Boston Metaphysical Society
A Storm of Secrets
Madeleine Holly-Rosing
Brass-T Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright © 2018 Madeleine Holly-Rosing
Published by Brass-T- Publishing
First Edition 2018
All rights reserved.
Print ISBN: 978-0-9964292-5-2
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9964292-6-9
Cover Art by Luisa Preissler
Title Graphics by Anke Koopman
Interior Map by Vandel J. Arden
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Dedication
Introduction
Foreword
1872 Map of Boston
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY MADELEINE HOLLY-ROSING
Dedication
This book would not be possible without
the support of the fans of Boston Metaphysical Society.
Special thanks to my beta readers James Boyd and Dover Whitecliff,
and to my editor, Leslie Peterson.
And a very special thanks to my husband, David, who has
believed in this project since the beginning.
Introduction
This is an American story.
It is a story about the men and women in American society who had no voice, but still dream the American dream. It is about you and me, and where our society came from and perhaps where we are going. This is an American story told through the lens of the privileged, the persecuted, and those who walk between those worlds.
Boston Metaphysical Society began with a script called Stargazer which I entered into the Sloan Fellowship competition while I was working towards my MFA in screenwriting at UCLA. The story was about a Scottish-American woman by the name of Mina Fleming who arrived in Boston pregnant, penniless, and abandoned by her husband in the late 1800s. She was hired as a maid to work in the house of the director of the Harvard observatory. Later, she became one of his female computers and eventually discovered over 10,000 stars and developed a new stellar classification system. (And yes, they were called female computers.)
I was thrilled when I won the fellowship, but what I didn’t realize then was that I now had the foundation for what was going to become Boston Metaphysical Society. I had no idea what was in store for me. It began as a TV pilot, then became a six issue graphic novel mini-series. While we were in production for the comic, I also wrote a series of short stories and novellas to dig deeper into the world.
It soon became obvious that the next step was to write novels which further explored this world, while continuing the comic as standalone stories. Many of the characters in my novella, Steampunk Rat, and the short sequential art story, Hunter-Killer, (which is part of the graphic novel trade paperback,) will be featured in my next series of novels about the House Wars, which is my version of the American Civil War.
This novel, A Storm of Secrets, is the first Boston Metaphysical Society novel. It takes place five years before the start of the original graphic novel series.
Welcome to the Great States of America and a Boston that never was, but could have been.
Madeleine Holly-Rosing ~ 2018
Foreword
Steampunk, the “Future That Never Was”, has many forms of expression, from books to artwork to fashion to philosophy. The steampunk community which creates all those fantastic items is just as diverse, incorporating a variety of media, perspectives, and experience. The authors, artists and other creators draw on the rich global history and cultures from the nineteenth century, adding in their personal, modern day interpretation to create something new but still a bit familiar.
Creativity is a hallmark factor of steampunk, motivated, in part, by the wide range of outlook and awareness in the community. There is a constant and ever-changing juxtaposition of ideas which drives the innovation of the aesthetic and narratives, and proposes a response to the unfamiliar, and possibly the uncomfortable, with “Well, why not?”
Steampunk stories, while entertaining, can be educational, including revealing the histories not taught in schools, and exploring how ‘what might have been’ can be used as ‘what can be done now’. They can champion the value of individual actions when challenged by adversity, and exemplify the benefits of integrity and dignity. They teach us how to look inward at ourselves and outward at society in order to better understand the common ground which unites us and the issues which can be overcome before they divide us. They can show that “Us” and “Them” may just be reflections seen in a mirror.
The broad appeal of steampunk to its participants is partly due to that use of knowledge in new combinations, and the resulting possibilities. From ages eight to eighty, and from every corner of the world, steampunks share their history, culture, and most importantly, ideas. We grow as individuals when we collaborate together by extending our knowledge, expanding our frame of reference, and engaging our imagination.
As the creator and editor of the steampunk news and information website, Airship Ambassador, I’m constantly reading and searching for content to share. Boston Metaphysical Society appealed to me instantly when I came across it. In the steampunk checklist, it had historic people, anachronistic technology, prevailing scientific and paranormal theories of the time, and engaging ideals and philosophies which were not popularly adopted in the 1800s. It confronts some of the realities of those days, and uses it well to tell a gripping story.
Madeleine Holly-Rosing has crafted a captivating alternate history world which I have enjoyed again and again in each new publication. With science, action, history, and more wrapped around compelling characters and their peculiar circumstances, this is certainly a gift for your imagination.
Happy reading.
