by Maya Rodale
The lever wouldn’t budge. She pulled harder, then pulled down with all her weight by grabbing onto it and lifting her feet from the floor. How ridiculous she must look! But she couldn’t walk away from it without seeing it work.
It was then that she understood why Phinn was gone so long every day. She’d thought he’d been avoiding her, but now it seemed more likely that he was so passionately driven to see this machine in action that he couldn’t stay away from it . . . and perhaps she was the only thing that captivated him more.
Finally, movement! The lever sank slowly toward the ground, kicking the machine to life.
It started to make an ungodly amount of noise—clacking, clanging, a waking-the-dead ruckus. The sound was so unfathomably loud she instinctively covered her ears.
Then—oh!—one of the cylinders flew off. She hurried to retrieve it, and a moment later another went crashing to the floor. She picked that one up too. They were quite heavy, she discovered. Especially when there were three, then four, then five . . . Along with the cylinders there were pipes that had snapped off as well.
The machine kept rattling so loudly her voice would have been lost if she screamed, which she might have done anyway. One of the cylinders bent out toward her, as if it wanted to join all the pieces she’d collected in her arms. Olivia set them down gently and used all her weight to try to press that cylinder back into place.
Young ladies ensured that everything was in its place.
She wasn’t quite sure when she gave up trying to fix the machine. After the cylinder had fallen off, perhaps, in the precious few seconds between that and the collapse of one after another. Soon the machine was reduced to a pile of metal parts on the floor.
With her beneath them.
Chapter 20
Nothing mattered more than successfully completing the Difference Engine in time for the Great Exhibition.
—PHINN’S INNERMOST THOUGHTS BEFORE . . .
Phinn left Olivia in their rooms and set out for a walk. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he had to go. He’d revealed the worst of himself and the secret he’d sworn to keep. Knowing how she had feared him, how could he willingly let her know about the violence of which he was capable? And he had taken advantage of her trust—in his mind, he was no different than the soldier he’d found her with.
Of course, he hadn’t intended to tell her.
Of course, she would be angry when she learned of his deception and violence. Staying there and watching her lose any affection she might have had for him was a torture he couldn’t bear. The pain he’d felt led him to only one conclusion: he must have fallen in love with her.
Love now made everything seem worse.
So he’d left.
He sought refuge in the streets of London, losing himself in the crowds of pedestrians, the hollers of street vendors and the warning shouts of carriage drivers. He replayed their afternoon scene in his head over and over again, trying to find the precise moment where everything had gone wrong. Was it before she smashed the shepherdess or after?
He had hoped to avoid this. He and Nadia would bicker. Things would fly and break. He would retreat to his workspace and she would lock herself in a bedchamber in an inconsolable sulk that might last for days. Phinn found himself treading familiar streets on the way to the Difference Engine. That’s what he would do—go, work on the engine, lose himself in the machinery, where everything was what it was and just made logical sense all of the time.
Like Nadia, Olivia would—
No, they were nothing alike. One was dark and fiery, the other fair and sparky. One had loathed her lot in life—even though she’d brought it all on herself with a series of foolish decisions. The other was just trying to find her way. Nadia threw china plates at his head. Olivia scrunched up her face adorably and threw them on the floor after asking permission and telling him to close his eyes.
He had wanted something different. Craved it. With Olivia, he’d found what he wanted.
Why, then, was he falling into familiar habits? Nadia had been right about one thing—he left and lost himself in work rather than work through problems with her. Phinn looked up, aware that he was on his way to committing the same mistake he always did. The warehouse was just a block away.
If he wanted things to be different in this marriage, he couldn’t just pick a different girl and hope for the best. He had to be different himself, and that meant facing up to things rather than running away and losing himself in his work.
He sucked in his breath. He should return to the hotel and apologize and promise to be better. The tightness in his chest eased; his heart felt lighter.
Until he heard the engine.
Phinn stopped. Turned. Cocked his head. Yes, that was the sound of the machine clanging loudly as it attempted a calculation. The only problem was that it shouldn’t be running; it wasn’t ready yet. The assistants he and Ashbrooke had hired knew better than to try to start it.
Phinn picked up his pace toward the warehouse. It was probably some shiftless person who’d sought shelter for the night and, seeing the machine, couldn’t help but test it out. The machine did have a way of mesmerizing people, impelling them to touch it.
Then he heard the crash and broke into a run. He knew that crash—the damned thing had fallen apart and collapsed once before.
When he saw a carriage idling outside, his heart seemed to stop.
“Olivia!” Phinn shouted her name, but there was no answer. He shouted again, “Olivia!” and still no one answered. He ruined an eerie silence when he burst through the door. The force sent it slamming into the wall.
He could see her lying amidst the rubble.
No. Had he said it or just thought it or just felt it? No.
Not this. Not again. Not her.
But there was no mistaking the sight of Olivia, his wife, sprawled on the ground, a heap of engine parts covering her legs. Her arms were splayed and her hair in disarray. It seemed so wrong to see her lovely blond locks spread out on the dusty floor.
“Olivia,” he said, his voice rough, as he approached slowly.
