by Anthea Sharp
Inhale. Smile. Everything is perfectly fine.
Except that a strange, whining hum was issuing from the vicinity of the bride.
Cerise glanced about, her smile fading. Arun bent his head, and even the priest’s doughy face assumed an expression of concern.
A series of bright flashes and brief, small pops issued from the billowing stardust of the wedding gown, followed by the acrid smell of overheated nanos. Letting out a shriek, Cerise beat at her smoking skirts. Arun whipped off his coat and leaped to her side. He enveloped the malfunctioning dress, pulling the fabric away from his bride.
Voices raised, questions echoing, sibilant in the soaring space beneath the silence. Belinda rose and hurried to her daughter’s side. Ceremony be damned.
“Are you unharmed?” she asked, taking Cerise’s arm.
“I’m all right. It was just the dress shorting out. Don’t fret, Mother.”
“But—”
“Are you sure?” Colin asked, joining them.
“Yes, yes.” Cerise said. “Sit back down. The ceremony is almost over, and I intend to walk out of this church a married woman.” She gave her groom a warm look.
Despite Belinda’s reluctance, Colin took her elbow and guided her back to the front pew. The audience continued to whisper, to watch with avid eyes.
Belinda sat. The heat of failure started at the soles of her feet and crawled up her entire body. Surely everyone could see her mortified trembling, the flush she could feel staining her skin.
How could this have happened? How, when she had taken such care over every single detail of the wedding?
“Ladies. Gentlemen.” The priest held up his hands, palms out. “The bride is unhurt. The ceremony will continue. Please, quiet yourselves.”
It did not take long to reach the kiss. Belinda could hardly watch, could barely look at Cerise in her broken dress, Arun in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. This was wrong, all wrong!
Still, there was a joyous exuberance in their kiss she could not deny. It went too long for propriety’s sake, but after such a mishap, surely they could not be blamed.
The quartet struck up a triumphant march, and the audience rose as the newly-pronounced husband and wife turned to face them.
Cerise looked radiant, despite the singed skirts awkwardly bundled in her hands. And the look Arun gave his new bride…
Belinda’s throat tightened, and not with fear this time. Perhaps, just perhaps, marriage would agree with her daughter.
Applause filled the air like sweet rain as the newlyweds recessed back down the aisle, followed by the priest. The stained-glass colors seemed to brighten as Cerise and Arun walked through, rainbows clinging to them.
Colin offered his arm, but Belinda paused.
She turned to face her husband. A wildness reared up inside her, dark and heady—stirred by the Infinitude still resonating through her. Despair. And hope.
In one quick, decisive movement, she stripped the Montfort Ruby from her finger.
“Here,” she said, thrusting it toward the hard, handsome features of Lord Montfort. “Take it. I will be seeking a divorce. Expect to hear shortly from my solicitor.”
He stood very still for an instant. Behind him, That Woman’s eyes widened.
“Mother?” Colin said in an undertone. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
She did not, and the freedom of it made her giddy. She kept her hand outstretched, the ruby glittering like a drop of blood at her fingertips.
Finally, Lord Montfort took it, his eyes hooded. Belinda stepped back. She found, shockingly, that she did not care that the occupants of the nearby pews were abuzz with what they had just witnessed. She did not care what the gossip rags would say, or what happened to the Montfort Ruby. It was off her finger. At last.
“You have two days,” he said, his voice cold, “to remove your possessions from my home.”
“I only need one.” A strange, singing jubilation filled her blood.
“Goodbye, Belinda.” He gave her the barest inclination of his head, then strode off.
That Woman followed. She did not meet Belinda’s gaze, but color lay high on her round cheeks.
“Mother?” Colin set his hand on her shoulder. “You know my lodgings are small, but you are welcome to stay with me.”
“Thank you. But I believe I will make other plans.” What they would be, she could not say, but the heady, exultant freedom of possibility made her feel giddy. “Go along. I see Miss Tate waiting.”
