The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl

by Statham, Leigh

  A female automaton that Marguerite had never seen before stood at attention by Claude’s main workbench. Gleaming silver trays and copper dishes were lined up beside her. She’d obviously been hard at work polishing them.

  “This looks lovely, Outil!” Claude cried. “Marguerite, I’d like to introduce you to Outil. She’s my latest invention.” He beamed like a father presenting his newborn daughter.

  Marguerite was confused. “I thought you said you wanted me to meet someone. This is just a bot.” She turned to the machine, looking it over closely.

  The automaton stood taller than Marguerite, almost as tall as Claude’s six-foot frame, and cast its bronze eyes into the distance as was protocol. Its outer panels were cast in a fine bronze alloy that was polished to a mirror shine. You could see the gear-work at her joints, perfectly oiled and of much finer craftsmanship than typical plantation bots. Her shoulders were capped with the usual light panels for converting any light source to power and her face had decidedly feminine features. Most bots were gender-based for novelty’s sake more than anything else, but this bot seemed even more feminine than what one would usually expect. Marguerite almost felt like she should be wearing a skirt of some sort.

  “She’s top of the line, state of the art, best of the best. Anything you need, she can deliver. She’d make a perfect lady’s maid if you could talk your father into letting bots work in the house full-time, but she also has a new feature I’ve been working on for outside jobs. See here.” Claude pointed to one of the open joints in the automaton’s elbow. “Feel this.”

  Marguerite reached out and touched her slender finger to the opening. Instead of cool metal she felt an almost warm, synthetic substance. “What is it?”

  Claude beamed like a little child. “I call it clearcoat. I modified an epoxy formula I’ve been working on and combined it with a few other ingredients to form a waterproof barrier I can apply to all the bots. It should cut down on the need for constant oiling and rust-wear in the wet seasons.”

  “Why would you need to prove anything to water?” Vivienne had her head tipped sideways as she stared at the bot.

  “It’s brilliant, Claude. Really brilliant.” Marguerite wished she could enjoy this moment of triumph with her friend fully, the way she would have if he hadn’t just told her he was leaving on a death mission.

  “She’s for you, Marguerite.” He smiled down at his childhood friend. “I wanted you to have more than a cricket to remember me by.”

  “Oh, Claude.” She felt numb all over so she fell back on basic manners “I don't know what to say. I’ve never thought of having an automaton for a lady’s maid before.”

  “Well, you should. She’s the perfect watchdog for when you-know-who is on the warpath. She can even walk you into town if you decide you want to have lunch there after all.”

  “Wait, I thought that was settled … ” Vivienne looked confused.

  Marguerite cut Vivienne off. “That is very thoughtful of you, Claude.” She touched Outil’s highly polished forearm again, wondering at the sheer genius of her friend. She bit her tongue hard as her mind raced with arguments against his leaving. Eventually she couldn’t hold back, “She will never replace you.” Her voice sounded harsher than she meant for it to be.

  “No, of course not. But she will be able to help you out when I can’t. You’ll see. She’s very useful. I’d love to give you a complete demonstration, but I don’t have time. I literally have to get these pots scooping before the end of the day or my hide will be under your daddy’s boots tomorrow. Take her to town, have lunch. We’ll talk later.” He clapped Marguerite on the back like she was one of his coworkers and strode off toward the back of the forge.

  Marguerite looked at the bot and at Vivienne, then at Claude’s retreating back. This was not exactly how she’d planned on celebrating her freedom for the afternoon, but it could be worse. She could still be stuck in the classroom with Pomphart.

  “All right, let’s go.”

  Vivienne clapped for joy and bounced a few times like a five-year-old before the three of them headed out the door.

  ***

  The short walk into La Rochelle proper consisted mainly of Vivienne chattering and Marguerite deep in thought. The salty sea air clung to their faces and teased curls out of the loose tendrils of hair that spilled around their rose-colored cheeks. Outil followed behind them, skillfully angling a parasol to protect their delicate skin from the warm sun.

  Marguerite had a bottomless change purse that every merchant in town coveted when she started dropping by Main Street the year before. Some even stood at their stoops flinging desperate compliments in her direction, hoping she would patronize their shops. But she wasn’t in the mood to buy anything today. However, the attention lifted her spirits a bit and she nodded congenially toward everyone who smiled her way, freely giving out false hope.

  She let Vivienne set the pace, stopping wherever she did to glance at the latest fashions. Normally her interests lay in brass creations brought by ship from faraway lands. The merchants’ windows buzzed with whirling cogs and fanciful creations catching the sunlight as they demonstrated their usefulness. Normally she stared, taking it all in with hungry eyes, and purchased a few odds and ends to be sent back to the estate. But today every carefully crafted piece reminded her of Claude. She kept her gaze away from the brass contraptions and purposefully didn’t think once about the cricket tucked in her pocket.

  After a while, Vivienne asked, “Are you worried about Claude?”

  “No!” Marguerite snorted. “I'm worried about me.” This was not completely a lie.