“Olivia,” he said again, falling to his knees beside her.
Her eyes were closed and her expression was oddly peaceful, as if she had just decided to have a little late afternoon rest. Underneath a heap of heavy pipes and cylinders on the floor, in a desolate building in a remote part of town.
He felt her neck for a pulse and heaved a sigh of relief when he felt the faint but steady beat of her heart.
She was alive. This wasn’t Nadia, all over again.
This could not happen to him again.
This could not happen to her.
Phinn started to clear the rubble, lifting one cylinder at a time and heaving it aside. “I’m sorry,” he told her. One by one he steadily and methodically removed every piece of the damned engine between him and Olivia. “This was my fault. I’m sorry.”
The pieces were heavy. After a while his muscles were burning from the exertion. But how did she feel, trapped underneath it all?
Feats of strength.
Another time, another place, he might have laughed. Perhaps if she lived he could impress her with details of this heroic rescue.
If she lived. If she spared him from being the man who lost not one wife but two.
But he wasn’t heroic. He was a brooding, busy man who kept driving women to their own destruction. He loved her and had been so afraid she didn’t love him back that he fled, like a coward. Now she was paying the price for it.
He couldn’t breathe. His heart seemed to have lodged in his throat. And there was something in his eye. Something hot and wet, which a more sensitive person might have called tears. Phinn brushed them away with the back of his hand. Now was not the time. He heaved another cylinder away. It crashed into a table. He heaved another. It smashed into a chair, which collapsed under the weight and the force.
Hours and hours of work—careful calculations, intricately detailed draft
s, hours spent drawing the designs, forging the metal, finishing each piece by hand until they were identical. He tossed it all to the side without a second thought.
Finally, she was free.
Phinn saw then that one of her ankles was badly injured—definitely broken.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, in case she could hear him. Could he even say anything else? He tried. And if she could hear and assume the worst, he added, “I’m going to pick you up now and take you home.”
She did not respond.
“We’ll call a doctor. You’ll be fine.” That was another lie. Her ankle looked terrible.
She moved and murmured as he lifted her. A groan of pain escaped her lips. Really, he should have stayed in the hotel room and kissed her again and again. She might have left him anyway, but she wouldn’t have been hurt like this.
Somehow he managed to get into the carriage with her, thankful she’d had the sense to tell the driver to wait. They set off at a canter. Phinn held her tightly in his arms until they reached the hotel.
“Call a doctor,” he bellowed upon entering the busy lobby with the unconscious form of his wife in his arms, people staring. In the far recesses of his mind he was aware of how this would look. He could just see the newspaper headlines: The Mad Baron Strikes Again.
He deserved it. Olivia did not. If she lived.
He did not even want to contemplate how he would go on if she did not.
“Immediately,” he demanded. A footman took off at a run.
Somehow, he managed to get her to their room, where he placed her gently on her bed. The doctor came and performed his examination, while Phinn supervised (or obstructed the process with his incessant questions and second guessing, according to the doctor) and paced frantically about the room.
“It’s her ankle,” Dr. Barkley said. “Broken. I’ll set it. She should walk again, but I fear her waltzing days may be over.”
Phinn thought of Olivia at the Cyprian ball, dancing with such grace and happiness. His gut knotted up and started to burn.
“Her head has suffered a hit, too,” the doctor continued. “I’m sure she’ll wake up. Let’s hope she retains her memory!” he said with a friendly chuckle.
Phinn wasn’t sure if that outcome would be good or bad. Would she remember how he’d lied to her? Would she remember how they’d been trapped into marriage? What if she didn’t?
“Nothing to do but wait now,” Dr. Barkley said. He left additional instructions with the maids before leaving.
Phinn clasped Olivia’s hand in his as he sank to his knees by her bed. And waited.
At first Olivia only heard the voices. Everything seemed to be filtered through fog and cotton wool, so she could not understand the words. But oh, she could recognize her mother’s anguished tone. Squawking, really. And her father was bellowing. Though she couldn’t see, Olivia thought his face must be a shade of red wine, judging by the bluster of his voice.
All of which begged the question: where was she? Why were her parents in the throes of a hysterical fit?
Her weak efforts at movement were met with shooting pain. She thought twice before trying that again. As her awareness returned—she heard words now, though they were garbled and she didn’t try to follow—she became aware that her hand felt warm and secure, as if Phinn were holding it.
Was that so, or merely wishful thinking? Was she thinking or dreaming? What on earth had happened to her? Curiosity impelled her to make an effort at opening her eyes.
Slowly, bit by bit, everything came into focus. She was lying in her bed at the hotel. The hour was late. The only light came from dusk outside and the candles scattered about the room. Her parents were having some sort of argument in the corner.
Phinn. He was here. Holding her hand.
“Olivia.” He whispered her name. “I’m so sorry.”
She blinked. He looked awful. Anguished, really. His mouth was set in a grim line. How long had it been since they were kissing? His eyes were reddened and his hair an utter mess. She knew that meant he’d been frustrated or vexed by something and pushed his fingers through it.
What had happened?
Olivia closed her eyes again. And listened. It was all she had strength for.
