by SJ Davis
“Shut up, Matilda,” said Euphemia. “Tattle tale.”
“Euphemia, you are excused to tend to your embroidery. We will continue without you for the time being. Matilda, mind your own course of business and pay attention.”
“Yes, Miss Rolls,” answered Matilda.
“Yes, Miss Rolls,” Euphemia sighed and gathered her things. As she exited, she turned in the doorway and stuck her tongue out at Matilda who returned the gesture. “When may I return?”
“When you can avoid distractions,” said Josephine, ignoring the tongues in the air.
“Now, Matilda, what did you learn about free will?”
“From St. Augustine?”
“Yes, dear, of course, who else?”
“Um, yes. Well, St. Augustine believed that humans are morally responsible for their actions, but struggled with how this fit with the idea that one’s life is predestined.”
“Excellent, Matilda. Leander, did St. Augustine believe humans were moral creatures?”
“As I read the text, I believe that Augustine was optimistic about the ability of humans to behave morally in the beginning, but in the end, he became pessimistic, believing that original sin makes human moral behavior nearly impossible. If it were not for the rare appearance of the undeserved Grace from God, humans could not be moral.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“I believe in free will and moral choices. Thus, I can’t believe in predestination.”
“Very modern view, Leander. Matilda, what about St. Augustine’s view of time?”
“Augustine has a subjective view of time,” answered Euphemia from behind them, as she walked back in the room. “Embroidery is mindless, may I please come back in?”
“Yes, but pay attention to the lessons. No more doodles.”
“Yes, Miss Rolls. Augustine says time only exists in our minds; and that time is has no basis outside of human existence.”
“So time only exists as a construct of the human mind?” asked Josephine. “Does that make sense?”
“No, it doesn’t” said Matilda. “How else can we order our lives and chronology of events? We have day and night, so we divide them into parts we call time, right?”
“Maybe it doesn’t make sense in your small human mind,” said Euphemia. “But perhaps it applies to future discovery. It wasn’t so long ago that the world was flat.” She gazed back at Bodhi’s clock. “We have a definition of time. But time could be something totally different than our expectations as we discover more about our universe.”
“Euphemia wants be the first time traveler!” teased Leander. “Where would you go, sister? What wrongs would you right?” He put his head on the table so hide his derisive laughter.
“All right,” said Josephine, scowling at Leander. “That’s quite enough for today. Finish up with Book Ten of Augustine’s confessions and study the irregular French verbs.”
“What about Bodhi’s inventions?” asked Euphemia pleadingly.
“I will leave you with his sketches for the interior of the airship to enjoy, but tomorrow, I want you to be able to explain how steam power elevates and powers the ship. We will discuss theories of the dynamics of flight. Think freely, children. Do not fear your ideas.”
“Yes, Miss Rolls,” they answered in unison.
Josephine gathered her belongings and walked down the cobbled path to the main road. Her footsteps echoed on the wet stones, her toes cold with dampness. Her bag swung behind her as she felt a tug at the shoulder strap from behind. She turned. It was the visitor. The strange man. She inhaled sharply and quickly pulled away.
“Was it removed?” he asked quietly, looking at the side of her face. “Or was it just put in? Such a mystery when we weave through time, trying to understand what has happened already.” His features were of the Far East and his accent flat and unaffected.
“Who are you? What do you mean?” She spoke quickly and walked even quicker.
“Did they send you back without it?” He stared at the side of her face, squinting his eyes. “Or was it just put in?” He put his hands on his chest and leaned into her. She covered her mouth; the smell of stale tobacco nauseated her. “Do you even know what I mean? Such a very, very strange girl.”
“I beg your pardon? Do I know you?” She pulled her cloak around her face and stepped back from him.
“Yes, actually. And we have mutual associates.”
“Associates? I am a tutor. I have no associates. I work with children.” She turned as she walked away. “You must be looking for someone else.”
“Indeed. So linear in your thinking. You must still be in the dark.”
“Do we have any business together?” she answered with annoyance creeping in her voice.