  “You? What have you to worry about? Claude is the one heading off into the unknown.” Vivienne’s tone was incredulous. “You just have to try not to step on anyone's feet at the ball. Well, not anyone you'd be interested in anyway.” She giggled at her own joke.

  “Vivienne, I don't want Claude to leave, but I can't stop him. He's right, we aren't children anymore and he's free to go where he wants.” Saying the words out loud again seemed to help dissipate the sting, if not remove it altogether. “But his leaving has made my ball even more of a reality.”

  “What do you mean more of a reality?”

  “I don't want to parade myself around like some sort of automatic scythe.” She motioned to the sharp instrument in the nearest window, dangerously slicing the air back and forth with perfect cadence. “There is no one I want to meet there and certainly no one I want to marry.” She spit the last word out like an overripe anchovy.

  “I don’t understand that at all.”

  “That's because you were made for this life. You look good in gloves and with your hair done up just so. You'll be the perfect mistress of Montemerci.”

  “What do you want then?” Vivienne’s eyebrows lifted sky-high in an expression of perplexity.

  “That's just the thing, I don't know what I want. All I know is that I’m beginning to feel like a caged animal with all this talk of armies and marriage—and stupid Pomphart.” The sun shone down hard on Marguerite's face, highlighting the creases in her brow. “Outil! Where are you?” She turned to look for the automaton. “Bots are so infuriating sometimes.”

  The humble machine had stopped two paces behind them to scan the notices on the wall of the La Rochelle post office. The two girls traipsed back to retrieve their chaperone. Marguerite clamped down on the scolding she intended to deliver when she realized that the bot was reading.

  “Can you read?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes, m’lady.” The bot stood at attention and immediately hoisted the parasol back over the head of her new mistress. “Forgive me, I was gleaning news to add to my stores in case it may be of use to you.”

  “These are just the calls for soldiers,” Marguerite explained. “The same ones that led Claude to sign up for duty.” They had been aware of the posters for several years now, calling men and women to volunteer for His Majesty’s service. Marguer
ite had never given them a second thought since they were mixed in with the notices for ruffians on the loose and boring decrees about taxes and such. In fact, she’d never even read them thoroughly. But today Marguerite’s gaze rested on a rich cream-colored piece of parchment scrawled with ornate black letters next to the call for soldiers. It was almost identical in design and would have easily been mistaken for a duplicate if not for the large print at the top:

  DAUGHTERS OF THE KING

  His Majesty,

  The Great King Louis XIV

  Invites Young Women of Character to join their Brothers in

  NEW FRANCE

  as Helpmates and Wives

  for the betterment of His Majesty's Kingdom abroad

  “Why would anyone in their right mind want to do this?” she almost whispered to herself.

  Vivienne took it upon herself to answer: “Marguerite, this is for the poor street urchins of Paris and farmers’ daughters with no hope of a dowry. It's a social matchmaking program to populate the wilds across the sea.”

  “Thank you, I know.” Marguerite hated when Vivienne answered rhetorical questions.

  “Don't be absurd,” a rough male voice startled the three companions. They turned to discover the owner was a tall young man with olive skin and brown, sun-kissed hair, older than the girls by enough years to feel dangerous. He smiled mischievously and continued, “Some of the finest-bred ladies in our fine capital have already signed up and settled in New France with their high-stepping military husbands, claiming vast estates and popping out babies for His Majesty's kingdom abroad.”

  Vivienne’s face flamed at the impropriety. She hissed at him, “It’s not proper to speak of breeding while standing in the street!”

  Marguerite ignored her pious friend and the stranger’s crude manners. “And just who are you, and how would you know about breeding abroad?”

  “I’m Captain Jacques Laviolette, and I know because I've been there and seen the breeding firsthand.” His eyes twinkled with the naughtiness of a life at sea. Marguerite did not doubt that he’d seen many things, but she questioned him anyway.

  “Have you really been there?” Marguerite asked while taking in his every detail. “You don’t look old enough to be the captain of anything.”

  He didn’t bat an eye at her attitude and continued his tale, enjoying himself a little too obviously. “I’ve been there several times and this just happens to be my first command, young miss. You have permission to congratulate me—but first, might I add that you don’t look old enough to be out and about on the streets without a real chaperone. Metal order-takers don’t count.” He thumbed a rough hand toward Outil.

  Marguerite ignored his insult and replied instantly, “Congratulations on achieving such a lofty position.” She let the words slide out of her mouth on a river of sarcasm before she pressed on, “Is it really as dangerous as they say? You seem to have made it back to civilization in one piece … or did they not let you off the ship whilst away from Mother France?”

  Jacques took a step toward her, forcing her to step back to avoid an improper scene. It was bad enough she would be witnessed conversing with a sailor, captain or not, in public. She didn’t want to provide any more ammunition to the townspeople that were giving them funny looks as they passed. Her father’s unexplained hatred of anyone in the military was legendary.

  Jacques leaned closer and whispered, “Why don’t you sign up and come see for yourself?” He smiled, not an unpleasant smile, revealing a perfect row of white teeth.

