The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  “Thank you so much,” Emmeline cried with a massive grin as she clasped Cleopatra to her chest.

  “Just remember, I want them eventually returned in the condition you got them. I do not want to find tea and chocolate inside them.” When the girl nodded and began thumbing through the first book, he asked, “Where are your aunt and uncle?”

  “Uncle James is out with some detective or something. Aunt Eliza is upstairs.”

  Adam left Emmeline on the sofa and quietly padded up the stairs hoping to sneak up on his elder cousin, but upon walking through the study and the bathroom, she was still nowhere to be found. Above his head, the boards creaked with her light tread, so he mounted the steps again and headed up to the floor of guest bedrooms. The redheaded man walked past the door at the top of the staircase but stopped and went back when he realized the usually shut room was occupied. Unlike the parlor downstairs, the guest bedroom was cool and dark with the curtains drawn against the glaring, grey afternoon. A soft groan came from the gloom, and finally, Adam’s eyes trailed to the man in the bed.

  Sweat drenched his forehead, entrapping the edges of his curly, yellow hair to his temples. The patient’s eyes were closed as he weakly tossed and clenched the sheets between his fingers in unconscious pain. The man drew in a strained breath that rattled his thin form as if he were shivering and echoed in a wheeze as he exhaled. Adam stood rooted in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off the stranger. His cheeks were sunken, and a deep bruise radiated from a stitched wound that distorted his left eye and forehead but faded near his nose. His throat and the rest of his face were painted in a deathly pallor and glistened with perspiration. He wasn’t certain what it was about the young man that held him so wholly. Maybe it was his features, which he could tell from the unblemished half of his face were delicate or his long, artistic hands. No, it was not the remnants of his beauty that held him; it was his suffering. His older brother George had been sick with consumption for months at a time, yet he had never been this sick, even at the end. Sleeping should have been an escape from such sickness, but the pain was evident in every shudder and gasp.

  “Adam, I’m sorry I did not hear you come in,” Eliza apologized as she carried a pile of linens into the guest room and placed them on the dresser.

  “Your niece let me in.” Adam followed close behind her as she felt the man’s forehead with her palm. “I received your letter and brought her some books. I even stopped on the way and picked up some ladies’ magazines she may like.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. I would have done it myself, but James is out with Scotland Yard, a suspicious suicide, and I could not leave him here by himself in this state.”

  Eliza rolled back the covers and stripped the man of his now dried towels before replacing them with fresh ones soaked in the wash basin. Adam averted his gaze as she tucked rolled up towels between his legs and laid several more across his thighs.

  “Emmeline has been driving me mad for days. I do not know if it is the grief or the captivity, but she is dying to go out. All she wants to do is shop or go to tea rooms, and she does not understand that he needs constant care right now.”

  “Should I leave?” he asked as she lightly wiped the patient’s cheeks and neck down.

  “No, I will be done in a minute.” She stared down at the sleeping patient, who coughed weakly in his sleep. “Actually, we should talk up here. I do not want to go too far in case he needs something.”

  “Is… Is he going to be all right?”

  Her lips straightened and her eyes swept toward the floor before coming up to meet her cousin’s concerned gaze. She leaned closer and whispered, “We do not know yet. He is doing better, but he is still in very poor condition.”

  “Oh, is there anything I can do to help?”

  Eliza sighed, shaking her head as she followed Adam’s eyes to Immanuel’s battered face. “All we can do is hope Immanuel’s body still has some fight left in it. There is nothing more we can do for him, except try to bring down his fever and keep him comfortable.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the right words never came. No words would make the young man better and even the actions of two doctors didn’t seem to do much to keep him in the land of the living. When he looked up from his lap, Immanuel’s clear, blue eye was locked onto his. For a moment, they held each other's gaze. A conversation in a wordless language surged between them and bound them together in the knowledge that he would fight. Immanuel took in Adam's face, but slowly his eyes slid shut as his energy began to wane again. As his cousin complained about Emmeline’s restlessness and Scotland Yard constantly calling her husband away to a crime scene, Adam continued to watch Immanuel hoping he would awaken. He couldn’t help but wonder if the mysterious stranger, no matter how hard he tried, would still die without ever knowing his name.

  Chapter Eleven:

  The Price of Freedom

  The sun shone through the curtains of Immanuel Winter’s bedroom, settling its warm rays across his split cheek. Apart from the chirping of a bird on the sill and the dull clattering chug of steamer carriages, the house was silent. Licking his chapped lips, Immanuel opened his eyes. While his left eye was still blurry and ached each time he blinked, his head was clear for the first time in months. He remembered his name, his cramped room back at Oxford, and even his mother’s smiling face and the information appeared at his command without hesitation or confusion. Then, he thought of why his face and side hurt and shuddered as the blows came as vividly as the day it happened. With a heavy hand, Immanuel wiped the clammy film of sweat from his forehead and cheek before slowly sitting up. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds, his body adjusted to the altitude change. His eyes ran over the sturdy oak furniture, the empty hearth, and the intertwining brocade wallpaper until they came to rest on the porcelain basin beside his bed. Where was he?

