The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  “Did you find Eilian?” she asked, watching the blur of white hair from the corner of her eye.

  “Yes, my lady, he’ll be here in a moment.” He straightened and craned his neck to see if Eilian was coming. “Lady Dorset, I was hoping to speak to you. I know it’s out of turn, but it’s very important.”

  She turned to find Pat’s face grave. She was so accustomed to seeing him flustered with nerves that to have him stand before her with his light brows furrowed and his demeanor calm scared her. “Of course, go ahead.”

  His eyes darted down the hall again. “I’m worried about his lordship. He has been out of sorts lately.”

  “I noticed that this morning. Do you have any idea what’s wrong?”

  “It’s the earldom, my lady. He’s feeling the pressure of his new position, and his outlook is becoming very bleak. It’s the worst it’s been since the dirigible accident, and that troubles me.”

  Hadley sighed. For once Patrick wasn’t overreacting. “I knew I should have asked him what the matter was when he skipped breakfast.”

  “He wouldn’t have answered. His lordship doesn’t want to upset you.” He paused. For a second he thought he heard footsteps in the hall. “May I ask you for a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Tomorrow, please get his lordship out of the house for a while. Apart from your outing to visit Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, he’s been inside since you arrived. He needs to get out for a little while. I know you are very busy, but please go for a walk or ride together. It should set things right.”

  “But if he wants to go outside, why doesn’t he? He’s a grown man; he doesn’t need my permission.”

  “He doesn’t know what to do, so he’s following your lead. You stay inside, he stays inside.”

  “Well, why didn’t he say anything to me? I would have done it if I knew.”

  “I don’t think he knows what he needs.” Patrick dropped his voice as Eilian drifted toward them with his head down. “Please don’t tell him I told you.”

  “I won’t,” she mouthed as the butler disappeared into the dining room.

  Eilian stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat with dust-ringed cuffs. When he saw her, he gave her a gentle grin, but the hint of cheer never made it to his eyes. “Pat said you were looking for me.”

  “I was wondering where you had gone. Dinner is ready.”

  Taking his hands, Hadley pulled him closer until he wrapped around her with his chin resting against her temple. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t embrace her when suddenly his arms cinched around her waist and the warmth of his body sighed into hers. His cool lips pressed against her cheek and hair before his head came to rest between her neck and shoulder.

  “I love you,” she whispered into his collar, running her hands up and down the length of his back.

  “I love you too. I’m sorry, Had.”

  “For what?” She asked as she pulled away and led him into the dining room, watching Patrick place two plates of chicken fricassee on the table.

  “I got distracted. I only inspected three rooms,” he replied as they settled into their seats.

  He sighed and pushed a mushroom around the edge of his plate. Anger flared in Hadley’s breast. She had asked him to do one thing—one thing—and he hadn’t done it, but she drowned out the thought with what Patrick had said. It was obvious that something was wrong by his faraway eyes and slack frown. She knew what caused it and hated that she could do nothing to fix it. Even with a replacement arm, a wife, and a title, he wasn’t happy. In his mind, he still wasn’t an earl and never would be.

  “Did you hear the doorbell ring a while ago?”

  Eilian shook his head.

  “Nadir Talbot, Mrs. Rhodes’s cousin, came to bring me a signed copy of his latest book. He heard that Adam enjoyed his work and thought he would like it.”

  “That was very generous of him. I’m sorry to have missed him again.”

  Watching him finally stab a bit of tomato and chicken, she continued, “It turns out he grew up in Folkesbury. He said Brasshurst has been shut up for as long as he can remember, so I gave him a tour.”

  “What did he think? Was he as afraid of it as we were?”

  She chuckled to herself. “I would say so. He thought Patrick was a ghost, but he seemed quite taken with it. He even suggested that we throw a party, so everyone could see the house restored to its former glory.”

  When she looked up, Eilian’s eyes were wide and his face had turned a sickly grey. “A— a party?”

