The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “Sandwiches, Miss Higgins! I require sustenance! Genius requires fuel!”

  Estella controlled the impulse to roll her eyes, and instead put her notebook away. She paused in the doorway.

  “Does that mean extra sugar in your tea, sir?”

  Professor Tenebrous’ eyes lit up.

  “Yes. Just bring the sugar bowl back with you. If I don’t have it in my tea, I’ll need it for the solution in this next step.”

  Estella left the laboratory, wondering if the professor would notice if she added laudanum to the tea if it was the tiniest bit oversteeped, or if she would need to be even more generous with the sugar than usual.

  * * * *

  The bottles in her basket clinked gently in time with the click of Estella’s boot heels as she descended the stairs that led to the lower floor of the building. She half-heartedly glared at the glowing blue globes that Professor Tenebrous had somehow found the time to install in the public areas of the building over the past few days. It was all well and good for him to consider the entire structure his “secret lair”, but Estella felt that using such things outside of the inner rooms was tantamount to marching around the park while waving a sign proclaiming Take Over the World—Ask Me How! There was a difference between taking pride in one’s accomplishments and showing off. Professor Tenebrous enthusiastically stamped all over that difference, as if it were some sort of scuttling beetle.

  She paused before unlocking the door to her office, distracted by strange sounds from within. She set the basket out of the way on the floor, grasped one of the bottles to use as a weapon if needed, and opened the door as quietly as she could manage.

  “…Miss Kirkland? Are you there, Miss Kirkland? I need you to come to the laboratory right away—”

  The imperious sound of Professor Tenebrous’ voice shouting tinnily from the wall trumpet was overlaid with the disquieting noises of thumping and the smashing of glass. Estella set the bottle she was clutching down on a corner of her desk, then retrieved the basket and placed its four compatriots in a tidy line next to it. She removed an envelope, sealed with blue sealing wax, and set it in the middle of her desk blotter.

  “The mandrake root you had delivered not only seems to be entirely mute, but it is exceedingly mobile. Miss Linden! Where are you?”

  Estella opened a desk drawer and removed a dark amber glass bottle bearing a label that read “Doctor Crighton’s Nerve Tonic! For the Easement of Megrims, Brain Fevers, and Anxious States!” She gave it a considering, weighing-up sort of glance before shaking her head and placing it in the basket. She added a securely-stoppered bottle of ink, some pens, and a small pot of violets to the basket, then using some sheets of the previous day’s newspaper from the rubbish bin, she carefully wrapped and padded her tea pot and teacup, placing them safely on top.

  “—need you to come here now, Miss Brutwell! Bring heavy gloves. And tongs. Large tongs.”

  Estella picked up the sealed envelope, walked to the door at the back of her office, and unlocked it. She proceeded down the hallway, not bothering to re-lock the doors she passed through. She paused in front of the door of Professor Tenebrous’ laboratory, and listened to the noises of chaos emanating from it. Opening the door the smallest amount she could, she slid the envelope through the crack, pushed the door firmly shut, then retraced her steps back to her office, making quite sure to lock each door behind her.

  Stopping once more in front of her desk, she took a piece of paper and a pencil from a drawer, wrote “Yes, I really mean it,” and left the note sitting prominently in the middle of the desk blotter. Then she picked up the basket and walked out. If she hurried, she could catch the next train.

  * * * *

  The housekeeper stood before Estella in the hall, the light from flickering candles of the chandelier above straining to ameliorate the gloom.

  “Yer late,” harrumphed the housekeeper, glaring at Estella’s damp form.

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” replied Estella primly. “There was some sort of blockage on the train tracks that had to be removed in the middle of this rainstorm, and then I waited at the station for an interminably long time. When, Old Jed, I believe he said he was called, finally appeared, this rain had been going on long enough for the road here to Chamington Hall to become treacherously muddy, and Old Jed felt that caution and a slow pace was called for.”

  Restraining an impulse to twitch her traveling skirts in an attempt to dislodge some of the mud from them, she continued, “Tell me, does Old Jed always smell of turpentine and spirits?”