  As he washed the cold sweat from his face and neck, he noticed his forearms were bare and realized what he thought was a shirt were merely thin swaths of cotton clinging to his flesh. He peeled them off and cringed at the sight of the stitched wounds on his sides and breast. Near where his ribs ached there was a pink and puce bruise the size of his fist. How long have I been here? Immanuel wondered as he swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled. His chest tightened as he staggered toward the dresser on legs that barely cooperated and shook as if he had never taken a step before. In the top drawer were several clean, white shirts and pairs of dark trousers. When he held them up, they looked to be his size, but upon finally putting them on, they were too loose and threatened to fall from his hips.

  Immanuel shivered as the December chill swept in beneath the open window. After becoming winded getting dressed, he knew he would not be able to force it shut. Craning his neck, he could see that the street below was filled with steamers rushing by. People of all ages stopped at houses with doctors’ names engraved on brass plaques beside the doors while men in long, wool coats and top hats hailed cabs. His heart quickened with panic; he didn’t recognize the houses or people. It was definitely not Oxford, but if he was not in Oxford, then where was he and where was the man in the devil mask? His ribs tightened. No, he was gone. He escaped, that much he remembered. Drawing up to his full height, he shuffled toward the hallway.

  It was the first time he could remember being alone, but as he neared the stairs, he could hear papers shuffling and metal clicking below. From the bottom of the steps, he had a clear view of the dark-haired doctor as he peered through his glasses at a ledger before pecking at the keys of a massive, black typewriter. Immanuel held back the coughs that tickled his throat during his walk to the threshold. Every inch of the colossal desk was covered in scattered papers, books, or ribbons of ink for the typewriter. The shelves behind and to the side of him were filled with books by leading scientists, ancient physicians, and lesser know doctors from all over the planet, but holding the books in place were jars filled with curious specimens. The
re were anomalous organs that had been twisted from birth and others that were riddled with disease. Mummified heads and limbs sat under bell jars while a fully articulated skeleton wearing a derby stood in the corner opposite his desk. Others would have shied away from the morbid depository of death, but to Immanuel, it was a comfort to see so many objects he could name and describe without hesitation. The doctor looked up from his work and spotted the tired young man standing in the doorway.

  A wide smile spread across his face at the sight. “Mr. Winter, I am pleased to see you up and about. You gave us quite a scare. Please, have a seat.” He motioned toward the wooden chair in front of his desk, and Immanuel gladly sank into it after his first walk in over a week. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not sure.” Unable to hold it back any longer, his ribs rattled with the wet coughs that forced their way up his throat. “I do not mean to be rude, but I cannot recall your name, sir.”

  “Dr. James Hawthorne. My wife, the one who has been caring for you, is Eliza Hawthorne.”

  Immanuel bit his lip and nodded. “To answer your question, Dr. Hawthorne, I am still hurting all over. I cannot really see out my left eye. Will that eventually go away?”

  Dr. Hawthorne stared into Immanuel’s damaged eye, which was still stained with blood from the broken vessels. “As the swelling goes down and the blood recedes, you should regain some sight, but I think you will have some permanent damage.”

  He nodded as he ran his fingers over the slightly swollen spot above his eyebrow. “How long have I been here?”

  “Ten days.” The doctor watched as Immanuel’s eyes widened. “I am not surprised you lost track of time. You were extremely ill when you were brought here, and we thought we were going to lose you. We did lose you on the first night actually, but you seem to have finally fought off the pneumonia and the infections. I know you are feeling better and will want to move around, but you must take care not to disturb the bones you have broken. You mustn’t bend, pull, or lift anything because you will disturb your ribs, and you must refrain from pressing on your nose or left orbit.” Immanuel winced at the mention of his eye. “I have been wondering how you broke your zygomatic bone.”

  Swallowing hard, he saw the moment through the dirty blindfold. “I was hit with a chair. At least, I think it was a chair.”

  “That would explain that,” James replied as he jotted down a note in the ledger he had been transcribing.

  “Explain what?”

  “Why you tried to strike me when I brought you a chair the first night you were here. The noise must have scared you, especially since you could not see where it was coming from.”

  “Oh.” He tried to think back to that day, but it was all a blur. There were only bits and pieces with no beginning or end, glimpses of faces and a bathtub. “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no need to apologize, you have been through a lot.” James noticed how sunken Immanuel’s eyes and cheeks were as he swallowed and coughed. “Are you hungry, my boy? I cannot make much, but I can make you breakfast.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am a bit hungry.”

  As he did the first night, James supported him down the stairs and deposited him in the dining room. Immanuel smiled to himself as the older man hummed over the sizzling pop of the stove. Being at the Hawthornes’ was so different from Oxford or the catacomb. It was almost like home. Within a few minutes, Dr. Hawthorne returned with a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast along with a pot of tea and placed the bounty before the skinny young man. While he slowly ate his first real meal since the kidnapping, he found his jaw grew tired chewing, but at least he could swallow his food without having to worry about it falling out of his mouth. Immanuel glanced up at James Hawthorne but only saw the back of the newspaper.

