by Lev AC Rosen
“I don’t feel uncomfortable going to Mrs. Capshaw alone,” Mrs. Wilks said, blinking rapidly. She could sense Violet trying to manipulate her. Like many things, this made her anxious. “Why don’t you and I go into London tomorrow, and then to Mrs. Capshaw the day after?”
“Oh, Mrs. Wilks,” Ashton said, grinning, “I couldn’t tear you away from your duties here. I shall gladly escort my sister into town tomorrow. I was hoping to buy a new cigarette case, anyway.”
“You don’t smoke,” Mrs. Wilks said slowly, turning her head to Ashton.
“No, but I plan to start,” Ashton replied. Mrs. Wilks sighed. Against the both of them, what could she do? She would have thrown her arms up in exasperation, but such large gestures at the dinner table invariably knocked things over.
“Very well,” Mrs. Wilks said. “Violet, you and I will go to Mrs. Capshaw together the day after tomorrow, and spend all day looking through her drawings and fabrics. I won’t have you going to your first season in London dressed like a country girl.”
“Oh, of course, Mrs. Wilks,” Violet said, looking as kindly as she could, in order to soothe Mrs. Wilks’s nerves. Her expression also contained some of the joy that was radiating within her at the chance to see Illyria tomorrow. It was well worth a day of being prodded by Mrs. Capshaw and inspecting seven shades of pink fabric that all seemed the same to her. She was looking forward to tomorrow, and to October, when she felt quite sure she would begin life as a student at Illyria College … and, incidentally, as a man.
II.
THE next morning, Violet was awake before the maid came in to rouse her. The maid, a young girl from a nearby farmhouse, was startled to find her mistress pacing in her closet. Violet almost always enjoyed sleeping in, and almost never went into her closet.
“I don’t know what dress matches the top hat my brother bought for me,” Violet said to the maid with a sigh. The maid, who was unused to Violet speaking to her, wasn’t sure if she should answer, so instead she went about the motions of making the bed and starting up the fire in the fireplace.
“Do you know which dress should be worn with a top hat?”
Now Violet was asking her directly. She felt like a trapped animal, too frightened to speak, and not sure how to escape. She was new, but had already heard stories of Miss Violet Adams and her sinister inventions. The older maids said that they’d heard clanging at all hours of the night from the basement, and that Violet had crafted a serving man entirely of bronze, which she used to kill those servants she didn’t like and for other unladylike purposes, the thought of which made the maid blush.
Violet stared at the maid, holding a top hat in one hand and tapping her foot. “Do you know which of my dresses I should wear with this?” Violet asked again.
The maid shook her head and left the room quickly. Finding Mrs. Wilks down the hall, she tugged frantically at her sleeve and told her that Miss Adams was behaving most strangely.
Mrs. Wilks’s eyes widened in concern, and she took off down the hall. When she burst into Violet’s room to find Violet holding the top hat and looking confused but unharmed, she breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Oh, Mrs. Wilks, thank goodness. Could you tell me which dress I ought to wear with this hat that Ashton got for me?”
“I think that hat would be a little hot, miss, in August. Perhaps a summer hat would be more appropriate?”
“Oh, I had rather hoped to wear this hat, though, because Ashton bought it for me in London—do you really think it will be too hot?”
Mrs. Wilks was confused by Violet’s apparent earnestness. Violet had not asked Mrs. Wilks her opinion on anything since childhood. She smiled and reached out for the hat. Violet gave it to her, and Mrs. Wilks rubbed the felt in between her fingers. She could tell Violet wanted to wear it, that this hat would somehow be a comfort to her, and she hated to deprive Violet of comfort.
