by Jasmine Walt
They're the perfect workers.
So where does that leave me?
Nicholas had taken over foreman duties on the Chelsea section of the Wall, which now stretched five miles across the district, thanks to the speed and efficiency of the Boilers. He was thankful to escape the Engine Ward, knowing that Isambard had brought in a dragon.
He hadn't seen Aaron, and was grateful, for he didn't know how he could keep the whole affair from him. Had Aaron heard the dragon, or had Isambard taken it too far away? What was it even doing here? Why did Quartz not want Aaron to know about it?
As foreman, his main task was to oversee operation of the Boilers. The Boilers operated using what Brunel called a "program", an experimental term coined by Charles Babbage to mean a series of commands that the machine repeated over and over. Using a panel of switches and gears, Nicholas could make the Boilers twist, bend, secure, rivet, hold, and stack objects. He'd practised for half the night in the Boiler sheds, ‘till he could program precise movements without mistakes. The units needed men watching them constantly, for they sometimes malfunctioned. But as Nicholas watched in amazement, in less than two hours, ten Boilers erected the skeleton of the next half-mile of Wall.
As construction raced forward, onlookers lined the streets to gawp at the Boilers. "What be those?" asked the greengrocer as he huffed under the weight of a cart heaped with vegetables.
Nicholas explained how the Boilers worked, and his face lit up. "Gor, that Brunel is a clever chap. I'd buy one for meownself, so I didn't have to push this cart no more."
By lunchtime they'd run out of iron, and with the next shipment not due ‘till the following day, the men packed up their tools and wheeled the Boilers – their fires still stoked – onto the wooden wagons, strapped them down, and drove them across the city for demolition work. Hundreds of buildings had to be torn down and streets pulled up to made way for the Wall, but the Boilers made light work of such an impossible chore.
"These here contraptions are all right," said one worker, giving the nearest Boiler an affectionate pat. "I wouldn't mind one in me own home, make light work of the woodpile, wouldn't ye?"
The Boiler, of course, made no reply, staring forward with an unseeing gaze. For the first time, Nicholas felt the knot of fear in his stomach untie itself. Maybe Isambard really had found a way to build the Wall on time. Maybe the Boilers would save all their lives.
The breakneck pace of construction had not escaped notice. What should have taken months was completed in days, and already the skeleton of the Wall stretched from the Engine Ward right across the Thames to Paddington. In Chelsea, whole blocks of residences were demolished to make way for an ornate gatehouse. Tongues wagged – just who did this Brunel think he was?
Each day, the Wall's growth increased exponentially as more and more Boilers poured from the factory sheds. Soon more than a hundred Boilers worked the Wall, each one doing the work of fifty men without food or drink or pay.
As the shell took shape and the men grew confident with the machines, Nicholas gave up his job as overseer and got to work on the exterior design. He commissioned a team of craftsmen from the Isis Sect to construct the pediments and steel arches that made up the classically inspired exterior.
The Free-Thinking Men's Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society met at their regular time. Aaron and Nicholas presented their code to James, who thanked them gratefully and set about committing it to memory.
Discussion quickly turned to the speed and efficiency of the Boilers, and other applications for the machines. Buckland saw them as great earthmovers, able to shift tons of dirt or rock to reveal the hidden stories of the biological past. Holman pointed to their application as mechanical servants, eliminating the need for men and women to perform chores about the house. Even Dalton could see uses for the machines in his medical practice. Aaron remained silent, but his surly expression gave his opinion away.
"Brunel must be careful," Buckland warned. "Powerful men are watching this Wall, and they're not as easily impressed as the London mob."
Nicholas barely contributed to the discussion. He watched Aaron carefully, worried about his state of mind, wondering if he too had heard the voice of Brunel's dragon. Twice, he almost blurted out what he knew about Quartz, but he didn't want to anger Aaron further.
