A Gentleman and a Scholar by Rebecca Diem

Author:Rebecca Diem
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Woolf Like Me Publishing

Professor Sewell stormed into her makeshift workroom, skirts swishing around her mechanical leg. Clara and Archie followed behind, at a distance of reasonable caution with respect to the esteemed inventor’s state of agitation. Peeking around the doorframe, Clara watched as she turned about the room, stuffing papers and drawings into a large brown satchel. Archie pushed past her to enter the den of the lioness, hands raised in supplication.

“Professor, please, he did not mean what he said.”

He was ignored.

“Professor?”

The woman continued to whirl about the room, gathering her belongings. Charts and quills and tools of measurement, all were thrown together in a jumbled mess. The brass mechanisms of her clockwork limb flashed in the light of the gas lamps. Clara could see the cogs and gears working in perfect, sublime synchronicity as the Professor circled Archie as though he were invisible. Then, he reached out to pluck the sheath of papers from her hand, forcing her to pause.

“Georgie.”

For a half-second, Clara thought her brother was about to be pummeled. Instead, the Professor’s face crumpled and she collapsed into his arms with a sob. At his look of complete shock, Clara believed her brother might have preferred a blow. She mimed for him to comfort the crying woman and he awkwardly patted her head. Throwing her hands up in the air, Clara leaned against the doorjamb to watch the tableau before her. Archie rolled his eyes and half-turned away from her, smoothing the Professor’s hair and murmuring something inaudible as he held her close. After a moment, Professor Sewell pulled away, sniffing and attempting to blot her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Please, excuse me, I—I never—,” she began, “I hate that word. Cripple. I am no cripple. And how dare he—Oh!” Professor Sewell stomped her golden foot and crossed the room to sit in a high-backed chair.

Archie gestured at Clara to assist him in operating the tea-making device, and within minutes the three of them were seated in the midst of the now-messy workspace drinking a steep brew as they waited for the Professor to collect herself. Archie prepared the tea for Georgina—no sugar, a dash of milk—and within a few sips, the distraught woman had visibly relaxed.

“Thank you, Archie. I do hate to lose my temper.”

“And I do hate to see you so distressed.”

“When I was young—,” Professor Sewell started, setting her tea aside. “I loved to dance. My family had a large home in the country and all our neighbours would come to our little soirees. I always begged my father to permit me to stay up past my bedtime and he would graciously oblige—but only for three more dances. The musicians would humour me, drawing out the last song as long as they could, and then I would bid one and all good night. That was before the accident.

“I don’t remember much of it. Rather, I remember the afterwards more than the incident itself. My father was crying; he had tears on his cheeks when I woke up. But he was crying because he was happy, he said.

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