“It will be a little hot, but this felt is thin. You should wear the green coat over the gray riding outfit with it.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Wilks,” Violet said, and turned back to her closet. “Where are they?” Sighing again, Mrs. Wilks helped Violet dress herself, and even arranged her hair in front of the vanity, Violet rudely tapping her foot all the while. But when Mrs. Wilks’s work was complete, and they gazed in the mirror at Violet’s reflection, it was a pleasure to see. Violet seldom dressed up so nicely, and when she did, she appeared a real, sophisticated woman instead of some awkwardly large girl with too-fierce eyes. Violet put the hat on and studied herself in the mirror. “This is splendid,” she said, and she meant it, for while she had never cared about her appearance beyond looking decent, and while she knew nothing of fabric, all ladies—in fact, all people—enjoy the look of themselves in well-tailored clothing. Mrs. Wilks was also happy to see Violet so grown up and elegant. Perhaps she hadn’t let Mr. Adams down in attempting to make his little girl into a woman of whom Mrs. Adams would be proud.
“Come down to breakfast, then,” Mrs. Wilks said, “and take off the hat until you are outside.” Violet obeyed, excited about the day.
Her brother was already seated at the table, having helped himself to eggs, toast, and kidneys. Today he had on a fine blue suit and white shirt, with a white rose tucked into his lapel. When his sister first entered, he almost didn’t recognize her, and stood up, assuming a guest had come to call. Then, looking fully at her face, he burst out in joyous laughter.
“Do I look ridiculous? Mrs. Wilks, are you playing a trick on me, dressing me like a clown?” asked Violet anxiously.
“No, sister, you look splendid, but it is quite alien to me, seeing you dressed so elegantly.”
“I wanted to wear the hat you gave me,” Violet said, sitting down, “and truth be told, the clothes are not uncomfortable. The corset is a little tighter than usual, yes, but it makes my back stay perfectly straight. And the bustle isn’t nearly so bad as it looks.” Ashton smiled and sat down again.
“You will be the toast of London,” he said. Violet stuck her tongue out at him in response. “Well, I suppose we can dress you as a lady. The behavior, however, will take some teaching.”
Too excited to really eat, Violet nibbled on a little bit of bread and butter, not paying much attention to it. How could Ashton take so long at breakfast, knowing what excitement she must feel? She kicked him under the table.
“All right,” he said, glaring at her. “Let’s call the carriage, and we’ll head into town.” Violet popped up from her chair like a loose spring and headed for her room to collect her things. She carefully folded her application and put it in her handbag, covering it with some money and a scarf, so no one would see it. Then she ran back downstairs, where Ashton was finishing up a cup of tea. She groaned and headed to the courtyard to meet the carriage.
The weather was much more pleasant today: the sun shining brightly over the pastorally rolling hills and trees. Mrs. Adams’s garden sparkled brightly in green and purple. When the carriage drew around, it was still muddy from taking Mr. Adams to town yesterday, but the horses looked well rested, and the carriage driver, a handsome youth named Antony, looked ready for the journey.
“We’re going to London, today, Antony,” Violet said, hopping up into the carriage excitedly.
“I know, miss. I’m takin’ you there,” Antony said, and nodded. Ashton came out of the house a moment later, strolling in far too leisurely a manner for Violet’s tastes. He winked at Antony as he climbed into the carriage himself, and then, finally, they were off.
It was a long ride, a little more than an hour to London. Though she was excited, Violet was a smart enough girl to at least make an attempt at patience, even if she didn’t really feel it. She spent much of the ride staring out the carriage windows, for though she did not possess her brother’s poetic sensibilities, she was not immune to the romance of the natural world. She admired the great sweeping trees and the long winding brooks that babbled so peacefully, and she enjoyed the wildflowers and the green hill
s they passed through.
“How will you spend the day?” she asked her brother. He was gazing out the window, probably composing odes to the fields, or to the field hands.
“I will go to the town house and find out if there is anything in particular we need for the season, since you said you would be doing that. Then I may grab a pint with a few friends I have who are still in the city.”
“That sounds lovely. I don’t have much else to do besides deliver my application, so I may ask Antony to drive me around London a little, so I can get a feel for it.”
