He could be furious about that. In his youth, he’d knocked over many a table in disgust, shouted ferociously at intruders often enough. The embrace of truly productive thought was fragile at best, and he’d earned a fearsome reputation for his early years of protective tantrums that ultimately proved worthless. The muse never returned to rude host.
So there it was. He’d been bested for the night.
Placing the tube length back down on the table, he turned his back on the mess of the day, leaving it to contemplate its own future as he headed for the emergency staircase. It occurred to him that the Countess should use the hidden exit when she returned, its entrance to the outside shaded from view by rows of heavy lilac bushes and bright splashes of peonies.
The rain had begun again in earnest, but the night was warm, the moon full. He walked without a bowler or cloak, sticking to the cover of giant elms and oaks, their leaves trembling above him. The capital was dark, the clop and creak of carriages few and distant. It was the perfect time to be out. No chaotic bustle of people, just the earthy smell of the cemetery and wet fragrance of night blooms.
The cobblestone streets crossed his path ahead, bracing the sky with hulking masonry buildings and Greek revivalist facades painted in delicate pastels. He trimmed the corner and quickened his pace to keep dry. A white cat startled from an alley as he passed, leaping onto a nearby terrace to glare down at him with feline suspicion.
The door to Chancy’s hung open to catch the draft, the dark wood interior glowing with soft light and smoke, the bar hushed with murmured conversation. The patrons at this hour were subdued, late night workers just relieved from their shifts or solitary people seeking comfort from the establishment’s waitresses, many of whom kept rooms on the second floor for that express purpose.
More than the hallowed halls of the Academy, this felt like home.
He sat on a stool and nodded to the bartender, receiving a shot glass of amber liquid in return. Raising the glass, he allowed the aged malt to slide down without effort, a slip of fire in his throat.
He winced and ordered another.
There wouldn’t be a third, because he was too afraid of that, but two would be enough to edge him toward sleep. The alcohol warmed his stomach, and perhaps, just for one moment, more than that.
“Congratulating ourselves, are we?”
He turned, finding a small dark-haired man sitting on the stool beside him. The man grinned, his pale complexion greenish in the half-light, his lips broad and his smile shark-like. “It’s not everyday you entertain a Countess, is it? Even I was impressed.”
Fenton. The man’s name was Fenton and he was one of them, one of the attack dogs from the Royal Navy’s Security Office.
“You were watching.”
“You knew we would be.”
“It was never mentioned.”
“Then you should have assumed.”
“She has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”
Fenton swayed back in his seat in mock surprise. “Ian, Ian, I know your world is, shall we say, narrower than the one the rest of us live in, but even you must know who she is.”
“An aristocrat’s an aristocrat.”
“An amusing formula, but not at all true.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know what she wanted.”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“Not wise, Ian. Not wise at all.”
“For Christ’s sake—”
“I would have thought, by now, you would be able to recognize the danger in keeping secrets from us.”
Ian felt himself grow cold at that. He stared down at the second shot glass, its amber liquid glowing in the light from the bar. It seemed so small, and yet it could swallow a man whole.
“She wanted a boot polishing machine,” he quipped, angry.
“A what?”
“The lady has neglected boots.”
Fenton stared at him. The moment stretched into something hard and endless, until at last, he reached his own conclusion. His expression changed, a glint of appreciation lighting his eyes. “I’m sure she does. And who better to apply the polish than a man known for being adept with his hands? A man who, despite the lofty academic credentials and achievements that make him so acceptable to members of the upper class, grew up in a shipyard with drunks and whores, a man who still has a bit of dirt under his fingernails. Women like her dream about having their boots polished by such a man, don’t they?”
“You’re off. It’s not like that.”
“No?” Fenton shrugged. “Name it whatever you want. It’s extremely fortunate, in any case.”
“I dunna see how.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Ian swallowed the scotch, losing patience.
“We would appreciate it if you could keep her busy.”
“We?”
“As it happens, this dalliance with boot polishing comes at an opportune moment. We have an interest.”
“In what?”
“In the events that led to her husband’s disappearance.”
“He didn’t run off with an actress?”
“He won’t cause trouble for you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just keep her busy, for now. It would help if you could attend to her at the same time each night, say for two hours at a time, at least?”
“While you’re doing what? Searching her closets?”
Fenton let the question pass, cutting his gaze to the door.
“I won’t spy on her for you.”
“I’m not asking you to. You’d be terrible at it.”
“I’ll not be a part of your schemes.”
“Except that you have no choice, do you? She came to you in the middle of the night. Her husband is a political figure who has gotten himself into a great deal of trouble. You yourself are a treasured national asset with access to highly sensitive development projects. You see how messy this could get. It’s in your best interest to keep yourself in the clear.”
Ian scowled at the man, imagining him squatting over a table vice, trying to extract his testicles from its iron jaws.
“Besides, you know our arrangement. Your autonomy depends on your willingness to cooperate with my office. Wouldn’t do to have a man of your talents running loose now, would it?”
“I’m not the one who got away.”
“Yes, the Earl, I know. Still, it’s a long way to the Tropics.”
Ian glowered into his empty shot glass.
“Don’t look so put out.” Fenton leaned back on his stool, gracious and reptilian. “You’re doing her a tremendous service.”
“Am I?”
“Of course. As soon as Parliament convenes in the morning and his absence is discovered, the entire city will believe that her husband has abandoned her for warmer climes. A woman who has never known an ounce of disgrace will be completely and thoroughly humiliated. The press will go mad. It will be difficult for her to venture into the open.”