  The housekeeper sniffed. “Old Jed, ’ee’s partial to a drop now and again, ’tis true.”

  Estella looked down her nose in disapproval, or as much as she was able to, being shorter than the housekeeper, a formidably tall woman with features that looked as if they’d been hewn from rock.

  The housekeeper returned Estella’s disapproving glare, then looked down at her mud-splattered skirts.

  “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to tidy up a bit before you meet Master Chamington and Young Master Wade, then? Come along, I’ll show you to your room, Miss Hargreaves.”

  Estella picked up her bags. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe you ever introduced yourself?” she said crisply.

  “Mrs. Bailey,” said the housekeeper, leading Estella to the back of the house and up a narrow set of stairs.

  “Would Old Jed be Mister Bailey?” asked Estella.

  Mrs. Bailey gave Estella a speaking look over her shoulder.

  “Old Jed is Mr. Bailey insomuch ’cos he’s my brother, miss. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, merely trying to get everyone sorted out. Whom else of the household staff shall I be dealing with?”

  “There be the two housemaids, Dorrie and Jane, the cook, Mrs. Callaway, and the stableboy, Jem. Old Jed does the gardening and handiwork, and we hires lads from the village if anything else is needed.”

  Mrs. Bailey opened a door with dingy, peeling blue paint, and motioned for Estella to proceed her into the room.

  “Here you go, miss. Ring after you’ve freshened up, and Dorrie or Jane will show you the way to the parlor, “she said, pulling the door behind her as she clomped away.

  Estella surveyed the room, and found it wanting. The wallpaper, an inane print of flowers, appeared to have both water stains and scorch marks in various places. There was a narrow bed, a wardrobe that had obviously seen better days, and a dressing chest with mirror above it that doubled as a washstand. A dirty window looked out onto what Estella presumed was a garden; the dark night and driving rain made it impossible to discern any details. A door on the far wall, once unlatched, led to a schoolroom that was cheerier than Estella’s room by the merest fraction, papered in wide cream and sunny yellow stripes.

  She quickly shed her damp and muddy traveling clothes, and draped them over the folding screen that concealed the hip bath to let them dry. She splashed some water on her face from the wash jug and basin that had been left on the chest of drawers, quickly fastened the buttons on her moss green dress, secured an ivory lace collar around her throat, and pinned her watch to the front of her dress. She tugged on the bellpull, and looked in the mirror, smoothing her pale golden hair back as she waited for the arrival of one of the housemaids.

  * * * *

  Dorrie, a frail slip of a girl with hair the color of a mouse, escorted Estella to the parlor. She answered Estella’s questions about how long she had worked at Chamington, how she had come to be there, and what the previous governesses had been like with diffident shrugs and “I’m sure I couldn’t say, miss.”

  Dorrie pulled open the heavy double-doors leading to the parlor with ease, showing there was strength lurking in her scrawny bones.

  “Here’s Miss Hargreaves, sir,” she announced into the room, and backed away from the doors, letting them slam shut behind Estella.

  Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, barely diluted by the glow of a few candles and the dancing flames of the fire. Rest
ing one arm on the mantel was a tall man with unruly dark hair. Dressed in elegantly-cut riding clothes, he had the air of someone more used to being outdoors than being confined in a room with breakable things.

  “So you are Miss Hargreaves. Tiny thing, aren’t you? But certainly more decorative than the previous governesses.”

  Mindful that this man was her employer, Estella did not show the full strength of glare that that sort of overly-personal comment warranted, and instead replied, “Is that why they are the previous governesses, Master Chamington? Because they were not decorative enough?”

  The dark-haired man slapped his thigh and cut loose with a bark of laughter. He stepped toward Estella, his pale eyes glinting, the firelight accentuating his high cheeks with shadows.

  “No, they are the previous governesses because they were not able to control young Wade. Perhaps he’ll be more inclined to be biddable if his lessons come from a pretty face.” Master Chamington turned his head and looked down at a corner of floor by the fireplace. “What say you, boy? Do you like your new governess?”