“If you want a feel for London, then you’d do better to walk. A carriage ride through the park is all very well, but to truly know London, you should spend a little time on foot, explore the small alleyways and crannies, perhaps take the underground railway.”
“I long to see the functionality of the trains beneath the city. It’s rumored that the Duke of Illyria put a train station of his own design beneath the college when he built it, powered in some mysterious fashion.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” Ashton said.
“It may sound it, but it is quite possible, in theory.”
“You scientists have created a great deal that seems as though it shouldn’t work in theory. Didn’t your hero, Illyria, manage to successfully create an elephant the size of a house cat?”
“Yes,” Violet said, proudly.
“And Babbage’s analytical engines can predict patterns the human eye cannot see?”
“Well, yes, but only if the person using the engine is a skilled reckoner. You can’t just ask the engine how many people will be born in Cambridge next year. You need to know what you’re doing. And Illyria’s elephant actually was a house cat. He just took the skin of an elephant and transplanted it onto the cat, along with a trunk and large ears. It still behaved quite like a cat, jumping around and rubbing its head against things. It never once trumpeted its horn. Science has its limits.”
“That sounds positively ghastly. Don’t tell me stories like that anymore.”
“I’ve never been particularly interested in the Biological Sciences, but by all accounts, the cat seemed quite happy. It loved playing with its long nose as though it were a piece of string.” Ashton shuddered, but Violet continued anyway. “And it wasn’t as though it were just some house cat. It was a cat that had been badly burned and lost much of its skin already. A great many biological scientists aren’t so generous.”
“I prefer the mechanical songbirds you can buy on street corners.”
“If you want a mechanical songbird, let me make one for you. Anything you buy on a street corner will be broken within a fortnight, I’m sure,” Violet said with a sigh. The carriage had reached the outskirts of London, and she could see the looming, powerful buildings, and smell the smoke in the air.
“So, the duke just had elephant skin lying around in case his cat should explode?”
“He was experimenting with using it to heal factory workers who were badly burned—he felt it was close to human skin, but tougher, more durable, and so would protect the workers better. At the time of the cat incident, though, he wasn’t really ready to try the procedure yet.”
“That doesn’t explain giving the cat an elephant head.”
“That was the suggestion of his student, Erasmus Valentine. He thought that it would be more attractive that way.”
“So, did anything come of these elephant skin bandage experiments?”
“The duke died before he could try it on human subjects. No one carried on the research.” Violet slumped her shoulders and looked down at the floor of the carriage.
“Well, I’m happy you’re the scientist in the family. I’ll stick to poetry and art, and all that nonsense.”
They had entered the city. Outside were more carriages and people walking in front of them. The place smelled like smoke, sweat, and manure, but Violet didn’t mind. She was closer to Illyria now. She could feel the mechanics of the place vibrating through the cobblestones and dirt to the wheels of her carriage and up through the soles of her feet, which were tapping impatiently.
“Our house isn’t on the fashionable side of the park,” Ashton said, “but it’s not on the unfashionable side, either. It’s the right sort of place, because no one is watching you, but you have a view of everyone else.”
“I won’t be spending very much time there, if all goes according to plan,” Violet said.
Outside on the street corner was one of the mechanical bird merchants. He propped a long stick over his shoulder, carrying cages filled with little brass birds, all fluttering and singing in a repeating pattern.
“Ah,” said Ashton, following her gaze, “now that you see one, you want one. Should I hop out and buy you a bird?”
“No,” Violet said, still looking at the birds, frowning. She could hear the inferior quality of the birds’ mechanisms. Poorly made inventions always made her unhappy.
Their carriage rolled along gradually, through the less dignified parts of town and eventually into the more dignified parts—though, according to Ashton, just because the houses were better kept didn’t mean the denizens of them were.