  “I told him it was a foolish idea, but he was pretty persuasive. It would be a great way to meet all of your tenants and show everyone that you intend to restore Brasshurst.”

  “Do I?”

  “As I said, it’s a foolish idea. We are in no position to throw anything larger than dinner for Mr. Talbot and his cousins.” She waited, watching the pain surface in his face. He took a bite of chicken and clenched his eyes shut. His breath hitched, and as he swallowed, she noticed how the whites of his eyes glistened at their edges. Now was not the time. “I was thinking that maybe tomorrow we could go down to the beach. We have been stuck inside for days, and I don’t think I can stand another day of dust or clocks. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Aren’t you busy? Maybe I should stay home. I still need to check for repairs.”

  “But I want to spend the day with you, away from all this.”

  Eilian locked eyes with her, relief loosening his features. “All right then, if you’re sure. Are we taking the bicycles?”

  “We will have to; the steamer is still in the shop. I bet we could fit a picnic basket in the front of my bicycle. How does that sound? A picnic on the beach.”

  The color drifted into his cheeks and eyes. He was far from himself, yet somewhere in his eyes, a glint of hope appeared. It wasn’t strong or sure, but it was there.

  Chapter Seven

  Picnics and Prostheses

  Drawing in a lungful of sea air, Eilian felt the knot in his chest loosen. The sun warmed his cheeks as he threw back his head and closed his eyes. Only a few feet away the water roared over the jetties, being caught by a thousand tiny arms until it sloshed over his bare feet in an icy surge. Eilian stood rooted on the shore, feeling the press of the slick pebbles under his numbed soles as another wave sprayed over the hem of his trousers. If he closed his eyes and banished all thought, he could feel the ocean’s pull. It urged his feet and body forward toward the channel to be swallowed up by the earth. All it would take was a few more—

  “Don’t go in too deep! Remember your arm can’t get wet!” Hadley called, spreading a blanket across the detrital sand.

  As she unpacked the wicker basket of sandwiches, chutneys, and sweets, along with bottles of lemonade and wine, she watched her husband at the water’s edge. He picked up a broken clam that lazily spun in with the tide and pitched it into the bay. It skimmed the surface before hitting the jetty and breaking in two. Patrick had been right; the change was undeniable. By the time they reached the path and got the velocipedes rolling downhill toward the coast, Eilian’s face had regained its color and his eyes had brightened with glee. At the bottom of the bluff, they were forced to walk their bicycles through the coarse sand, rumbling over the seashells and bits of stone that had drifted the world over before coming to rest on the Dorset shore. Every so often Eilian would stop to examine a shell or to check if an upturned rock was a really a fossil in disguise.

  “Patrick has really outdone himself. I don’t know how he fit it all in here. Finger sandwiches, bread, curds. Is that curry?” she asked as she uncapped a jar and brought it to her nose. It was still warm.

  Eilian kicked the sand from his feet and settled on the edge of the picnic blanket. “You should thank Mrs. Negi for that. She cooked it and probably assembled the basket.”

  “You know, I still have never met her.”

  “She keeps to herself, but if you’re still thinking about throwing a party or dinner, you m
ay want to speak to her. She... she doesn’t like having things sprung on her.” Grabbing a slice of bread, he loaded it with curds, chutney, and a dollop of curry. “Much like you, she has a temper, but if you were descended from Rajput warriors, I would expect you to have one, too.”

  “Rajput warriors?”

  He nodded, licking the sauce from his lips. “Her ancestors were palace guards. At the time, I was traveling through Northern India and I stopped to have dinner with a British family my parents knew. They were the local officials, trying—successfully, might I add—to usurp the princes’ power. One night we dined with the local prince. Thing is, the entire time I had been with the family, all we had was British food apart from dessert, and when I was invited to dinner with the prince, I thought I would finally get to taste real North Indian cuisine.” As he spoke, he assembled another sandwich dripping with mango chutney. “Apparently, she was tired of English food, too. As we were leaving, I heard her arguing with the head servant about never getting the chance to cook the food she was hired to make, and he told her to leave. I asked her if she would like to travel with me as my personal cook.”