  “Dr. Hawthorne,” he began and waited until the gentleman put his paper down to continue, “I don’t know how to thank you and Mrs. Hawthorne for all you have done for me. The thing is, I have no way to repay you. What little money I had was stolen when I was kidnapped, but my mother may be able to send a few marks when I write to her to tell her I am all right.”

  James sighed as he watched him bite his lip and push his food with the prongs of his fork. “Immanuel, I was never expecting you to pay me when I helped you. I do not want your money.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot stay here for free. As soon as I am strong enough, I will go back to Oxford and find some way to repay you.”

  “Are you a student of science or a professor?” he asked casually as he folded the newspaper and put it to the side.

  Immanuel’s eyes widened. “A student, but how could you possibly—?”

  “I asked how you broke your zygomatic bone, and you replied without hesitation. I understand you would like to return to your studies as soon as possible, but I do not know if you will be strong enough to travel before every one goes on holiday.”

  “On holiday? What day is it?”

  “The second of December.”

  Tears burned the bottoms of his eyes as he realized how much time had been stolen from him. In the darkness of the catacomb, days and weeks slipped by unnoticed, but he never suspected he had been there that long. Hawthorne watched his patient’s face pale as the moisture disappeared from his mouth and migrated to the edges of his eyes. The boy covered his face while his chest throbbed with each silent cry.

  “My boy, what is the matter?”

  “He— he stole two months from me!” he sobbed. “It was September when they kidnapped me. I lost a whole chunk of my life, and I don’t even know where I am or how to get back.”

  As Immanuel collapsed into hiccupped cries, the doctor quietly walked to the other side of the table and stood behind him. He hesitated a moment, unsure how the young man would react to his touch, but taking a chance, he held his knobby shoulders and rubbed them, hoping it would soothe him.

  “It will be all right in the end. I know all this is a lot for you to deal with, but you do not need to worry about where you will go or what you will do. You need to focus on getting better, Immanuel. This man may have taken a lot from you, but he did not take your life. You will miss the rest of the term, but after Christmas, you can go back to Oxford if you would like.”

  Each inhalation sent a sharp pain through his cracked ribs. “I don’t know if I can go back there.”

  James Hawthorne gently shushed the weeping man, feeling a slight burn behind his own eyes at the sound of his pained lamentations. “You do not need to figure anything out now. You are in no shape to make any big decisions. Now, I do not want you to tax your system with fretting about school or repaying me. School is not going anywhere, and if you insist on earning your keep, I could always use a secretary to type my autopsy notes.”

  Immanuel’s head snapped up as the front door opened and two female voices erupted into bickering. He wiped his good eye and dabbed at the bruised one with his napkin before the Emmeline or Eliza could see his tearstained cheeks.

  “Why should I have to learn anything?” Emmeline whined. “I’m seventeen! Mama said I was too old for a governess or lessons. I was supposed to go into society this season, not go back to school.”

  “Do you expect to sit around all day reading novels for the rest of your life?”

  Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. “Society women do not need to learn about laws or geography! I am not a child.”

  “How can you be a society woman if no one introduces you into society?”

  As the two female voices tussled and tried to overtake each other, the men at the dining table merely looked at one another and sighed. James ignored his wife and niece yelling in the next room, using his newspaper as a shield while Immanuel kept his head down and shoveled eggs into his mouth between sniffs and coughs. The pocket door flew open as Emmeline stomped in, her face red with angry tears.

  “Why can’t I live with Aunt Georgiana? She would do what is best for me. She would do what mama would have wanted.”

  Eliza huffed, grabbing
the door before Emmeline could slam it shut. “Your aunt is in America, and I don’t think she will come all the back to England just for you.”

  Emmeline grabbed her hair by the fistful and screamed. “I hate you! I hate all of you. I swear if I do not go into society this year, I will throw myself off London Bridge!”

  “Please, don’t do that,” Immanuel peeped.

  The women’s gazes whipped toward Immanuel’s gaunt, pleading countenance as if seeing him for the first time. With her aunt’s attention suddenly shifted toward the man with one bloodshot eye, Emmeline grabbed the twined together boxes of hats and gowns from her aunt’s grasp and stormed up the stairs. Slamming her bedroom door behind her, she sunk onto her bed and wept into her pillow. Her aunt could try her best to please her but she would never be good enough. She could never bring back her mother, and for that, she hated her.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Trepidation

  “That poor man,” Hadley Fenice cried as she poured her brother and cousin another cup of tea. “Why would someone do that to another person?”

  Eliza shook her head. “I have no idea. He will not talk about it either. James does not want to push him, but he is not dealing with his problems. Now, he is up in the study typing autopsy reports all night.” She took a long sip and let her eyes roam over Hadley’s automatons, which lay in unpainted pieces of porcelain on the counter or in the corner as fully articulated dioramas ready for shipping. “He has been at it nonstop for three days.”

  “Won’t he work himself into exhaustion going on like that?”

  “Probably, but I think that is what he wants.”

  “Why would he want that?” Adam finally asked as he pictured the frail young man with the bruised face shivering in bed again. “He nearly died. Shouldn’t he be happy he is alive?”