The warm color of the marmalade room did
nothing for the ambient temperature of the small space. Dr. Bennett
rarely paid attention to the hearth, and the fire had died long
ago. “I’ll start the coals,” I said.

Once heat trickled into the room, I left him
there alone while I took the bag of supplies we’d purchased to the
lab. Dr. Bennett was searching for something in the shelves. “Cami,
did you see a bottle of carbolic acid? I was sure I had some. I
will need to use it as a disinfectant.”

I joined in the hunt. There were dozens of
dust covered bottles on the top shelf, most of which bore my
father’s handwriting. I still found it difficult to look at his
writing. Certain mementos brought more pain than others. His
script, with its tight, concise lines brought me back to the days
when I stood with him in his own lab washing slides and labeling
concoctions.

“I found it.” Dr. Bennett lifted a small,
blue bottle from the inside of a carton.

I sat on his stool. “I’m wondering if drawing
blood from Nathaniel might be dangerous.”

“I’ll wear gloves.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about that kind
of danger. He is terribly strong when something has upset him. In
the museum, he hurled two grown men across the room.” I thought
about the incident with the shoe-black where it seemed even the
slightest movement in the wrong direction would have sent the man
with the shined boots to an early grave.