“Has she woken?” That was her mother, anxious. Olivia could just picture her clutching a handkerchief to her bosom.
“Just for a second.” That was Phinn.
“If she dies—” That was her father, in the warning tone he used to threaten her. If you don’t cease leaving your dolls on the stairway . . . But then his voice faltered. “I entrusted my daughter to you in spite of all those damned rumors about you. And it turns out you are just what they say.”
“Worse!” her mother cried.
“You gave me your word as a gentleman,” her father said. His voice rising now. “And you are a murderer and a liar.”
Had she the strength, Olivia would have gasped at the accusation. As a man of honor, Phinn would have no choice but to call out her father for hurling such incendiary lies. They were lies, were they not?
“It was an accident,” she heard Phinn say. He sounded desperate. “I swear to you, I never meant her any harm.”
“As soon as she wakes we are taking her home,” her father declared. She thought his face must have turned a shade of the lip paint she’d worn during her first disastrous meeting with Phinn.
“Where she will be safe,” her mother huffed. And then she choked on a sob and cried, “There will be a divorce. Oh, what will people say?”
Divorce? Olivia considered summoning her strength to demand answers. But they always talked about her life as if her wishes didn’t matter, so what was the point of rousing herself from this strange state of awake but not awake?
“People will say our daughter is safely delivered from the hands of an evil scoundrel,” her father said harshly. Olivia imagined his face turning a shade the color of raspberry ice. Then she rather fancied a raspberry ice. But that would require waking up, an activity for which she presently lacked the strength and inclination. “I was a fool to trust you with something so precious as my daughter’s life.”
For a moment her heartbeat stopped. They cared. Now they cared.
“It was an accident,” Phinn said, his voice rising. They were provoking him with the most cruel accusations. What if he lost his temper as he had done with Rogan or Brendon (Brandon?). She heard him inhale—he must be close!—and exhale slowly. When he spoke next, his voice was deep and rough. “Both. Accidents.”
“Do you expect us to believe that?” her father bellowed. “Do you expect anyone to believe that?”
“You will not be received,” her mother said coldly. As if Phinn cared about that. She thought she might have learned enough about him by now to know that didn’t matter to him. And then she was aware of her mother bustling toward her and sinking down on the mattress beside her.
“How has she not woken yet?” she cried.
“Did you call a doctor?” That was her father.
“Of course I bloody well called a doctor,” Phinn replied.
“I think you should leave this to us. She needs her mother.”
“You heard Lady Archer. Leave her with us. You should go.”
Scarlet. His face had to be a shade of scarlet. Olivia cracked open one eye to see if she was right. She was.
She also saw that Phinn was turning to go. His hand was on the doorknob. Her mother was sobbing by her bedside. It was now time to summon her strength. He could not leave her. And above all, he could not leave her to the hysterical clutches of her parents. Not now. She liked the hotel and she wanted to be with Phinn.
“Stay,” she said. It was a whisper. She tried again. “Stay.”
“Olivia!” Phinn turned quickly and rushed to her bedside. He fell to his knees beside her and she reached for his hand.
“She’s awake! Archer, she’s awake!” her mother squawked. Her father pushed Phinn aside, grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“It’s all right, darling, we’re going to take you home,” her mother gushed. “You needn’t stay here a moment longer.”
“I’m so sorry, daughter, I had believed him to be an upstanding man in spite of his rumors. Otherwise I would have never contracted your betrothal. I should have allowed time for a courtship, as he wanted . . .”
This was too much for Olivia to take in now. But she understood enough. She’d been punishing Phinn for sins that weren’t entirely his. All she could do was allow a weary sigh.
“Hush, husband,” her mother said. “Can’t you see she’s overset?”
“We all can see it, wife,” her father replied frostily.
Phinn stood behind them. Olivia found strength in his gaze.
“I know just the thing,” her mother said, rummaging in her reticule. She could never find anything in her reticule in less than five minutes. Now was no exception. “Now wait . . . it’s in here somewhere.”
Finally, she was triumphant. She held aloft a bottle of Smythson’s Smelling Salts. Then she popped off the lid and held the bottle under Olivia’s nose.
Oh Lord, was that revitalizing stuff! Olivia took a deep, heaving breath, then coughed, then summoned all her strength to ignore the pain required in turning her head away from that curiously strong scent.
“It works! Every time!” her mother cried. “If you’d just bought the shares like I told you, we’d be rich and wouldn’t have had to rely on Radcliffe’s funds.”
Olivia peered from her mother to her father to Phinn. Her gaze settled on him.
“Olivia. Please stay,” he said. It wasn’t a command, or a question, but a plea.
Somehow, in spite of all their protestations and accusations, Phinn managed to get her parents out of the room. The silence, oh God, the silence was heavenly. She closed her eyes to savor it but Phinn pleaded with her to wake up.
“What happened?” she asked once she finally managed it.
“The engine wasn’t ready,” he said, and she remembered the gleaming machine that she’d broken. Oh, he must be angry with her! “But you didn’t know that because I didn’t tell you. I stayed late each day and only returned after you’d gone to bed because . . . it’s hard to explain.”