The Armored Doctor (Curiosity Chronicles Book 2)

The Armored Doctor

A steampunk tale of mechanical armor, dangerous spies, and the power of compassion

Curiosity Chronicles, Book Two

Written by Ava Morgan

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www.avamorgan.com

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, dialogue, incidents, and places either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Armored Doctor.

Copyright 2014 by Ava Morgan.

Cover design by For The Muse Designs.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written consent of the author. Piracy is illegal and is in violation of the author’s rights.

To those who never give up working for what they believe in.

The Curiosity Chronicles series is set in a fictional world, similar to what our own past looked like in the 1830s-40s. Yet amid this age of rival empires and steam-driven industry, you are sure to notice a few differences. This series follows the agents and affiliates of the Cabinet of Intellectual Curiosities (COIC), a group of brave men and women from very different walks of life who discover scientific feats, engineering marvels, and that most rewarding of findings, love. Pour yourself a cup of tea, sit back, and enjoy.

November, 1837, London, New Britannia

“Where is Miss Benton?”

Abigail heard the shrill call of the apothecary’s wife all the way from the stock room. She hoisted a crate containing empty medicine bottles as she projected her voice in reply, “I’ll be there in a minute, Mrs. Macklethorpe.”

The floor of the central London apothecary echoed with the clop-clop of stout-heeled shoes before a dour-faced woman launched her matronly form through the stock room doorway. “Why aren’t those bottles stocked? That should have been done this morning.”

“I had to clear the stock area and sweep the floors first.”

“That should have been done the night before. I thought that automaton was supposed to take care of it.” Mrs. Macklethorpe pointed to a windup, self-operating machine in the back corner, crafted to resemble a human in body and facial structure, though made entirely of iron, steel, and brass.

“Our service automaton broke down this morning.” Abigail set the box on a shelf and dusted her hands on her apron.

Mrs. Macklethorpe pressed her plump hands onto her ample hips. “This store runs on the contributions of paying customers. Go to the front counter. Someone could be here any minute.”

Abigail squeezed past the matron and hurried through the store aisles. Behind her, she heard Mrs. Macklethorpe drag a crate across the stock room floor, followed by a relieved sigh as the woman took a seat.
Must be heaven to rest one’s feet every now and then,
she thought.

Abigail had little rest since becoming a shop assistant last spring. After her older sister Catherine said she was no longer welcome to live with her and her family in west London, she was forced to accept whatever respectable work was offered in the city. She learned fast that being a spinster of thirty, with no other surviving family or inheritance, left her with very few options for employment.

Still, she thanked divine providence that she had a job. She could accept her lot…if only her sister were willing to make amends and allow her to visit her niece and nephew once in a while.

Abigail arrived at the front of the store, where she helped an elderly couple find a tisane for insomnia. Mrs. Macklethorpe came from the stock room after they left. “I’m going across the street on an errand. Keep to the front counter and don’t let those dirty little street urchins in. Last time they stole the ginger chews.”

The bells on the door sent Mrs. Macklethorpe off. No sooner did Abigail begin straightening the counter did the bells jingle again.

“Aunt Abigail.” A snub-nosed, curly-haired boy burst in.

“Phillip?” Shocked to see her nephew standing before her, Abigail left the counter and went to him. “What are you doing out of school?”

He averted his eyes, looking at the licorice below the counter. “Headmistress Cummings said I could go.”

She frowned at the ten year-old, knowingly. “Are you being truant again?”

“No.” Phillip bit his lip. “I’ve been let out of the academy.”

“Let out? What did you do?”

He didn’t answer.

Abigail would have none of his stalling. “Phillip Evancourt, what did you do?”

“Miss Hinkley, the music instructor, found a dead mouse in her piano.”

Abigail’s jaw slackened. “Phillip, if your parents knew—”

“You can’t tell them.”

“I have to. How did you leave the school grounds unseen?”

“I snuck out when the dormitory monitors traded shifts. Are you still going to tell mum and father?”

“Yes. Is your sister still at the academy?”

Sulking, he stared at the floor. “She’s outside.”

Abigail looked out the shop window and saw a little girl’s freckled face staring in. She motioned for the girl to come inside. When Phillip’s sister trudged into the store, stockings filthy with street grime, hair ribbons askew, she addressed the eight year-old. “Winnie, did you help your brother frighten Miss Hinkley with that mouse?”

“Yes’m,” Winnie squeaked like one.

“Headmistress Cummings didn’t release her from the academy.” Phillip defended his little sister.

“But I don’t want to be in that academy without my brother.” Winnie stamped her foot, sending dirt on the recently-mopped floor.

Abigail sighed. They certainly got their stubbornness from the Benton side of the family. “I’ll take you both to your mother so she can straighten this out.”

“Mum and father are in Switzerland,” Phillip revealed. “They won’t be back for a week.”

“I forgot your parents leave for Switzerland this time of year.”

Winnie played with the dirt that fell from her shoe. “Can’t we stay here with you, Auntie Abigail? We miss you telling us stories about your travels in India.”

Abigail’s heart ached. Aside from the children’s rare visits to the apothecary to buy candy, she never got to spend more than a few minutes with them before her sister whisked them off. “I miss you and Phillip, too, Winnie, but this…this is how things must be.”