The Royal Society met on its usual night, but when Isambard and Nicholas entered the room all conversation died away. The faces that met Isambard’s gaze did not show awe or admiration, but rather suspicion and fear. If he noticed the mood in the room, he cared not, and he carried on his sermons as if nothing were amiss. Nicholas knew the Council – who did not know of the King's secret railway – would not continue to allow Isambard such free rein.
Nicholas' suspicions proved correct. Ten days into the assigned month, Brunel received a summons from the Council. He was to report to Windsor Castle the very next day to answer questions by Council members on the alarming progress of the Wall.
"This is perfect," he said, folding the letter precisely and tucking it into his pocket.
"As always, friend, I am confused by your enthusiasm,” replied Nicholas. “Surely the Council means to curtail your progress on the Wall, maybe even prosecute you?"
"Prosecute me for what? I've done nothing wrong. The Council members have not seen my Boilers in action, so they are right to hold my methods under suspicion. But tomorrow I can win their support." A Boiler unit stood silent and un-stoked in the corner of Brunel’s workshop. Isambard walked over, took a rag soaked in oil, and began to lovingly rub away the dust that had accumulated on its surface. "Once they see my beauties operating, they'll all want one for themselves. Servants that don't have to be paid or whipped, workers that never tire – politicians are, above all else, greedy, lazy men. They would keep as much of their money in their own pockets as possible, and they will see the use in my Boilers, of that I am certain."
Nicholas had other things to think about. Tomorrow he would have his chance to see Brigitte again. With nerves wound tight as engine coils, he tried to formulate a plan to slip out of the meeting; perhaps when Brunel began his speech? He obtained his map of the castle and went over Maxwell's instructions ‘till he had them memorized.
That night he tossed and turned, unable to sleep for his fears. What if I am caught sneaking around the castle? What if Brigitte is caught and punished? What if she has changed her mind about me?
Early the following morning, Nicholas arrived, bleary eyed, outside the Boiler factory, where Isambard waited for him beside a private carriage. A small crowd of Stokers peeked from inside the factory, curious about the commotion.
He had never seen the Presbyter so excited; Isambard jiggled back and forth on his feet, practically dancing while the men manoeuvred a Boiler inside a tall wooden crate, nailed it shut, and heaved it onto the back of the carriage. The two men climbed aboard and the driver sped toward Windsor.
Isambard kept up a stream of conversation about his Boilers and the Council and the progress on the Wall. Nicholas tried to listen, but his mind was on Brigitte. He shoved his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists, hoping Isambard hadn't noticed the sweat pouring down his forehead.
Once at Windsor, Nicholas walked beside Brunel across the quadrangle toward the official entrance of the state apartments, one arm clutching his rolls of drawings, the other fingering a delicate porcelain figurine of a duck – a present for Brigitte.
The castle loomed before them. Some of the most influential men in England loitered in the courtyard, the robes of the Councilmen flapping in the wind as they huddled in tight circles. Politicians in their smart tailored suits passed around cigars. Eyes landed on Isambard and Nicholas and quickly looked away. Nicholas shuddered. Isambard will have a difficult time impressing this lot.
Brunel wrung his hands together, his brow creased in concern. He stopped to address two men, politicians and lesser priests of the Isis sect who proudly wore Stoker pins in support of Brunel. They fell into quiet d
iscussion and Nicholas tuned out, his mind on Brigitte.
A maid. He'd fallen for a maid. All hope of avoiding the pain of love, of re-integrating himself in his father's favour had died the moment he’d laid eyes on that beautiful face.
I do not care. My father gave up on me a long time ago. But lovely Brigitte, she is my future.
The minutes passed and the men congregated on the lawn began to move toward the castle entrance, walking a wide circle around Isambard as if he might poison them with his presence. Nicholas felt their eyes boring into him and wondered if he'd even be able to sneak away.