“No, not here. I am simply gathering information. No harm done.”
“What are these riddles you keep posing? And how do you know the Stratford family?”
“Who’s the Stratford family?”
“I was just tutoring their children in their home,” she pointed to the house behind him. “And you were in the foyer!”
“I do not know them. Nor do I care about them. I am here to find you.”
Gravesend, England
September 1855
“Josephine, come downstairs quickly, your father is waiting,” Mrs. Rolls ascended the stairs to rouse her daughter. “Breakfast is ready, darling. Come and join us.”
The rain had kept the family awake most of the night, stopping only moments before, but the gray clouds threatened to pour again at any moment. The cold, the wind, the rain, the mud, were all part of the quick transition from London’s fair summer to its impending long and dreary winter. The fog coursed through the city, which was of no particular surprise, but something bitter hung in the air as London’s commoners and ruling class elbowed and nudged their way through the muddied streets.
“Coming, Mums,” said Josephine, her lilting voice of a ten year old sang through the foyer.
Frederick Rolls sat at the table with his morning paper, readying himself for another day at his textile factory. The Rolls’ family had produced hand woven fabrics for three generations, and their station had improved markedly when Queen Victoria selected him to open and expedite trade channels with India. But in spite of this honor, Rolls Textiles lagged behind the lower cost and higher production of the new mechanical plants.
Josephine bounded down the stairs in light steps shouting, “Good morning Father!”
Mr. Rolls eyed his daughter affectionately, enjoying her natural capacity for joy and her innocence. He swept his mop of dark hair to the side as he pulled her in a rough embrace. The room was cool and dimly lit, and smelled of damp papers and baked bread.
“Good morning, love,” answered Mr. Rolls. “Tell me what you have been doing this morning.”
“Fiddling with the analog, playing games,” replied Josephine softly. “But it’s running out of power.”
Mr. Rolls’ face stiffened as his eyebrows lowered, “I have instructed you to limit playing on the analog to one hour in the afternoon. The analog is not an appropriate pursuit for you, Josephine. It will have deleterious effects on your mental development.”
“Yes, father.”
“Fresh air, languages, and the piano are far more desirable pursuits for a young lady. The analog will make you lazy as it tabulates for you.”
Josephine squeezed her father’s arm; she loved the challenging puzzles on the analog. She leaned into him and gazed squarely into his stern eyes. “Father, I don’t understand your condemnation of the analog. It’s quite enjoyable and I believe it has logical and educational properties.”
Mrs. Rolls interrupted before the argument escalated, “Josephine, do not speak to your father in that fashion. Your tone is inappropriate.”
Mr. Rolls said gently, “It’s not about disliking the analog. It’s far more complex. It’s about a machine that does the thinking of a man. It’s about a society that values its machines over its citi
zens. It’s about unemployment, caused by replacing living men with mechanized instruments and analogs. What are these men to do?”
“Perhaps these men should adapt. Perhaps they should learn to incorporate the machines into a new livelihood.”
“Don’t be silly!” Rolls’s voice boomed into the foyer. “It is one or the other. The human way, or the cold hard way of wires, data, and speed.”
“Frederick,” said his wife, “these are advanced concepts for a young girl’s mind.”
“It’s never too soon to make her aware of her surroundings. There will be a war! I am certain of it. A war between man and machines! Why must we nurture this enemy, who will soon enslave us?” Rolls polished his fastidiously shiny shoes while an overwhelming silence filled the room. He looked at his wife and tapped his index finger on the table, “It’s never too soon. To leave her in ignorance is a disservice to her future.”
“Father, you cannot stop progress.”
“That is enough for now, Josephine. I never should have exposed you to that analog machine. I should have kept it hidden from your young mind.” Mr. Rolls took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and adjusted his glasses. “Now, come along dear, pass me the jam and wash your hands. Bodhi, you’re certainly quiet today. Go wash up for breakfast also.”
Bodhi, orphaned in India, nodded at his foster father. His sharp features and dark suit gave the impression of a boy already a man. He smiled and turned to the grandfather clock as it struck the hour.