Kevin Steil
Airship Ambassador ~ 2018
1
“I’d rather face a firing squad,” Samuel Hunter announced with all the sarcasm he could muster as he gazed down the gangplank and cringed. It looked as though all of Boston had arrived to watch him and his wife, Elizabeth, disembark the Hermera. If he appeared the least bit awkward, the gossip mongers would skewer him both publicly and privately. He was, after all, now the husband of the heir to House Weldsmore and they were disembarking a Crystal Class passenger steamship built and owned by her father, Jonathan Weldsmore.
“Stop acting so silly,” Elizabeth replied as she peered up at him from under her black silk hat with a brim just wide enough to shield her eyes from the sun.
On the dock, dozens of Bostonians waved and cheered as t
hey waited for the other passengers, but moved aside when Samuel and Elizabeth walked through the crowd. A few women curtsied when Elizabeth stopped to greet them, ogling her magenta silk brocade ensemble with gold filigree woven throughout the corset and half jacket. Though he loved his wife with all his heart, Samuel was appalled when people treated her like royalty. And this wasn’t the first time. It had been a weekly occurrence in almost every major city in Europe they’d visited during their honeymoon.
A Middle District man, Samuel had been astounded when the “real” royalty fawned over her and attempted to bribe him because they thought he had Jonathan’s ear. When they learned he was useless to them, he was shunted aside.
“Elizabeth,” he called to her. “The car will be waiting.”
She said her goodbyes and moved out ahead of him.
Samuel followed but not before he tugged at his long dark-brown woolen coat with two copper strands woven into the lapel. He had to make sure no one saw the gun in his shoulder holster. No need to alarm anyone. Though Elizabeth was safe on her father’s premier ship and the docks, his old Pinkerton habits were hard to break.
An older woman gave Elizabeth a variegated violet rose as they wound their way through the throng. Elizabeth patted the woman’s hand and smiled. Her butterfly-shaped fascinator of silver and copper filaments accented with pearls glittered in the sunlight as she waved goodbye. Most waved back in adulation. Elizabeth Weldsmore Hunter was not only well loved for her generous philanthropy, but defined fashion among the Great Houses on the East Coast as well.
A midnight-blue steam-powered car with silver trim chugged toward him. Polished to a high sheen, it sparkled when the sun hit it at the right angle. As it slowed, a rush of steam poured out the exhaust pipe. Brendan, the chauffeur, stopped before any toes were crushed then hopped out to assist them. Two Weldsmore guardsmen in long silver coats trimmed in copper with the emblem of House Weldsmore—a sailing ship with three masts—embroidered on the upper left side of the chest flanked the car. Both of them peered into the throng of people as if expecting the worst.
“Brendan! I’m so happy to see you!” Elizabeth gushed.
A stocky man with graying hair, he gave her a short bow as he opened the back door of the car for them. “Always a pleasure, miss. I mean Mrs. Hunter,” he replied with a hint of an Irish lilt. He nodded at Samuel. “Geoffrey is picking up your trunks.”
As Elizabeth got into the car, Samuel noticed dark circles under Brendan’s eyes and tension in his face. “I hope all is well with you.”
“Nothing for you to worry about, sir,” the chauffeur replied with a stiff smile.
“Brendan?” Samuel raised an eyebrow at him, not believing a word he said.
“Let’s just say Mr. Weldsmore is a happier man when Mrs. Hunter is present.”
“Well, he and you can come visit us after we find our new home.” Samuel made a mental note to talk to him in private later as he stepped into the car.
“Yes, sir.”
One guardsman sat in the front with Brendan while the other entered another car that followed behind them.
After negotiating the crowd, the trip back to House Weldsmore would take about thirty minutes. Brendan took a slight detour up Tremont so they could drive through the park and avoid the cobblestone streets. Elizabeth had rolled down the front windows to let the air in. She gazed out the back, noting the various changes that had occurred over the past year. How the trees were taller, the flowers more vibrant, even the streets cleaner. Samuel only had eyes for her.
“I want to expand my philanthropic work, like my mother did. Perhaps plant a new garden in the park for the school children. A new wing at the hospital. Or even something on the South Side,” she commented, rubbing a smudge off the window.
Samuel chuckled. “South Side? I think your father will have an opinion on that.”
“My father has an opinion on everything.”
She sat back in the seat, took his hand, and squeezed it. “You know I haven’t had any visions for a whole year. I think the honeymoon may have had something to do with it,” she said with a lowered voice as she snuggled closer.
“Honeymoons are good.” He grinned. “We should do one every year.”
Her face lighted up in joy. “That’s a wonderful idea.” Her eyes then narrowed as she pondered the idea. Samuel loved watching her plan. “One month out of every year, we shall go on a honeymoon. Away from Father, the business, everything,” she announced.
“I particularly like the part about being away from your father. Which reminds me, you’ve put off deciding where we’re going to live long enough.” Samuel remarked. “We could find a house near Beacon Hill in the Middle District.”