“Lady Daphne Bertram, since the death of her husband, has been having a most obvious affair with Sir Haberdash,” he said as they passed Lady Bertram’s house. This was the fifth house they had passed where Ashton claimed to know intimate details of the occupants’ lives.
“How do you know all this?”
“I have friends in the city, so even if I don’t usually spend the whole season here, I know the gossip. It’s the reason I don’t spend the season here: What’s the point when I already know everything? And, of course, I would hate to be away from you, dear sister.” He patted her knee to demonstrate fraternal affection; Violet rolled her eyes. A few more houses, a few more scandals, and the carriage came to a stop in front of their home. She had been to the town house several times before, and it was as she remembered it. Elegant, white, a bit plain. She understood why her parents had never spent much time here; stars and flowers were far more interesting than anything these whitewashed walls could offer. The city had its charms, to be sure, but Violet preferred working in a small, dark underground laboratory in the country to working in a small, dark, underground laboratory in the city because in the country, no one—aside from the easily ignored Mrs. Wilks—would force her to dress up, do her hair, and go to dances where the people spun about like the gears and springs she wished she was working on at home. Except, of course, for Mrs. Wilks.
Antony hopped down to open the door for them, but Ashton held up a finger, and Antony turned away politely to give the twins a moment alone.
“Now, Violet,” Ashton said, taking Violet’s wrist. “I’m afraid I must be serious for a moment.”
“Pray, don’t,” Violet sighed. Her brother would occasionally use this statement to preface a dreary lecture on the dangers of the world, as though he were an elder brother, and not a twin, as though she were a child who knew nothing of the world. And though she conceded that she knew little of the world, and he knew more, she did not appreciate such lectures. Normally she would half listen, supposing his dreariness to be an extension of the poetic mind, forever seeing the dark shadows of life. So she looked at the ground and prepared herself for the depressing condescension that was to come.
“Before I step out of this coach,” Ashton said, “before you go and turn in that false application, you must understand something.” Violet felt her brother’s eyes on her, staring at her, asking her to raise her eyes to meet his. She kept her head down. He squeezed her wrist, but continued. “If you do this thing, enact this scheme, and if you are caught, it will not just mean humiliation for you and father. Dressing in a man’s clothing is illegal.”
“Just a misdemeanor,” Violet said defensively.
“Yes. But if the current duke is embarrassed by the scandal you cause him, he can also issue charges of fraud and impersonation. Father may be a gentleman, but he is no duke. If t
he duke wishes, he could probably have your head.”
“I’d be executed?”
“It is the worst possible outcome, yes. More likely, you would just be sent to prison for upwards of twenty years. Father would go bankrupt trying to free you, and of course, this would ruin his reputation. And that is just if the duke finds you out. I hope I need not dwell on the … unpleasantness that can befall a young lady surrounded by men. I just read of a Beth Kindly, who, when we were children, tried to disguise herself as a man and enter Oxford.”
“I know,” Violet said quietly. She had read of her as well. There had been an article in the paper two nights ago, following her release from prison.
“Her roommate discovered her and took gross advantage—”
“I know,” Violet said louder, and looked up at Ashton. Her eyes were wet. “Why are you trying to frighten me so? This was your idea.”
“It was an idea for a play. And it was fun to come up with it. But I need to know you understand, Violet, that if you make this idea a reality, the stakes are high. Twenty years in prison, unable to work on your inventions, Father and I selling off Messaline, you losing your youth, most of your life, or worse. Is all that worth it for one year at Illyria? Think before you answer, dear sister. I will go along with it if it is.”
Violet stared down at the carriage floor. The carriage was pulled by two horses, and Violet could think of twenty better designs, better even than the horseless ones that drove about, spewing smoke and whistling. But she could not make them on her own, and even if she could, no one would ever hear about her work.
“It is worth it,” she said, raising her eyes to meet her brother’s.
His gray eyes stared back, cool as iron. “All right,” he said, dropping her hand. “Then best of luck to us both.”