  “And she just went with you?”

  “Oh, no, of course not. Who in their right mind follows a twenty year old anywhere? Anyway, after I convinced her that I could pay her and that I really wanted to hire her as a cook, she agreed. Her husband had died some years earlier, along with her only child, and she needed the work.” He chuckled to himself. “Most of my servants are cast-offs. I don’t understand why any of them were let go in the first place.”

  Hadley smiled to herself and wondered what stories were attached to his maids. From what ill fate had the three girls been plucked? Raising her gaze from her cold chicken sandwich, she spotted a familiar dark head. At the far end of the cove, Nadir Talbot ambled along the path, his cane ticking in time with his step. His scarlet coat and plum vest glowed in the sunlight as if he were dressed for a party, but what betrayed his formal attire were his sun-spectacles. In his free arm, he lugged a portable writing desk, a valise, and a camp chair slung over his shoulder, which required straightening every dozen steps. As he crossed the sand, he stopped, letting the wind whip his black curls and open collar like the debauched hero of some Gothic novel. When he turned toward them, Hadley raised her arm and beckoned for him to come over.

  “Mr. Talbot, going for a stroll?”

  “Searching for inspiration, Lady Dorset,” he called as he walked over. “My heroine will be coming ashore from a foreign land in a few pages and I thought the smell of the ocean might evoke something.” He barely spotted her bright red hair above the two bicycles leaning against a massive boulder, but as he drew closer, he realized she wasn’t alone. The man beside her sat half in the sand in only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, which had been rolled to his knees. His shoes and stockings sat beside him while his jacket had been slung over the seat of his bicycle. He supposed he was the Earl of Dorset, but from his sandy feet and state of under dress, he couldn’t be sure.

  Hadley smiled to herself. It seemed strange to have the two men in such close proximity. Nadir Talbot gleamed like a ruby while her husband in his linen shirtsleeves and light brown trousers, looked like a laborer. “Eilian, this is Nadir Talbot, the writer. Mr. Talbot, this is my husband, the Earl of Dorset.”

  Eilian quickly wiped his hands and mouth and climbed to his feet. “My wife speaks very highly of you, Mr. Talbot.”

  “And you. I hope you didn’t mind that Lady Dorset gave me a tour of Brasshurst. It’s quite a unique specimen.” Reaching for the earl’s hand, his eyes landed on his prosthesis. Despite being identical in size and shape to its twin, his right hand was nearly black and perfectly smooth. The segmented titanium fingers were curled into a loose fist, and where it met the wrist, two rings sprung from either side where long, tightly curled springs were attached by bent hooks. The fingers unfurled as their hands touched. From being in the sun, the earl’s metal palm radiated a dull heat. “That is a beautiful prosthesis, Lord Dorset. If you do not mind me asking, where did you come across it? I have never seen one open like that.”

  “My wife created it.” His lips curled into a stiff grin as he rubbed his hand over it self-consciously, but when he looked in the Mr. Talbot’s eyes, he found only curiosity. “That’s how we met. She designed and built it for me.”

  The writer laughed. “So this is what you create on a regular basis, Lady Dorset. Now I understand what you meant about the clock.” He tilted his head, searching for a bulge or string beneath the nobleman’s shirt. “How does this contraption work? Is there a spring or lever?”

  “No, it’s electric. There’s a battery in the holster.”

  “But how does it open?”

  There was something about Nadir Talbot that put Eilian at ease. It could have been that he acted like Adam Fenice and looked like the Egyptian men he worked with in his excavations. Perhaps it was that Hadley trusted and liked him. His questions about his arm seemed to arise from natural curiosity rather than repugnance or ignorance, and Eilian thought genuine interest should always be rewarded.

  “Would you like to see it?”

  When Mr. Talbot nodded, Hadley watched in shock as Eilian unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it over his forearm and up to his shoulder. He almost never showed others his prosthesis, yet he allowed the writer to step closer and examine it.