They passed through the entrance and into the Crimson Drawing Room. Many members of the Council had already gathered, huddled in groups of threes and fours and talking in hushed voices, scuttling around the King like compies over a fresh carcass. The King slumped against his throne, his head lolling to the side, a thin line of drool extending from his mouth across the fine velvet upholstery. His wheeled chair had been placed just out of sight behind a heavy velvet curtain, and Sir Joseph Banks, his loyal Prime Minister, stood behind him, his face impassive as he tried to gently pull His Majesty back to a sitting position.
"Silence!" Banks barked. "His Majesty requires order in this room."
Men scrambled for the available seats. Isambard tried to pull Nicholas toward the front of the room, but he sat down in the back corner, closest to the open door, and shook his head.
"Please do not ask me to sit up there," he said. "In all these important men – there might be one who recognises my face. I will be here if you should need my help, but you do not need my help." He shoved the rolls of drawings into Brunel's arms.
Isambard nodded, and marched toward the front of the room. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to greet King George. After some official fanfare, the Council members took their seats, and Brunel spread out the plans and began pointing out the various features of the Wall. On their feet in no time, the Council members crowded around, jostling each other to squint at the complex drawings.
Forgetting his nerves, Brunel was in his element. His hands flew around his head, and his voice rose and fell with each point made. He stabbed the drawing with his fingers, stamped his foot, and stared every man directly in the eye. He wore no religious regalia; only a Stoker pin attached to his freshly pressed collar gave away his standing.
When he called for the crate containing the Boiler to be wheeled in, Nicholas knew it was now or never. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dark shape ducking between the curtains at the edge of the room. He looked again. Maxwell waved at him from behind an arrangement of geraniums. Nicholas ducked away from the gaggle of Council members and approached the gardener.
"This is dangerous. I shouldn’t wander off—"
"Tosh," Maxwell flapped his hand. "The King is bonkers and that lot are too interested in your master's preaching to notice your disappearance."
Nicholas looked back. Sure enough, Brunel had the entire room in his thrall. He had the crate open, and while the Boiler steamed up, he moved his hands over it, illustrating functions of various components, while the Council members pressed against each other to get a closer look.
"You're correct. Let's go."
He followed Maxwell down a labyrinth of high, vaulted halls, covered walkways and colonnades, across the North Terrace, and through another wing of residences, ‘till they emerged in the oldest part of the castle, in front of the Curfew Tower, an ancient edifice of rough stone and impressive height. Shadowed by the Horseshoe Cloister, anything taking place in the courtyard could not be seen from the nearby St. George's Chapel. Wisteria crept up the stone walls, entwining themselves around the window lintels and arches. He stood on the steps and waited, heart pounding.
Maxwell disappeared and, a moment later, Brigitte stepped out from behind a holly bush, and his breath caught in his throat. She looked even more lovely than she had before, dressed in a simple blue dress, her unruly brown hair lovingly tamed into a fashionable style, a few stray curls framing her smiling, heart-shaped face.
She walked slowly, her steps controlled. He swallowed, resisting the urge to run to her.
"My lady," he took her hand and kissed it.
"It is good to see you again, Mr. Rose," she replied, her voice husky, quiet.
They remained like this, his lips frozen on her fingers, for several moments, the wind swirling around them. Finally, reluctantly, he dropped her hand.
"I have something for you," he said, pressing the duck into her hands. "To remind you of our last meeting by the pond."
She turned it over and over, bringing it close to her face to admire the exquisite detail, running her finger along the tiny golden beak. "It's beautiful," she whispered, her voice choking. "You shouldn't have."
"Hey. why are you crying?" He wiped a glistening tear from the corner of her eye.
"No one has ever been so kind to me before."
He kissed her hand again. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Maxwell gesturing frantically.
"Get down!" he cried.
Grabbing Brigitte's hand, Nicholas yanked her below the planter box, just as Brunel and two of the Council members stormed through the courtyard, followed by Joseph Banks wheeling a screaming King George.
"You!" Brunel bellowed at the gardener. "Have you seen my companion, Nicholas Rose? He disappeared from our meeting some minutes ago, but he can't have gone far."
"He cannot be allowed to wander the castle alone," Joseph Banks snapped over the King's anguished screams.
