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 like 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 liked it.
He howled and crumpled to the floor, clutching his hand. I dropped the mortar scraper, fully 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, twisted it, and ran into the cold November night.
Six
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 stamped 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 only give me lodgings for 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 showed 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.