  Marguerite stared at his mouth, thinking it odd that a common sailor would have such a beautiful row of pearly teeth. Most sailors she’d met, even those from noble families in the military, suffered from malnutrition and lack of proper hygiene resulting in a mess of brown lumps in their mouth and chronic halitosis.

  She shook herself out of this reverie and stood as straight as her small frame would allow, stepping forward to meet him face to face.

  “Maybe I will.” She paused. “Or maybe I’ll go home and have my maid draw me a bath and then I will try on each of my fourteen new dresses until I’m satisfied with the one I will wear to the ball my father is throwing for me where several young men from excellent families will be vying for my hand in marriage.”

  Outil stepped forward before Marguerite had finished her statement, a slender steel arm pushed in between the two, and gently coaxed the girl to come along. Marguerite did not resist. Her perfectly pedigreed nose shot up in the air as she turned on her heel and linked arms with Vivienne who stared with her mouth open.

  “Au revoir, Captain Laviolette.”

  ***

  If she had looked back in that moment she would have seen Jacques rock back on the heels of his worn boots, summing up her departure with the same perfect smile, and chuckling to himself.

  A bent-over old man hobbled up to him. “Jacques, my boy, it’s best to let that one be.” His voice cracked with age and want of a drink. “She’s the daughter of old Lord Vadnay, wilder than a prairie pony, they say, and mighty high on the hog about herself.”

  “Don’t worry. She won’t get me into any trouble. I just enjoy putting a noble in their place every now and then.” He paused and watched the small party turn a corner out of sight. “Especially a pretty one.”

  “Jacques, you make too much trouble for yourself. Your father would weep.”

  “My father is dead, Maurice.” A touch of sadness clung to his words. “And the dead don’t weep.”

  Chapter Three

  Two days later Marguerite twirled on tiptoe in front of the mirror. Her lavender silk dress rustled happily, not unlike the trees of her favorite glen. At the advice of Claude she convinced her father to allow Outil to serve in the home alongside her lady’s maid but only part-time. As a result, Madame Pomphart refrained from corporal punishments knowing the bot would give statements against her.

  And there were many other advantages to having an automaton at your beck and call. In preparation for the ball, Outil cinched Marguerite’s corset until her tiny waist was no larger than the trunk of a young fruit tree. No lady’s maid had ever been able to lace her trusses so quickly or snugly. Plus Marguerite never worried about Outil repeating gossip from her quarters to the kitchens. This “pet” bot started to grow on her.

  “What do you think?” She batted her eyes coyly at Outil, who stood perfectly still and at the ready.

  “It is a pleasing color, miss.” Her voice was softer, less mechanical than the other bots, just one more detail she knew Claude added just for her.

  “So you see in color? Hmm, interesting.” Marguerite enjoyed studying Claude’s workmanship and understood the basics of mechanical design, much to Pomphart’s chagrin. Outil is the perfect toy for a real lady, she thought sarcastically. At the thought of toys she plunged her hand into the secret pocket she ordered to be sewn in her skirts and pinched her brass cricket, enjoying the way it wiggled and tried to escape. If the party bored her tonight she could always slip it down someone's shirt while dancing.

  A knock at the door pulled Marguerite away from her wicked plans.

  “Your father and guests are waiting, miss.” A lady’s maid stood at attention just outside the threshold.

  “Fine. I suppose the guest of honor should eventually make an appearance, non?” She checked her hair and rouge one more time before leaving. Dark waves normally streaming down her back were now pulled up in a modern fashion, making her look much more refined than she ever cared to be. Just the slightest bit of rouge lit up her cheeks like a warm summer’s day and she giggled to herself merrily at the thought of the gossip she would stir up among the old ladies in attendance. Face painting was not quite a rage in La Rochelle like in Paris.

  “Come, Outil.” She motioned for the bot to follow her.

  “I think not,” a jarring voice bellowed from the hallway behind the maid. “This is not one of your play dates in the field. This is an official celebrat
ion of your coming of age and you will follow the rules of decorum. A common field automaton should not be allowed in the house, much less in the ballroom on a formal occasion.”

  “Yes, Madame Pomphart.” Marguerite’s words were correct but her tone bubbled with sarcasm. She held up her hand to stop Outil from following. “Wait here.”

  She couldn’t take the bot with her to the party but she certainly could have whatever oddities she wanted in her own room. In fact, every level surface of her room was cluttered with them. Oddly shaped clocks from the marketplace with glass casings revealing the intricate workmanship within, bizarre tools she only liked the looks of and had absolutely no use for, more toys built for her by Claude in their childhood—, all of these things and more lined the tops of her garishly rich furniture and seemed to bid her a sad farewell as she stepped into the hallway and let the maid close the door.

  From the landing she spied a sea of heads bobbing around over large dresses and flapping waistcoats. Some danced to the lively modern orchestra she requested specifically and her father grudgingly agreed to. A brass violinist was the highlight of the group along with a kettle drum and a traditional cello played with a strange metal stick instead of a wooden bow. Together they sang out familiar old tunes but with a new beat and flare that thrilled Marguerite to the core.