The bells on the door clanged, making her jump. A most remarkable gentleman entered. Tall, of lean build, he let the door bang shut behind him as he marched to the front counter with his ivory-handled walking stick tapping the floor in rhythmic urgency. The tail of his navy blue military-style jacket flailed behind him as his pale blond, straight hair came to settle about his strong shoulders. His eyes were concealed by a pair of spectacles with dark lenses.

Abigail herded the children off to the side. “May I help you, sir?”

His cane tapped on the floor one more time as he removed his spectacles. Piercing, ice blue eyes met hers. “Doctor Jacob Valerian. I’m here to pick up an order.”

Winnie peered around Abigail’s arm. “Are you a soldier?”

“I was once,” he spoke kindly to her.

Phillip peered around her other arm. “Silly Winnie. That’s just his coat style. Soldiers don’t use walking sticks.”

Dr. Valerian quirked an eyebrow. Phillip silenced immediately.

Abigail was mortified at their outbursts. “I deeply apologize for the children, Doctor. Let me see if your order is in the stock room. Excuse us.” She took Winnie and Phillip each by the shoulder and led them away.

“His hair’s quite long for a gent, isn’t it?” Phillip remarked, once they were in the stock room. “Father says he hates how some men at the bank do the same with theirs.”

“Never you mind, Phillip.” Abigail turned two empty crates upside down for the children to sit where she could see them from the doorway. Everything was kept under lock and key in the stock room, save for empty storage containers. Surely they would be safe here for the time it would take to wait on Dr. Valerian. “I will return. Don’t touch anything.”

She rummaged through the stock room’s bin of special orders before locking it and going back to the counter. Dr. Valerian hadn’t moved, his posture arrow-straight. She faced him, taking note of his features. The elegant bone structure of his face, combined with his unique silver-blond hair and blue eyes, gave him an attractive, almost otherworldly quality. “Doctor, I didn’t see an order in the stock room with your name on it.”

“You must not have looked hard enough. I sent a written request for the order eight days ago. Mr. Macklethorpe replied that it would be ready this week. Is he on the premises?”

Abigail bristled at his terse, dismissive tone. “Mr. Macklethorpe made a personal delivery to a client in Hyde Park Corner. He should be back any moment.”

“I don’t have time to wait. My lecture is at two o’clock and I need the contents of that order.” He withdrew a timepiece from his waistcoat and flipped open the case before clicking it shut again.

Why did doctors frequently act as though they were the only ones whose time was precious? Abigail didn’t remember her father ever rushing his patients or acting like he was in a hurry. But then, he had also been a missionary. The caring he administered went far beyond prescribing remedies for physical ailments. God rest his soul.

Abigail sought to emulate her father’s patience in her current situation. “Perhaps I can find your order if you tell me what it is.”

The doctor’s blue gaze washed over her, leaving her slightly intimidated by his cool regard and yet oddly invigorated at the same time. She saw that a faint scar crossed over the area of his left eye. “The order consists of a bottle of antiseptic, two bottles of laudanum, a canister of nitrous oxide, and an ether solvent.”

A strange mix. Mr. Macklethorpe sometimes received questionable orders from clients, but this one was particularly striking. Antiseptic was used to cleanse wounds. Laudanum was used to dull pain. But what did Dr. Valerian intend to do with the nitrous oxide and mysterious ether solvent? Together, those items could hardly be considered medicinal.

“You seem perturbed.” He observed her with that inscrutable gaze.

Abigail looked away, glancing at Phillip and Winnie before turning to him again. “No, I was thinking about your order.”

“Well, I should hope so.”

She gave a small chuckle. He cleared his throat. Of course he didn’t consider that a joke. She straightened. “What I mean is, my father was a doctor, and I don’t recall him using the four ingredients you mentioned together. And certainly not the ether solvent. What do you intend to use them for?”

He lifted that pale eyebrow again. Why was his hair such an unusual color? He appeared to be close in age to her. His face had no lines, save for one that creased over the bridge of his straight nose when he frowned. “Your father was a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“And what was he a doctor of?”

“He specialized in maladies of the vascular system, but he treated patients for different illnesses when we were stationed in India.”

A change came over Dr. Valerian when she mentioned the country, as though it pained him to hear its name. “India?” And even more so to utter it.

“Yes, my family and I were missionaries. Just a moment. I see several orders below the counter here.” She checked the names on the neatly wrapped parcels that sat on the shelf. “Ah, here it is. Dr. J. Valerian.”

She placed the fairly heavy box on the countertop, but Dr. Valerian was more interested in studying her than verifying his parcel. Abigail took a step back from him, even though the counter provided a barrier. No man stared at her like that, as though she was of deep and profound interest.

She nodded at the parcel. “The tag indicates that payment was made in advance. There is a six pence holding fee for special orders.” Seeing as how he still stared, she added, “Dr. Valerian, I apologize if my remarks about my father or India somehow upset you.” But why did they? She had simply responded to his inquiry.

“You asked me what I intended to do with the items I ordered.” He tucked his walking stick in the crook of his arm and reached in his coat pocket for money.

“It was somewhat bold of me, but I meant no harm. I just assumed that as a doctor, you would be using them on patients.”

“And you thought to warn me against using the nitrous oxide or the ether solvent?”

She merely looked at him, embarrassed by her obviousness.

“Assumption without strong basis is practically useless. And assumption in a place of business can be disastrous, especially if you wish to retain paying customers.” He set the money on the counter and took the parcel. “You may tell your employer that I’ll be sure to place my order with a different apothecary next time.”