Mrs. Rolls shooed the children away to wash their hands. “No, you probably should not have shown it to her, dear. You should have kept it hidden.”
“Well, it did have some interesting functions,” he mumbled by way of defense. “But you are right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It only proves how addictive these machines are!”
The maid stood in the entry way to the dining room, “Sir, someone brought you a bouquet. Left it outside the gate and rang the bell.”
“Oh how lovely!” said Mrs. Rolls. “They must be from the Prime Minister’s office to welcome you back from India!”
“Odd though, the man ran off and left no message with the flowers.” The maid appeared confused and shrugged, “I yelled after him but the gentleman insisted you would know whom they were from. In quite a hurry, he was.”
“Strange, but how cheerfully exquisite!” Mrs. Rolls selected a crystal vase from her curio cabinet and turned to accept the arrangement.
Mr. Rolls ran to grab the flowers, suspecting something amiss, but the maid had already passed them to his wife. As she lifted the flowers into the vase, the room exploded in white light and wind. A cacophony of pops and screams pierced the landscape, leaving everything in shards and tatters.
Josephine and Bodhi stood together at the washbasin in the next room. The forced rush of air blew them into a wall of china. Bodhi felt his temple slam into the glass. He rolled over and saw Josephine lying in a crumpled heap, her body unnaturally twisted.
Bodhi pulled himself up and viewed the remains of the kitchen and dining room. Dust fell into his eyes as he viewed what remained of the first floor. On the north side, the top floor had collapsed into the ground. Random walls remained intact. Pictures fell, glass shattered, and papers blew. Shiny bits of metal fell to the ground. He ran to the foyer and knelt to finger the brass remains of the clock’s pendulum. He wiped the tears that stung his eyes and he spat out dust. The quietness in the air made the approaching footsteps sound like drum beats in his pounding ears. He turned to see Josephine walking towards him; blood was caked along her forehead.
She stumbled, barefoot. Her hair was tangled around her head and matted. She looked like a girl caught between the living and the dead.
He reached to her and squeezed her hand as each looked at what was left. Fallen walls and broken furniture marred the celebratory colors of the fall garden. Cracked and splintered wood ripped the lilac blossoms and bricks tore the orange chrysanthemums. A charred melancholy had burnt itself into the curtains and lingered in the blackened rugs. Everything ended with the smell of burning paper and flesh.
London
May 15th 1865
Bodhi lay on his back on the floor of the Prime Minister’s study, his head inside a grandfather clock. He tweaked the weights and cords with his hands and tried to force the clock back into working order. At his side, various sizes of gears and cogs tangled underneath his sleeves. His hands patted the floor, feeling by memory the correct replacement sizes.
“Usually a gentleman stands when a lady enters the room.”
The voice belonged to Caroline Ratcliffe. Bodhi took his head out from inside the grandfather clock and looked up at her, perched on the Prime Minister’s desk. Still on his back, he rolled himself forward, closed his toolbox, and stood up.
“I didn’t hear you come in, Lady Caroline,” Bodhi said softly, dusting his hands off as he walked over to greet her. “It has been a long time.”
“Yes, ten years perhaps. I won’t agree to more than that,” said Caroline as she looked down at her distressed leather gloves. A brown corset anchored her white puff-sleeved blouse and she wore olive colored trousers. Her bronze boots barely grazed the floor.
“What a surprise to see you and I am sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yes, I know Bodhi. You were too busy admiring the insides of this old pile of wood and brass. Evidently, you are still in love with clocks.” Caroline uncrossed her legs and hopped down from the desk. She tugged at her leather corset, smoothing it across the sides of her ribcage.
Bodhi smiled quickly then looked away. “Well, a man never forgets his first love. At any rate, clocks make sense to me. They are orderly, predictable. And if taken care of properly, they’ll last many lifetimes.”
“Finish up, Bodhi and we’ll have some tea in the drawing room.” Caroline appraised Bodhi. He had grown into a tall and slender man but overly elongated, as if he didn’t take the time to eat properly.