Elizabeth turned to gaze out the window again. “I’m tired of talking about that. We can decide all that later.”
“You keep saying that, but—”
She gasped.
“What is it?” He leaned forward to see what had upset her. She pointed out the window.
The police were cutting down the effigy of a man hanging from an elm tree with the words Great Houses painted on it. Nearby, a small group of protesters were being arrested.
“Oh, hell,” Samuel muttered under his breath. “Someone will pay for this.”
“I don’t understand. We help them.”
“Elizabeth, you’ve seen the dark side of this city in your visions. Not everyone believes in the benevolence of the Great Houses. Not even you.”
The childlike enthusiasm vanished as the mature and sometimes troubled woman returned. “I know.”
He had met Elizabeth when Jonathan Weldsmore hired him to be his daughter’s body guard. They’d been returning from a social event when Elizabeth had fallen asleep in the car and had a vision of them being attacked. When she awoke, she’d realized the attack was imminent and warned him. The men were swift and brutal, but Samuel’s Pinkerton training had paid off and he’d killed all of them with only their driver being injured. When Jonathan had learned that Samuel now knew Elizabeth’s secret, he had threatened to shoot the former Pinkerton detective.
A bang against the window surprised them both. Samuel reached for his gun when he saw an elderly Irishman with rheumy eyes and rotting teeth beating on the window next to him, screaming, “You be the one! You be the one!”
The car jerked to a stop, and the Weldsmore guardsman leapt out, dragging the man away.
The anguish and madness in the man’s eyes tugged at a memory Samuel had kept at bay during his honeymoon. A speck of inky darkness bloomed in his vision. It wormed its way into his subconscious, chipping away at his self-confidence. Samuel could swear it was alive and had an intelligence of its own. Sometimes he imagined it called his name, luring him deeper into despair. Samuel refused to let that happen and squeezed his eyes shut.
“No! You will not control me!” he muttered.
A hand touched his shoulder. “Samuel? What’s wrong? Is it happening again?”
He opened his eyes to see his wife, Elizabeth, staring at him with worry etched on her face. He reached out and caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers.
“I’m fine now.”
She gave him a queer look, then smiled. “All right.” She turned her head toward the chauffeur as the guardsman returned. “Brendan, take us home.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hunter.”
***
By the time the car pulled into a smooth paved driveway lined with a hedge of pink and yellow roses, Samuel had recovered from his episode.
Before he could open the door for his wife, one of the younger underbutlers had done it and gave him a quick head bow. Samuel sighed. “You don’t have to open every door, Charles.”
“But, sir. It’s my job.” Aghast, the young man blinked at him.
Samuel looked back at Elizabeth. “I will never get used to this.”
“Yes, you will.” She gestured for him to exit.
The Weldsmore mansion was more than a house; it was a tribute to the p
ower and influence of the families that dominated American politics and business. Four stories tall and designed in the Federalist style, it was built of red brick with high narrow windows set with amber-colored glass. A remnant of the House Wars, an elaborate wrought-iron fence with decorative ship designs welded at various points surrounded the property as a deterrent against forcible entry. A side and back garden with a gazebo and several ponds softened the more austere portions of the house. At the entrance stood at least two guards who wore long silver coats trimmed in copper and boasting the emblem of House Weldsmore. That same emblem, about hundred times larger, hung above the double oak doors that led inside.
Those doors swung open as if the weight of the world pushed back. Out pranced Mrs. Owen, the head housekeeper. Behind her, walking at a much more dignified pace, came the house manager, Sampson. They both beamed at Elizabeth with love and pride.
“Miss Elizabeth.” A petite woman close to sixty with ocean gray hair bound up under a cap with the Weldsmore emblem on it, Mrs. Owen gave her a quick hug. “I mean, Mrs. Hunter. We are so pleased to see you home safe.” She gave Samuel a warm smile. “And you, too, Mr. Hunter.” Her light Irish accent was not surprising considering she was the wife of Brendan, the chauffeur.
“Thank you, Mrs. Owen,” he replied. “I hope Mr. Weldsmore behaved himself while we were gone.”
The head housekeeper rolled her eyes. “That man can be a trial.”
“Your father will be overjoyed to see you.” The deep bass voice of Sampson interrupted them. “As am I.” He grasped Elizabeth’s hands, patted them, then turned to Samuel to shake his proffered hand. “Good to see you, sir.”
A former underbutler for the Weldsmores when Jonathan was a boy and his grandmother Beatrice ruled the family and the business, Sampson would never admit to the power and influence he had over Elizabeth’s father, but Samuel knew better. He had watched the sixty-three-year-old house manager protect Elizabeth like his own daughter. The entire staff would be lost without him. Jonathan might be the captain of this Great House, but Sampson was its anchor.
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