  Nadir’s keen eyes traveled over the springs that began at his wrist and looped through half a dozen more sets of metal rings before connecting to a leather bracer on his upper arm. Sticking out from the side of the couter was a pouch large enough for a battery. All that was left of his forearm was a metal rod surrounded by spring muscle bundles, and while he couldn’t see what was beneath the leather brace or cotton sleeve under it, he was certain his upper arm was still intact. The design was simple and strong. Metal, leather, and flesh melded to rebuild what had been lost. Nadir watched as the fingers bloomed open before curling shut once more.

  “How did you do that?”

  “A doctor inserted gold needles into my nerves. If I think about my hand opening, it does. Well, it’s more like I feel it opening.”

  “Fascinating. So you had surgery?”

  “Yes, they had to attach the porcelain joint with,” he cleared his throat, “donated tissue.”

  “I’m impressed, Lady Dorset, thoroughly impressed. I may need to include one of these in a story someday. My readers would love it, especially if they knew it really exists.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Hadley’s cheeks pinkened. “Would you care to join us? We have plenty to spare.”

  He looked from the earl to his wife and then at the spread of edibles that lay across the blanket. There had to be a dozen tins, jars, and linen parcels of food, and each looked better than anything Leona could muster up. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “Please, join us, Mr. Talbot,” Lord Dorset said, motioning toward an empty space adjacent to his wife. A soft smile spread across his features as he rolled down his sleeve. “Then you can tell us all about your book.”

  “All right, but only for a little while. Then, I must be off and actually write something.”

  Dropping his valise and camp chair next to their bicycles, he settled in beside Eilian and Hadley. Between neat bites of finger sandwiches, he told them of his latest idea. After seeing the vast orangery of Brasshurst, he had decided to alter his current manuscript from another Greco-Roman drama to a Babylonian tale of a young peasant woman sent to the king’s harem only to be thrust into a world of hanging gardens and exotic riches. Of course it would be a romantic tale full of intrigue and mystery as the girl rose to queen despite attacks from the other women of the harem and the king’s scheming priests.

  “My brother will love it. May I tell him of your idea?” Hadley asked as she unpacked the glasses and poured each of them some lemonade.

  “Of course. Just don’t give away the ending, though it will probably change by the time he reads
it.”

  The back of Nadir’s eye burned as he resisted the urge to wink. If he had been talking to the well-to-do widows or the young women barely out in society who usually frequented his and his friends’ parlors, he would have done it as he had hundreds of times before. Even if Lord Dorset hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have dared to do it. In her blue and yellow dress with her hair artfully bundled under a straw hat, it was hard to imagine Lady Dorset standing before the grandfather clock in men’s trousers and an oil rag in her hand. After seeing her like that, so at ease in both roles, it seemed impossible to approach her the same way as he would other society ladies. At least her husband didn’t appear to be the jealous type.

  Hadley leaned back, soaking in the ocean’s gentle murmur and the sun’s warm gaze as the men rooted through the tin of desserts. She had hoped Eilian and Nadir Talbot would get along. For the second time in her life, she and Adam were separated, but this time, it was for good. There would be no returning to Baker Street except as a guest. It was odd to wake up and not have someone to critique her outfit or help her pin her hair before she went out. Mr. Talbot’s dandified dress and air of cultivated eloquence would be as close as she would get to Adam in Dorset, and it only made her long to see her twin more. Opening her eyes, she watched the waves lap against the coast as it curved away from Folkesbury.

  She squinted. Someone was walking on the far end of the beach. As the figure slowly processed across the sand, she realized there were actually three people. The woman in front wore a forest green gown, the side of her face obscured by high mutton sleeves. Holding a fringed parasol over her mistress was a slight maid. With her colorless dress and jet hair, she could have been the woman’s shadow, narrowed in the afternoon sun. Linked arm-in-arm with her was a well-built gentleman. From afar, he seemed handsome, even if he appeared old enough to be Hadley’s father. He stood very straight beside her but lacked the polished gait of the aristocracy.