“Still giving orders? I wonder what the Prime Minister will say; I doubt he will like his daughter taking tea with a commoner, especially a sub-continental Indian man who runs a simple clock shop.”
“There is nothing common about you, Bodhi. And nothing predictable about my father.”
“He still spoils you.” Bodhi rubbed his hands with a linen cloth, avoiding Caroline’s eyes.
“No, he is more concerned with the state of England than the state of Caroline.”
They walked together towards the drawing room. Bodhi had no desire to pry further into her relationship with her father. Familial ties were messier than the mechanical perfection of clockworks.
The high ceilinged room held the most fashionable furnishings in her house; everything stylized, draped, and bowed. The flowerpots, lamps, piano legs, and even the clock were swathed in fabric. The only item uncovered in the room was the mirror, which seemed nude in comparison.
Bodhi crossed the crowded room and tripped on the edge of the carpet. Balancing himself, he bumped into a large fern that became fastened to one of his coat buttons. As he extricated himself from the vegetation, he stepped back into a small table and upended books, photographs, and flowers. In one heroic effort to sit comfortably in the crowded room, he squeezed into a red cushioned chair with his tool bag placed neatly on his lap.
“Oh dear, Bodhi. It is the style to have a cozy drawing room, but perhaps mine is too cozy for you,” teased Caroline, as she righted the fallen items and took his bag.
“I apologize for my clumsiness, I may be too large for this room. Perhaps, if I am invited again, removing some items might be a good idea.”
“I won’t have anything removed, dear Bodhi, but I will insist the tables and objects be more solidly anchored.”
“And I will try to comport myself with more grace.” Bodhi pushed up the magnifying goggles from his forehead into his hair. His displaced black hair stood on end.
“Unfortunately, the latest trend in decorating is from the Aesthetic Moveme
nt. Have you heard of it?” asked Caroline.
“I tend to follow more scientific news.”
“It is l’art pour l’art, or art for art’s sake, oui?” Caroline tossed her loose hair back from her shoulders. “Life should be lived intensely, following beauty. Strangely, this appeals to me.” Her hands gently fingered a doily on a side table. “Art provides sensuous pleasure rather than instruction and utility.”
“I don’t follow the latest fashions, Caroline. I simply fix clocks.”
“You are perhaps the opposite of this school of thought, Bodhi. Your philosophy is perhaps more functionality based?”
“I don’t believe function excludes beauty, Caroline. Nor do I know if it could be said that I have a philosophy on such matters. However, I do think it plausible for useful objects to have sensuality.”
“Indeed? I might agree.”
“I don’t think I could ever subscribe to a cult of purposeless beauty. I think beauty should be lived in and have a function. Like my clocks.” Bodhi gracefully olive hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a pocket watch. “ Beautiful? Yes. And purposeful? Absolutely. Anything else would simply be a façade, a worthless ornament.”
“Do you find it overly ornamental in here? What about my wallpaper? It may quite be overly patterned, even by my standards.”
“It is overly poisonous.” He put away his watch and glanced at the walls. The chartreuse, lilac, and gray wallpaper highlighted the Japanese influence of the room. Yet the flowers, birds, gingko leaves, and peacocks decorated the wallpaper in a dizzying pattern.
“Poisonous! I’ve never heard such a thing. Bodhi, your bluntness borders on rudeness,” said Caroline, leaning forward to swat his knee with her fan. Two dark blonde strands of hair fell on either side of her face.
“It is a mere fact,” he said in seriousness. “I did not intend to offend you.” He glanced to the window. “The dyes in your wallpaper contain high levels of arsenic. Your drawing room is slowly poisoning you and many others of your class who decorate in this ornate style. This is why a ‘change of air’ is so beneficial to the invalids of your class. Symptoms of illness improve when by the sea, but when the poor saps return to these poisonous drawing rooms, they sicken again. Is this what ‘art for art’s sake’ is, Caroline? Decorative to the eye but deadly to the body?”