All Men of Genius

by Lev AC Rosen

  XVIII.

  SUNDAYS had become Ashton’s favorite day of the week. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the rest of the week: supper parties at Lady MonCrieff’s house, poetry readings, plays, art exhibits, drinking at taverns with various liberal-minded young men, evenings with Antony. He enjoyed it all. But Sundays were some strange new breed now. His sister and her friends were a delightful bunch of rogues. He hadn’t really expected his sister to become a rogue, but it wasn’t too much of a surprise. After all, she had always had the qualities of a lady adventuress—she was forthright and clever, and seldom let things get in her way. But to actually see her laughing and drinking with a group of blokes was both funny and sweet. Ashton would often find himself looking at his sister as she slapped her knee in laughter at some joke Toby had told, and his eyes would grow a little damp with pride and happiness.

  He liked her friends, too. Miriam, especially. She had a dry continental wit, the morality of a Frenchwoman—which was to say, not very much at all—and she always laughed at his jokes, even when no one else did. And she had a gift with words. While the others played cards, they would go over Volio’s last letter together, laughing at his poor metaphors and boorish expression of feeling, then respond in florid, girlish prose that Miriam said would be quite mortifying to Cecily if someone thought she had written it.

  When the doorbell rang, a gentle snow was falling outside, and Ashton opened the door to the scoundrels with a grin. The tops of their heads were white, and Jack had an eyebrow raised, as though Ashton had been doing something scandalous instead of opening the door promptly.

  “Come in out of the cold,” Ashton said.

  “Merci,” Miriam said, stepping in first, and handing Ashton the latest sealed note from Volio. “I am unaccustomed to cold weather.”

  “You’ve lived here since you were sixteen,” Toby said, following her in. “How can you not be used to it yet?”

  “Silence!” Miriam said. “Cousin Ashton doesn’t know my age yet.”

  “Not a day over seventeen, surely,” Ashton said.

  “Such a charmer,” Miriam said, sitting by the already set up card table. The others joined her.

  “There’s drinks at the bar,” Ashton said, popping the seal on Volio’s note, “if you need further warming.”

  He took the note out of its envelope, read it over quickly, and felt his heart stop. He read it over again, slowly this time. But it still said the same thing. This was very bad.

  “What is it, Cousin Ashton?” Miriam asked. “You look terrified. What did Volio say?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Ashton said, forcing a laugh. “I had merely forgotten how mortifying Volio’s poetry could be.”

  “I wish I had forgotten as well, but it still haunts me,” Miriam said. The others had poured themselves drinks, and Toby was dealing cards.

  “Come play a round, Cousin Ashton,” Toby said. “You can write your fake love note later. For now, let’s relax a bit.”

  “Actually,” Ashton said, narrowing his eyes at his sister, “my cousin and I have a little family business to discuss, if you don’t mind. And, Miriam, as you’re so sick of Volio’s writing, why don’t I handle this note alone?”

  “Are you sure?” Miriam asked. “Of course, I would be grateful, but—”

  “No bother. I’ll have it done in a nick, and then we can all play cards and drink until we’ve forgotten not only Volio’s poetry, but even his name.”

  “Suits me,” Drew said.

  Ashton nodded at Violet, who rose with a confused look but followed him to the study, the rest going back to their cards. Ashton tried not to slam the door, but as soon as it was shut, he spun on his sister. “You kissed the duke?” he hissed.

  Violet turned bright red, and then very pale, and looked at the floor. “He kissed me, too,” she said softly.

  “Violet,” Ashton said in a somewhat higher voice, “perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps you should just drop out of school, and no one will know a thing about this scheme.”

  “No,” Violet said, “I can’t now. I will just avoid him.”

  “Oh, Violet, I did hope one day you would fall in love, but your timing is … less than pragmatic.”

  “I am not in love! Why does everyone insist that a kiss must signify love?” She threw her hands up in the air, and then, seeing how ridiculous she looked, crossed her arms. “It was just an experiment.”

  “An experiment?”

