Page 63 of Molly Boys
Edmund barely resisted rolling his eyes. Not because his father wasn’t right, but because he was sick of that voice grating against his ears.
H.E. Baxter & Sons was two steps from being foreclosed on by the bank. The ink company that had been founded by his great-grandfather had been in steady decline for years, slowly edged out by the bigger factories, and his father had resorted to more and more bank loans to keep the business functioning. Harold Baxter became obsessed with the idea of branching out into dyes for the textile industry, but in order for it to be profitable, he needed something new. Something no one else had seen before, which was the task he’d charged Edmund with.
“Science takes time, Father.”
“Time we don’t have.” Harold rounded the worktable to face his son, his anger palpable, almost enough to mask his fear. But Edmund saw it, Edmund saw everything.
“What more do you want from me, Father? I can’t simply will it into existence.”
“What do I want? WHAT DO I WANT?” His voice rose to a crescendo. “I want a son who will help me save our family legacy, not some useless weakling who can barely breathe without a coughing fit.”
Edmund didn’t even flinch; it was the same thing he’d heard since he was a child. It was all anyone saw. Edmund had been a sickly child, even from birth. He’d never been the healthy, robust son and heir his father had yearned for. Instead Edmund had been born too early, too small, so weak the midwife hadn’t expected him to survive.
He had survived.
At six years old, when he’d contracted polio, they’d never expected him to survive.
But he had.
A year later he’d contracted small pox, the disease that had killed his mother and two younger sisters. It had ruined his skin, leaving him scarred and unattractive by society’s standards.
But he’d lived.
It was then he’d known it must have been God’s will, that he had been born for a greater purpose than to pedal ink to his supposed betters. His body was weak, yes, but God had gifted him with an extraordinary intellect in recompense.
“Edmund!” Harold snapped impatiently drawing Edmund’s attention back from his thoughts.
“It’s almost ready, Father,” Edmund said. “It won’t be much longer.”
“You’ve said that before,” Harold snapped. “I had hoped your intelligence might somehow make up for your shortcomings, but my patience is wearing thin.” His eyes were filled with scorn as they swept over the stooped figure of his son. “You’re such a disappointment. Even your sisters would have been more use to me than you, had they lived. They at least would have provided me with sons-in-law and grandchildren. I can’t even marry you off. No one would want you and even if they did, any children you produced would probably be as weak and useless as you are.”
“Then perhaps God is punishing you,” Edmund whispered, unable to keep some of the disdain from leaching into his tone.
The sharp crack reverberated through the silence of the room. Edmund’s head snapped to the side, the skin of his scarred cheek heating beneath his father’s palm print. As he slowly twisted his head back toward his father, his eyes burned with contempt.
“The only punishment is having you for a son,” he hissed. “I can see now where I erred. It was a waste, giving you an education. I allowed you to indulge your interest in the sciences, thinking you would repay my generosity by using that knowledge to better our situation, yet here we are, one step away from ruin.”
“Then perhaps you should let me get back to work,” Edmund said, his voice flat.
Harold curled his lip and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Edmund’s gaze slowly turned in the direction of his father’s departure. Now he was gone Edmund’s mask slipped, showing his utter disgust for the man.
Once again he picked up his satchel, then crossed the room to the sturdy old bookcase holding a mix of powders and chemicals, scientific volumes and treatises. With a glance to the door one last time to make sure it was closed, Edmund slid his fingers along the underside of one of the shelves and toward the back panel. There he found a worn groove.
Slipping the tips of his fingers under the edge, he pulled until he heard a small click. Beside him appeared a concealed entrance. He pulled it open further and scuttled into the dark, narrow passageway, then closed the hidden door behind him and shot the bolt into place.
The passage opened out onto a deep platform which overlooked a vast cavernous room and was edged by metal railings. To his left, a metal staircase spiralled down to the lower floor, and directly in front of him was a square cage suspended on a chain and pulley, much like the kind found in a mine.
Stepping inside carefully as the makeshift elevator swayed, he closed the gate and grasped the crank. Turning it slowly, he lowered it toward the room below until finally, with a clunk and a grind, it hit the flagstone floor. Opening the gate, he made his way out into his real laboratory, not the sham he kept upstairs to placate his father.
Creating a dye to save his father’s pathetic, crumbling empire? He scoffed in derision; it was so beneath Edmund and such a waste of his intellect and talent. The work he was doing down here would change everything.
His father didn’t know about this place. Edmund had stumbled upon it quite by accident. Not only did it have a concealed entrance from the factory, but the lower level also had a passageway leading down to a small hidden dock inside a brick tunnel that opened out into the Thames.
Given that this particular building had been owned by his family for the last century, Edmund could only assume one of his enterprising ancestors had used it for nefarious purposes.
He stopped beside a long table upon which sat an unrolled cloth containing a neat row of silver surgical instruments. Moving several coils of rubber tubing and hypodermic syringes out of the way, he set his satchel on the table and unbuckled the front flap.
Removing a brand new bottle of chloroform he’d purchased from a chemist in Whitechapel, he set it aside and reached back into the satchel. This time he retrieved a small wrapped package. He untied the string and folded back the brown paper to uncover a wooden box. When opened, it revealed a dozen small vials, some filled with liquids, some with powders or roots, and some with dried venomous insects. He’d paid a great deal to have these brought from Asia.