The tips of Colin’s ears flushed. “I’m happy to stay with you.”
“No need.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I am well. Indeed, I believe I am better than I have been in decades.”
“If you’re certain…” He glanced to the back of the cathedral where Miss Tate hovered, clearly waiting for him without trying to look obvious.
“I am.”
The church emptied out quickly. No doubt the cream of Society could hardly wait to jet back to Earth and dissect this newest scandal. Viscountess Montfort giving back her wedding ring—at her own daughter’s wedding! It was deliciously appalling.
The altar boys came up and snuffed out the candles.
Still, the musicians played, the glorious phrases sifting up through the color-limned dust. Belinda closed her eyes, letting her heart unwind and unwind. When the quartet held the final chord, she smiled.
She opened her eyes and walked up the three steps to where the musicians sat. The others were already packing up their instruments, but Robert stood, holding the neck of his cello and watching her approach.
There was a light in his blue eyes that she remembered, a spark of joy she had never seen in Lord Montfort. A spark she had nearly forgotten she knew how to recognize.
“Robert,” she said.
“Belinda. Are you still playing?”
“I am,” she said, and her soul untwisted a fraction more. “Although it has been some time…”
He nodded. “I understand. Here, let me give you my card.”
She followed him over to his cello case, where he tucked the instrument away with the same sweet, gentle hands she remembered. He closed the case, then handed her an embossed calling card: Robert Huntington, Cellist, Fourteen Darington Street. She rubbed it lightly, feeling the letters under her fingers.
“Are you…that is…” He cleared his throat. “Would you be free to join me for dinner some evening? If not, it’s perfectly—”
“Yes. I would love to.”
“Well then.” The grin she still remembered lit his face, the dimple carving into his left cheek.
She wanted to set her finger in that indentation, then trail it across his lower lip. She wanted to put her lips there, taste his mouth with her own. Heat curled in her belly, pulled sweetly through her skin. Desire—she scarcely recalled how it felt.
“Good.” He reached, took her hand. “Bring your violin along, and we’ll see how much of the Infinitude we still remember.”
“It’s been a very long time,” she said.
“I know. But I don’t think it’s ever too late. Do you?”
Once she would have thought so. Even earlier today, fear and anxiety knotting through her, she could not have believed differently.
Yet a single melody, and this catastrophe of a wedding, had unlocked the door of her future.
Belinda pulled in a deep breath, tasting doused flames and sweet dust. Robert’s hand gripped hers warmly.
She looked up into his eyes, not needing promises, only possibilities.
“It’s not too late,” she said, and smiled.
~*~
The Clockwork Harp
Miss Eleanora Thomas was not fond of the new instrument her mother had proudly installed in the drawing room three days earlier. It stood, a strange marriage of wood and metal, in the center of the plush Turkish carpet, directly in front of the bow window, where the harpsichord had used to reside.
Eleanora sat with her mother, Lady Thomas, on the plushl
y upholstered davenport, going over the day’s correspondence. There were the usual invitations to parties and balls, all of which Eleanora was expected to attend. She would rather continue working on the new clockwork butterfly she was constructing than be paraded about on the Spring Season marriage mart, but as the eligible daughter of a viscount, she had little choice in the matter.
“Well!” Her mother held up a note decorated with scrollwork. “The Eldwins are holding a ball to celebrate their daughter Anne’s engagement next week. We shall attend, of course.”
An odd, barely audible hum emanated from the soundbox of the harp. Eleanora glanced at her mother, but Lady Thomas seemed too engrossed in perusing her letters to notice the faint shimmer of sound.
Still, Eleanora slid a trifle closer to her mother and gave the instrument a sidelong look. The harp itself was unobjectionable. It was made of wood with gilt embellishments, strung with gut, and had a very pretty curve at the top. The ornately carved pillar was nearly as tall as Eleanora, who was admittedly on the petite side.