  “I had never been kissed before. I wanted to try it. Experiential learning.”

  Ashton smiled at this ridiculous excuse. “And what were the results of your experiment?”

  “It was quite nice,” Violet said softly, “but I don’t need to do it again.”

  “Of course not,” Ashton said, nodding. He plotted what he would tell their father when this scheme exploded, as it was now clear to him it would. Maybe they could just move away for a while. America, perhaps. Scandal wouldn’t follow them there. He hoped.

  “How did you know?” Violet asked. Ashton handed her Volio’s letter.

  My Dearest Cecily,

  I fear I must disclose to you some disturbing news. I wish to write to you of nothing else save how beautiful you are, with your hair, yellow like the sun, and your skin, as pale as milk, but I fear I bore witness to a most scandalous encounter between two men who are close to you—one whom you call friend, and the other whom you call cousin. Yes. I saw your cousin, the duke, and Mr. Ashton Adams in a most perverted embrace in the mechanical laboratory. I was going that way to pick up something I had left when I heard an argument from within. I crept quietly to the door, not wanting to involve myself in anything, and as I looked in, I saw the duke and Mr. Adams kissing most passionately.

  Such perverts should not be keeping company with a young lady of good moral upbringing such as yourself. Of course, you cannot avoid your cousin—perhaps you can help him to cure himself of this vice—but Adams you should remove from your life. Such a disgusting creature does not deserve to be pulped beneath your glorious foot.

  I tell you this because I love you, and want to protect you, as I shall when we are married. I shall spend my days and nights building for you a great castle where you and our children will be safe, and the outside world will not intrude. But I cannot build it yet, and so I must protect you via our letters. Until next we write, know that I adore you, I love you, and I long to bury myself in you.

  Your Devoted Malcolm.

  “He really is a very terrible poet,” Violet said, closing the note.

  “Loath as I am to admit there is such a time, now is not when you should be witty. You should be worried.”

  “It’s simple,” Violet said with a wave of her hand. “We tell him the duke confessed the kiss to Cecily—said Ashton threw himself at him.” Ashton crossed his arms. “And so Cecily, being that font of goodness that she is, is trying to cure Ashton of his perversions. And that Ashton wants to be saved. And then whatever other nonsense you throw in there about how Cecily yearns for his arms.”

  “I cannot decide,” Ashton said, looking unimpressed, “if you were always so arrogant, or if it’s just that in the guise of a man, such arrogance is less appealing.”

  “What arrogance?” Violet asked, throwing up her arms and speaking in her normal voice. “It will work, won’t it? Hasn’t this whole scheme worked so far? Doesn’t Volio believe everything you tell him?”

  “Yes, but this lie is more ridiculous. And we shouldn’t need to tell it. Nor should I need to hide it from Miriam. You’re very lucky she waits to read them with me. This was a risk you took, which you should not have.”

  “I suppose,” Violet said, looking down again, which Ashton was glad to see. She was at least a little ashamed. “Had I known Volio was there, I would have postponed my experiment.”

  “Does the duke know you’re a woman?”

  “No!” Violet said. “I don’t see how he could. We kissed. It was not this passionate embrace Volio speaks of. It was a kiss. I can
think of no way he could suspect my gender.”

  “So the duke is an invert?” Ashton said, scratching his chin. This would make good gossip at certain alehouses.

  “I don’t know,” Violet shrugged. “I’ve made it this far,” she whispered. “Surely I can finish this without mishap.”

  “Let’s hope,” Ashton said. He rested his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Does Jack know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. He’ll keep a closer eye on you from now on, I hope.”

  “Most likely.”

  “No more experiments.”

  “Only of the usual variety,” Violet said with a smile.

  Ashton sighed. There was nothing to be done now. He might as well let his sister make the most of her time at Illyria. He would begin inquiries about town houses in New York, for their inevitable move there.

  “May I go now?” Violet asked. “I think I can beat Toby at cards this week. I theorize he has a habit of blinking more often when he is lying—I’m not sure, but I want to test it.”