  Estella followed his gaze and was surprised to see a young boy sitting there, staring at the fire with rapt attention. He tore his eyes away from the flames and directed a quick glance her way, then shrugged.

  “I am sure we will get along quite well,” said Estella. As a clock in the dim recesses of the room chimed, she continued, “Though I am not sure that a young boy should still be up at eleven o’clock at night.

  Young Master Wade glared at her for this statement.

  “A good point indeed, Miss Hargreaves,” answered Master Chamington. “Yes, start off with establishing routines and discipline, just what the boy needs.”

  Young Master Wade, still glaring, mumbled something under his breath. Estella barely made out the word “scared”, but nothing else.

  “Now now, young sir, “she said, addressing the boy. “I am sure there is nothing of which you need to be frightened. Come along, it is far past time for you to be asleep.”

  “Shows what you know! There are things to be scared of!” Young Master Wade spat at her, and then ran from the room.

  Estella watched him go, and then turned to his father. “Well?” she asked, “Are there frightening things?”

  “Of course not,” replied Master Chamington, with a sardonic twist to his mouth. Estella decided to believe that it was merely the shadows cast by the flickering flames that made him look untrustworthy.

  “Then I will go see to the boy, and stay with him until he falls asleep.”

  Estella, used to repositioning laboratory equipment, was amazed that the waiflike Dorrie had been able to open the parlor doors with no problem, for they resisted her. She heard Master Chamington chuckle unkindly behind her as she finally pushed them open enough to slip out of the room.

  * * * *

  Wade watched with wide eyes, the covers pulled up to his chin, as Estella blew out all the candles save one. She set the final candle, securely wedged in a pewter candlestick with a wide base, on the low table next to the bed, and then sat down in the chair beside it.

  “Now, what has frightened you? You can tell me; I assure you, I will not be scared.”

  The boy gripped the covers so tightly his fingers went white.

  “Eyeless…” he mumbled hesitantly.

  “Come now, you can tell me,” she said, striving to sound reassuring.

  “We don’t talk about it, Miss,” said Wade earnestly. “If you talk about it, it is sure to come for you in the night.”

  Estella suspected that one of the previous, less-decorative, governesses had tried to induce good behavior by way of scaring the boy with tales of horrible monsters. A tactic Estella would have respected if it had ever proved effective.

  “There is nothing that is going to come for you in the night. I will sit right here until you fall asleep.”

  Wade’s eyes, still wide with scarcely-contained fear, darted toward the comforting light of the candle.

  “Do you want me to leave the candle with you?”

  He moved his head in the barest amount of a nod.

  “Very well, then. But you must close your eyes now, and go to sleep.”

  As Young Master Wade did as he was told, Estella mused that he probably was a quite tractable child, once he wasn’t frightened.

  * * * *

  “Did you sleep well, miss?” inquired Jane in the morning, bringing up a tray with tea and toast.

  “Quite well, thank you,” responded Estella, coiling her hair on top of her head, and then securing it with carved wooden hairpins.

  “No strange noises or scratching sounds?” continued Jane, sounding a touch skeptical.

  Estella turned and skewered her with a steely look. “No. I slept through the night, and there were no strange noises. Why do you ask?”

  Jane stepped back toward the door, her skin the color of wallpaper paste, her lank orangish hair straggling from her cap.

  “Oh, no reason, miss. We had a bit of a problem with, with squirrels. Getting into the attic. Caused no end of noise, and it made Miss Purleigh a bit twitchy-like.”

  “Was Miss Purleigh one of the previous governesses?” asked Estella, examining the jar labeled ‘Medlar Jamm’ that was next to the plate of toast.

  “Yes, miss. Terribly nervous, she was. Left in the middle of the night, not a word to no one.” Jane bit her lip anxiously.

  “Did she really?” mused Estella. “The squirrels made her that nervous?”

  “Don’t know, miss. Not my place to say. Will you be needing anything else, miss?” asked Jane, a faint dew of perspiration glistening on her forehead.