“So sad, about the younger sister,” Lady Thomas continued. “But it’s good to see families moving on. After an appropriate mourning period, of course.”
The harp emitted another low sigh.
“Did you hear that?” Eleanora asked.
“I think you ought to wear your new gown,” her mother said. “The one with the lifters. The style is all the rage, ever since the queen debuted it. Perhaps it will help you catch the eye of a worthy gentleman.”
Eleanora was not particularly interested in catching the eye of a worthy gentleman. She suspected the unworthy ones were far more interesting. Sadly, at the advanced age of eighteen, she had little experience with members of the opposite sex, besides dancing and making desultory conversation with them. The things that truly interested her were not suitable topics for a young lady of good breeding.
Her parents, of course, did not know of her work. They thought the hours she spent in her room were passed in reading and painting watercolors of flowers, when in fact the watercolors were dashed out as quickly as possible so that she might fashion miniature clockwork creatures. Some day, perhaps, she would have a shop of her own, and a spacious workshop where she could construct all manner of fascinating things.
But not yet.
With an inaudible sigh, Eleanora turned her attention away from her impractical dreams and back to the harp.
She did not like the clockwork mechanism that had been attached to the instrument in order for it to play alone. It was an ungainly, spiderlike contraption folded beneath the harp. When wound with the large brass key, dozens of thin metal appendages would deploy. Each one was tipped with a tiny hook to pluck the string, and their striking put Eleanora in mind of an army of scorpions, stinging the music to life.
It was strange that she should find the mechanics so unsettling, for normally she was fascinated by clockworks. But there was something about the underbody of the harp that she disliked, beyond all reason.
She was glad when Lady Thomas declared them finished, giving Eleanora leave to adjourn from the drawing room. And despite the fact that her mother brushed her fancies aside, Eleanora thought there was something unnatural about the harp.
* * *
After midnight, the Thomas’s townhouse lay still and slumbering. Eleanora woke, her mouth dry. Moving by feel, she went to the table where the water pitcher stood, but when she lifted it, she could tell it was empty. Drat it.
There was nothing for it but go down to the kitchen and fetch herself a glass of water. Her mother might insist on ringing for a maid, but Eleanora did not want to wake a sleepy serving girl from her well-earned rest. Then there would be two of them unhappily awake in the middle of the night, instead of just one.
Eleanora drew on her oriental silk wrapper, conveniently hung over the foot of her bed, and felt about for her lambskin slippers. When she could only locate one, she slid to her bedside table. She did not like the stink of sulfur matches, but even more she did not relish the thought of the cold kitchen flagstones under her bare feet.
The match flared, stinging her eyes with light and fumes. She quickly lit the candle in its holder and blew the match out. Her wayward slipper peeked out from the far corner of the bed, and with a sigh she retrieved it, picked up the candle, and slipped out into the hallway.
The flame sent eerie shadows dancing over the walls, and the air was cool and clammy. Drawing her wrapper closed with one hand, she hastened down the hall.
At the top of the staircase, she halted. Something was amiss. Holding her breath, she listened. Soft music drifted up from the drawing room.
Could one of the servants be awake, amusing themselves with playing?
It was a comforting notion, but the cold shiver along her spine told her otherwise. Especially as the plaintive notes were clearly the sound of a harp.
Pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, Eleanora crept down the stairs. She did not want to look into the drawing room—but she must. As she drew closer, she could almost make out the melody. Another step closer. Another.
The music stopped. Eleanora forced herself to hurry to the open door of the room. She lifted her candle, hoping to catch whoever was playing.
Moonlight shone in through the bow window, bathing the harp in silver and shadow. The room was empty, except for the shapes of the pianoforte and harpsichord, the guitar in its stand, and the mandolin hung upon the wall. No servant girl leapt up, stammering apologies. No restless denizen of the house was present at all.
Swallowing the acrid taste of fear, Eleanora went over to the harp. She could not bring herself to touch it, but bent to study the mechanism. How could it have played, with no one to wind it?