Nicholas squeezed Brigitte's hand. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. If they catch her here, with me, wearing that beautiful dress, she'll be punished and will lose her job, and it will be my fault. He wouldn't be responsible for that. He pulled her tighter to him, straining to hear what was going on over the King's cries.
Why do they seem so anxious to find me? And why is the King screaming like that?
He peeked around the edge of the planter. Maxwell lay prostrate on the flagstones, mumbling that he didn't know where Nicholas was. Brunel and Banks towered over him. Banks’ hands balled into fists and his face formed a shadow of rage. The Council members bent their heads together, whispering as they glanced from the King to Brunel to Maxwell, unsure of what was transpiring.
"Joseph, take him away," one of the Councillors demanded. Banks ignored him, and kicked Maxwell in the head.
"Tell me where he is, you snivelling blackguard!" he howled.
He kicked Maxwell again. This time, the King screeched, snapping the leather straps holding him into the chair and clawing from the grip of the two Council members. He pounced on Maxwell, who cried out and tried to roll to safety, but the King straddled him, clawing at his back with his long fingernails, shrieking like an animal. As Nicholas watched, horrified, his Majesty King George III bent down and tore a chunk of skin right from Maxwell's outstretched arm.
Maxwell howled. The men grabbed the King under his shoulders and dragged him off Maxwell. Guards rushed in from the castle and carried him – still shrieking and chewing on a chunk of Maxwell's arm – back into the castle.
"Clean this mess up," Banks hissed at Maxwell, stomping away.
Brigitte whimpered. Nicholas, heart pounding, pulled her to his breast, pressing his finger against her lips to stop her crying out.
Brunel did not follow the others back inside. Even though he could no longer see Isambard, Nicholas could feel his gaze searching the flower beds, his boot tapping against the paving stones.
"I know you're there, Nicholas," he said. "I don't understand why you left the meeting and upset His Majesty like this. I'm very disappointed in you."
He turned on his heels and disappeared into the castle.
Brigitte let out a sob and rushed to help Maxwell. He lay on his side, clutching his arm where the King had bitten him, holding the jagged flaps of skin together in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood pooled bene
ath him, seeping between the cracks in the cobbles.
"Miss Julie will fix you right up, Maxwell," Brigitte said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and hoisting him to his feet. He moaned as blood splattered the front of her dress. Nicholas grabbed his other arm, meaning to steady him, but Brigitte pushed him away.
"I can manage, Nicholas. You must go to Brunel. Tell him you were lost wandering the gardens." She pointed to the southern entrance to the courtyard. "Head toward the round tower, quickly now, and find the gateway into the Upper Ward. You should come out near the South Wing in the Quadrangle. That way, it will look as if you went to look at the Norman gatehouse and got lost."
"Brigitte, I—"
"Go!" Maxwell stared up at him with pleading eyes. She turned away and began hobbling toward the entrance.
What could he do but go?
Her heart pounding, Brigitte helped the shaking gardener to his feet. Clutching his wound, he rested his weight against her, and she shuffled him toward the entrance to the servants' chambers.
"I must—" he wheezed, gesturing to the bloodstain on the flagstones.
"Leave it, you silly old fool. I'll send Cassandra to clean it off." She glanced over her shoulder, but Nicholas had gone.
She brought him to Miss Julie in the kitchens, who dropped her rolling pin in surprise. "You're dripping blood in the clotted cream!"
Maxwell responded by slumping hard against Brigitte's shoulder. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed on the floor with a mighty thud. Brigitte screamed.
Miss Julie grabbed one of his limp arms and heaved him into a sitting position, propping him up with a flour sack. She fanned his face while glaring at Brigitte. "What on earth happened, child?"
"The King, he bit Maxwell." Brigitte clamped down on her lower lip to keep from crying. "It was awful."
Miss Julie frowned as she inspected the wound. When she touched the edge, Maxwell shuddered. Blood pooled under his breeches and spread across the floor.