  “No. You will wait here with me as I pen our false missive. It is your punishment for poor judgment.”

  Violet pushed her lips out into a pout, waiting as Ashton wrote a note to Volio begging him not to tell anyone what he saw, explaining how the duke was an unwilling participant of the kiss, and how Ashton was seeking help in curing his perversion. Ashton felt sick after writing it, but folded it up and put it in an envelope.

  “Thank you,” Violet said, and kissed her brother on the cheek.

  Violet was wrong about Toby blinking more when he lied during cards. Toby won half the hands, Miriam most of the others, with Jack winning once.

  “I’m quite terrible at this game,” Violet said, throwing the cards down.

  “Heureux au jeu, malheureux en amour,” Miriam said with a sly grin.

  “What does that mean?” Jack asked.

  “Unlucky in cards,” Ashton said, beginning to laugh, “lucky in love.” His laughter rang through the house. Jack chuckled, too, and Violet glared at them both, until everyone was laughing. The laughter couldn’t dislodge the cold chills from Ashton’s chest, though, as he thought of the sinister Volio, what he had seen, and what he might do.

  XIX.

  IN his private lab, the duke was attempting to fold softened bronze into a shell for his space vessel, but found that his mind was not on the work. His hands kept slipping on the edges of the metal, cutting them. Outside, the sky was turning from gray to blue, and he could hear the river rushing faster past Illyria. He had been trying to work for the better part of the day, skipping dinner and supper, but had accomplished nothing. His mind kept wandering to Ashton Adams, their kiss.

  The duke had bedded many women. When Ernest was sixteen, his father had put him in a coach and told him it was time for him to become a man. The coach had arrived at Mrs. Williams’s, a brothel for clients of good society. Mrs. Williams herself was a woman approaching sixty, with hair dyed a bright scarlet, heavy makeup, and a sometimes smudged fake birthmark drawn on her left cheek. She had greeted Ernest with open arms and told him that his father had arranged for him to have an evening of pleasure. The pleasure, thankfully, was not provided by Mrs. Williams, but by a girl called Ocean, with long black hair, warm tanned skin, and striking gray blue eyes. She was about the same age as Ernest at the time, but much more experienced than he in sexual relations. His father had purchased several hours with the girl, so though Earnest was done with her after a few minutes, she coaxed him into staying so that she might give him instruction in the ways of pleasuring women. He learned a variety of acts pleasurable to both him and Ocean, and she was kind enough to note when they were participating in an activity in which a proper lady would never partake. He went back to her regularly for a whole year before she vanished, apparently purchased to be a full-time mistress to another client.

  After her departure, Ernest had decided to educate himself further. Ocean had taught him the elementary lessons, but as in all the sciences, further experimentation was needed before he felt truly competent. He visited a variety of whorehouses, and a variety of whores around the city: elegant and dirty, thin and fat, young and old. He tried various combinations, once even involving another man, though he found that particular experiment to be a failure, and flagged when he attempted to pay any attention to the other man. For two years, he whored about London with a detached civility. He didn’t compare whores or read guides to the best prostitutes in London as other young men did, but merely found the women on his own, sampled them as many times as he liked, and moved on.

  Then, after he turned twenty, his mother began to throw elaborate parties and invite the families of various eligible young women to them. She held thirteen of these parties, one a month, until she was found expired in the kitchen, a bottle of her favorite whiskey still in her hand, her body slumped, as though she’d just fallen asleep drinking again.

  The parties were uncomfortable for Ernest. The young women he knew he was supposed to mingle with were for the most part insipid, with overly large teeth and a tendency to giggle whenever he talked about science.

  “Oh, you do go on, don’t you?” said Miss Murchison-Pinch, at the third party. “Wouldn’t you rather tell me how pretty my eyes are?” She batted her eyelashes. Her eyes were a dull brown color, lacking in both luster and intelligence. Ernest sighed and walked away.