It was possible the clockwork had not fully unwound from the last time her mother had demonstrated the mechanical harp to her admiring friends. Yet Eleanora distinctly recalled the music coming to a normal conclusion, ending with a ringing chord and the applause of the listeners.
She shivered and backed away, unwilling to take her gaze from the harp. Reaching the doorway, she slipped behind the shelter of the wall and took a deep breath.
It was only a midnight fancy; some melody lodged in her head that she had imagined hearing. That was all.
Mouth dry as parchment, she went to the sink and poured herself a cup of water. Through the windows, she could see the gaslights from the main avenue shining fitfully through the hedges. Overhead, the lit form of an airship drifted high above the London streets, blurred by fog into an elongated moon.
Certainly the clockwork had malfunctioned. Sometime in the next few days she would have the opportunity to examine it. Lord Thomas was away at Parliament most afternoons, and Lady Thomas would no doubt have some small social engagement Eleanora could beg off attending.
Young ladies of Quality were not taught to sully their hands with manual labor, and certainly not with grease and gadgets. But Eleanora had always had a fascination for the mechanical. She’d dismantled any number of her toys when she was a child, trying to determine what animated her clockwork animals and steam-driven calliope.
Her nurse had discouraged her, and hidden the broken evidence from Viscount Thomas.
“But what makes them go?” Eleanora remembered asking. “Have they a soul, like people do? Or are we clockwork inside, too?”
At that thought, she’d set her hand to her chest, wondering if she felt the whirring of gears or pumping of a steam engine. She had been told her heart resided beneath her ribs, but what, she wondered, powered it?
“They are just machines, and not for you to concern yourself over,” Nurse had said, stuffing the remains of an eviscerated metal canary into the bottom of the rubbish bin. “Now, enough of this nonsense. If his lordship finds out, I’ll be let go. And who will bury your toys then, miss?”
Eleanora had learned to keep her tinkering where her father could not see, but she had been delighted to find out there were people who studied such things.
�
��I would like to be an engineer,” she’d announced at dinner one night, at the unfortunately innocent age of ten.
“What has that governess been teaching her?” Lord Thomas had said, setting his fork down with a clatter. “I’ll have her removed immediately. Do endeavor to find her a more proper companion next time, Lady Thomas. If such a thing is within your capacity.”
“Yes, dear,” Lady Thomas had said, bending her head in acquiescence—but not before shooting Eleanora a look full of dire warning.
And so, sweetly indulgent Miss Tanager had been replaced by strict and stern Mrs. Corbin, and Eleanora closed her mouth, keeping her dreams and desires to herself.
For the next several years she’d comported herself like a lady—at least in public. At sixteen, she made her debut before the queen, and quickly learned how to make empty, convivial conversation at balls and parties.
In the last two years, however, she’d begun slipping out with only her maid in attendance and poking through the shops in the more questionable quarters of London. She loved the sooty, narrow streets where the clockmakers and steam engineers plied their trades, and the air was filled with whirring and buzzing and gouts of white, moist air.
It was there she had taken her pocket money and bought her first set of spanners. Later visits saw her returning home with gears and bits of bronze and copper wire concealed in her reticule. Her maid was loyal, and never said anything to Lord and Lady Thomas. Likely the woman knew she’d be summarily dismissed for not keeping Eleanora away from such places.
As if Eleanora would let anyone dissuade her from her passion.
The chill of the flagstones seeped through the soles of her slippers. She set her empty glass on the kitchen’s wooden table and steadied herself for the journey back to her bedroom.
The downstairs remained silent except for the soft brush of her footsteps. She held her breath, her pulse accelerating as she approached the drawing room. Nothing stirred, no trickle of melody wended into the air. Still, the back of her neck prickled as she hurried past the open doorway. She did not feel safe until she had closed the door of her room behind her and turned the key, locking the door with a satisfactory thunk.