Darke London Read Online Free PDF

Opaque portraits of long-dead ancestors peered down at them from the walls. Thick velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing a rambling, frostbitten garden beyond.
    When Mrs. Tibbet set a platter of beef rib roast on the table, Nellie stared in surprise, but Julian appeared quite unperturbed. “Thank you, Mrs. Tibbet.” He waited until the housekeeper had departed before addressing Nellie. “As I said, Mrs. Tibbet becomes confused about certain matters, especially when it comes to meal times. We are just as likely to get roast pork for breakfast as we are bacon and eggs, and similarly so at dinner.”
    Mrs. Tibbet returned with roast potatoes, stuffed onions and gravy. Julian carved some beef for Nellie and passed her the plate. She could eat only a few bites of meat and potato, her stomach rebelling against the rich fare. Fortunately, the housekeeper had also provided a pot of tea, and she poured herself a large, reviving cup.
    “Do you come from a long line of doctors?” she asked, tilting her head towards the portraits on the wall.
    Julian blinked at the paintings as if seeing them for the first time. “No indeed. Most of those men were wily aldermen and councillors. The Darkes rose to prominence during the Civil War. A tricky time for staking allegiances, but the Darkes managing to alter tack as the prevailing winds changed, so to speak.” He paused, an odd look on his face. “Perhaps I should clarify that my father adopted me when I was just a babe, so I’m a Darke by name, but not by birth.”
    “Oh.” Not knowing quite how to respond, she found herself blurting out, “My father is a doctor too.”
    “Your father?” Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t heard you mention him before. Will he not be anxious about you? Do you wish to send him a message?”
    Flustered, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Er, no, that would only cause unnecessary alarm. I—he lives in the Midlands, you see, and knows nothing about—about me being in London.”
    And even if he did, he wouldn’t care, except to curse her for deserting him. Once, he’d been a kind enough parent, but after her mother’s death he’d retreated, gradually losing himself in a haze of opiates, until there was nothing left of him except a bitter, selfish husk. No, she could never return to him or that life.
    “Is there anyone else you wish to contact?” Julian asked. “Anyone else who might be concerned about you?”
    This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her, and just like before she shook her head. She couldn’t contact Pip. Not yet. A part of her longed to think Pip would be distraught over her sudden disappearance, but that was the romantic fool in her. She had to be sure of her facts before she revealed herself to him. And besides, there was another, far more primitive, reason for her reluctance. Of their own volition her fingers strayed to her cheeks and traced the bumpy outline of her cicatrix. How would Pip react to her flawed face, her disfigured hand? He used to call her his buttercup, his sweet pea. But what would he call her now—goblin, troll?
    With a shiver she balled her napkin in her lap. “No, there is no one.”
    “You’re recently arrived in London then?” Across the table Julian’s expression softened. He had beautiful eyes, dark, almond-shaped, fringed by thick lashes. And he gazed upon her without the slightest trace of revulsion, in fact, almost the opposite, as if he enjoyed looking at her. But then, he was a doctor, and she was his patient. No doubt he was only admiring his handiwork.
    Again she nodded. “I, er, have been looking for work. I’ve some experience as a nurse.” Pip had objected to the idea. Even though they were living in penury, he couldn’t countenance the thought of her labouring for a wage.
    “I suppose you assisted your father with his patients?”
    “As much as I could.” Increasingly her father had come to rely on her. The governors of the asylum were none too particular