  Estella shook her head, still warily eyeing the Medlar Jamm. Jane scuttled out the door.

  After finishing her tea and toast (plain, with no jam), Estella went into the schoolroom, where the boy was finishing his own, similar repast. Estella noted that his jar of Medlar Jamm was also untouched.

  Wincing inwardly at the similarity to Jane’s conversational tactics, Estella asked, “Did you sleep well? No nightmares, I hope?”

  Wade turned a shy glance at her, the barest hint of a smile lighting his face.

  “No nightmares, miss. There weren’t any noises, neither.”

  “Either,” corrected Estella automatically, and then went on, “Noises, hmmm? Jane mentioned that there were once squirrels in the attic.”

  “If she says that’s what they were, miss,” replied Wade, sounding dubious.

  “No matter, we shan’t give them another minute of our time. Come now, show me your lesson books, so I may see where your other governesses left off.

  She set the boy some simple arithmetic problems, his workbook having shown that his grasp of numbers was rather vague. In fact, he had not bothered to attempt many of the problems his previous governesses had tasked him with, instead filling the pages with sketches. Estella flipped through the pages, seeing the likenesses of his father, of Mrs. Bailey and Old Jed, of the maids Jane and Dorrie, and of a woman who looked overmuch like a Siamese cat that had bitten into a rotten lemon.

  “You have the makings of a talented portraitist, Wade,” said Estella. “However, you still must learn how to do sums.”

  He looked up from where he had been counting on his fingers under the table to determine the answer to a multiplication problem.

  “That’s what Miss Purleigh said, miss. That’s her, there,” he said, pointing at the unhappy-looking woman.

  “She was exactly right, you know. A strong talent in one area does not mean that you can ignore everything else.” Estella looked over his latest work, and shook her head. “I see we will have to do quite a number of drills to improve your mathematics.”

  As Wade sighed and went back to staring in frustrated incomprehension at his multiplication problems, Estella continued to browse through the sketches. There was another sketch of Miss Purleigh, in which Estella discovered that a smiling expression did not improve her countenance. There were several portraits of a la
dy with a cloud of pale hair, smiling with plump cheeks and a glint in her eye. Glancing at the boy, she could see some similar features and deduced that she was looking at the image of the boy’s late mother.

  “If you work very hard at learning your sums, I will speak to your father about acquiring a set of watercolor paints for you, hmmm?”

  A glint very similar to that of the lady in the sketches danced in Wade’s eyes.

  “Really, miss?” In his excitement, he knocked a stack of papers to the floor. Estella picked them up and was shuffling them back together when more sketches caught her eye. Sketches of what looked to be an infant in swaddling clothes, but deformed; all screaming mouth, with a tiny, snout-like nose and a blank expanse of skin where the eyes should have been.

  “Gracious, and what an imagination you have,” said Estella, gazing mildly at the horrific images.

  The boy, seeing what drawings she was looking at, started twisting his fingers together nervously, the color draining from his face. Estella caught his eye and said, “Is this what you were afraid of, last night? When you didn’t want to go to sleep?”

  He nodded. Estella clicked her tongue against her teeth, lost in thought for a moment.

  “Well, drawing something is a good way to keep an eye on the idea, so it doesn’t sneak around your mind when you’re trying to be calm,” she said.

  Wade looked down at the table, still pale. Then he wrenched his head up, and with tear-filled eyes babbled, “They say I’m not supposed to talk about it! It’s real, miss, it’s real! It took my mother away!”

  The boy dropped his head down on his arms and wept.

  Estella stood, placed a hand on Wade’s head, and let him cry until his sobs had tapered off. Then she crouched down next to him and asked, “Who has said you’re not supposed to talk about it?”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes tightly, obviously scared to answer her.

  Estella stood back up, and stared off into the distance. “I think we could both do with a nice cup of tea, hmm?” she said. “I’ll go fetch us some, and maybe see if Mrs. Callaway has some cake or biscuits hidden away.