  After the first party, Ernest’s father had insisted on being able to invite his own friends, so he had something to do at the parties besides talk to the equally stupid parents of the stupid girls the parties were for. He stood with a group of his scientist friends in a corner, and Ernest joined them after leaving Miss Murchinson-Pinch, who stood in the middle of the family parlor, looking confused.

  “… but that is not the point, is it?” said one of the men, a Dr. Rastail, as Ernest approached. “The point is that if we, as a people, think bad decisions are being made on our behalf, we have the right—no, the responsibility—to speak up, to demand that the right decisions be made. And if we are not heard, we must make ourselves heard. And us being brilliant men of science”—and here the men all chuckled knowingly—“we have the means to make ourselves heard, not to mention the intellect to make the right decisions.” Ernest sidled behind his father, unnoticed, listening to the men’s argument.

  “I think you’re being idealistic, Rastail,” said the cranelike Dr. Knox in his low voice. “Why bother talking with the Queen at all? Or with anyone else? If you have the power to take more power—just take it. We may be a … group of highly intelligent men, but we don’t agree on everything. So we waste time fighting each other. If Algernon here would just help Alfie instead of fighting him, all our plans could progress, and we could succeed in—”

  “And we’ll all be destroyed in the process,” interrupted Ernest’s father with some cold anger. “The idea is madness, Knox, and—”

  “Look who’s joined us!” interrupted the massive Dr. Pluris, his voice booming from behind Ernest.

  “Ah, young Illyria,” said Dr. Rastail, looking at Ernest. “What do you think? Should we not make ourselves heard, if poor decisions are being made in our name?” Ernest felt his face go warm at being addressed by one of his father’s peers. He looked to his father, who stared at him, waiting.

  “I think that when decisions are made for us, we must talk with the ones making them, discover why such decisions have been made, and then we can come to an understanding, the best decision for everyone.”

  “For everyone?” Dr. Rastail repeated, as though the words were new to him. He paused, and then started to laugh. “Right so. Everyone. Everyone who is our equal!” All the men began to laugh around him, and his father stepped forward, pulling Ernest by the arm out of the crowd.

  “Why don’t you go entertain the womenfolk, Ernest?” his father said coolly. “They’re here for you, after all.” And then he turned back to his peers. Ernest had turned from them, his face warmer than before, and looked t
o the women all hovering at the other side of the room. They looked over at him anxiously. Ernest turned from them, as well, and left the room for the garden, hoping to take some fresh air.

  Outside, it was dark and cool and smelled of flowers and dirt.

  “Oh, bloody ’ell.” A voice came from behind the willow tree. Ernest walked toward the voice, curious. A girl around his age sat on a low stone wall, trying to roll a cigarette. She was in a maid’s uniform, but her long orange curls fell loose over her shoulders.

  “Need some help?” Ernest asked. The girl looked up at him with a grin, but seeing his face, her eyes widened in panic. She stood quickly and looked at the ground. “Sorry, sir … Your Grace … young Illyria. I was just trying to roll a cigarette—I only snuck off for a few minutes—the kitchen gets so hot, you see, and—”

  Her stammering made Ernest smile. “I can roll your cigarette, if you’d like,” he said.

  She looked up at him curiously. “That would be wonderful,” she said with a sigh of relief. Ernest sat down on the low wall, took the tobacco and paper in his hand, and rolled it quickly and simply.

  “Cor, you’re good at that.”

  “My godmother taught me.”

  She took the cigarette, stuck it in her mouth, produced a match from her pocket, and lit it. She inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke out her nose. “Ah … thank you, Your Grace. I’ve been needing a smoke since I got here.”

  “You’re new?”

  “Arrived day before last. Kitchen maid. Adelaide Moth.” She looked at him, an honest, friendly expression on her face, and brought the cigarette back to her lips.

  “I’m Ernest,” he said, taking out a cigarette case from his pocket, producing a cigarette, and lighting it.

  She laughed. “As if I’d call you that,” she said. “You can call me Del, though. I mean, if you want to. Miss Moth, too. But if you want to call me Del, you’re welcome to. Cor, that’s a nice cigarette. You roll that one, too?”