“So?”
“So, at least you’ll have cleaned her boots for her, when she does.”
A Moment’s Reflection
“Your husband has left you, Madame.” Leda’s mother, the Comtesse de Rochford sat in a pool of sunlight in the morning room, attended by five anxious maids and a terrified serving girl. The table before her glistened with silver and crystal. The scent of fresh pastries and drinking chocolate wafted through heavy perfume.
A pack of small dogs begged at the table’s edge, fat rolls of fur with black spots, tufts for ears and long, flowing tails. They growled at each other as the Comtesse tossed pieces of sausage at her leisure. She frowned, exhausted by the effort, and gazed at the rose garden outside, the blooms matching the shining pink luster of her dress.
“Absolute disaster,” she said.
Leda remained fixed in her seat, feeling her heart turn to stone. Her mind slipped away, into the cool green of the hedges, hiding
behind their corners, playing at the edge of the fountain as she had during her childhood years. She closed her eyes, feeling the ghost of a breeze.
“Run off with an actress,” her mother said. “Are you quite happy now, with what your willfulness has wrought upon us all?”
“My deepest apologies, Madame Comtesse.”
Her mother ignored her. “You had years to warm him to you. If he had an affinity for actresses, could you not have tried to play the part? A woman must put aside her pride her when it comes to doing her duty. Now he has left and you are childless, too old for an effective new marriage to be arranged for you. No respectable gentlemen will accept a wife over thirty. It is ridiculous. Some of your friends have already born twelve children and passed on to Heaven, to the great honor of their families. You have produced nothing but scandal.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” The words were dry, as hollow as she felt.
“Do use proper addresses.”
“Comtesse.”
The woman sighed. “There is nothing for it. You will have to be settled somewhere, away from the capital and the gossip.”
“You intend to hide me?”
“For your own sake. They will devour you here.”
“Perhaps I could invest in something.”
“You mean an enterprise?”
“Yes. There is a submersible venture underway. The famous inventor, Mr. Anderson, is—”
“That humanist instigator? Really, Madame, I am shocked you would even suggest it. Anderson’s a known champion of artisans and the lower classes, and why? Because his father worked the docks and God only knows who his mother really was. Vile genes, and it shows. He should have ten times the respectability he has now, with all that wealth, but he squanders the opportunity, choosing to engage in modernist debauchery with unbalanced playwrights and mad-hatter poets instead.”
“Playwrights?”
“Of course. He was linked to that famous one, Sarah Douglas, who wrote under a gentleman’s name for so long. And that sculptor, whats-her-name, who formed cavernous versions of inanimate genitalia for all the world to see. And that terrible infant, Rosalind Debussy, who screamed on the parliament steps and accused your own husband of corruption.”
“Ah yes.” Leda did vaguely remember that. Mr. Anderson managed to become more interesting by the hour. “Still, the venture is not about the man’s choice of peerage. He is undisputed as an inventor and builder and it occurs to me that there are great riches to be found in ocean wrecks and buried ancient cities, or so I have heard. An investment in such a project—”
“Is exactly what you will not do.” Her mother huffed. “It is bad enough to have made a fool of yourself in marriage. Losing money in schemes is far worse. At any rate, what do you need of it? You liked painting once. We’ll send you to the sea and you can paint all you want.”
“I could never paint, Madame Comtesse. I believe you are thinking of my sister Margaret who, may I remind you, died four years ago.”
“Don’t be quip with me, girl.”
“Forgive me.”
“Your insolence would drive off any suitor.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“At least you are now at retiring age.”
“That is fortunate.”
“The matter is resolved. You’ll be sent to the sea. We’ll arrange another residence and another life for you in your absence.”
“With respect, Madame, I choose to remain.”
Her mother glared at her, rage flashing in the crystal blue of her eyes. “You cannot be serious.”
Hadn’t Mr. Anderson accused her of the same thing in his rolling Northman’s burr? She suppressed a smile, an unexplainable lightness lifting her spirits. How truly incredible it was.
She had asked him, a stranger, for something so alarming and so intimate that the very act of asking for it should have been disastrous. Yet, she had survived and he had not declined her request, perhaps because he was a humanist instigator with a flair for art and debauchery. It seemed she had hired the right man.
The very idea of this fantastic machine felt like so much forbidden pleasure now. In a world of endless rituals and responsibilities, of duty and decorum above all else, this extraordinary thing she’d done acquired a light of its own. It beckoned with the thrill of the ridiculous, the freedom of absolute insanity.
She may not have been born with the ability to derive pleasure as others did, but the promise of experiencing something so opposite her nature was an aphrodisiac she couldn’t resist. She was at retiring age, after all, fit to spiral into senility at any moment.
The dogs on the floor snapped and growled at another piece of sausage, chasing each other around the room.
Her mother shifted in her seat, creating a waterfall song in the silk panels of her dress. The servants moved to her side. Plates were cleared away. “Clearly, you have made up your mind to make the situation worse. I don’t know what you expect me to do on your behalf.”
Leda held her mother’s gaze, thinking of Mr. Anderson in his workshop. “You could do me the honor of departing, Madame Comtesse.”
The story exploded in the press. The Earl’s affair and desertion of his post was announced in column after column of excited conjecture, provoking a slew of tasteless jokes and trite advice that seemed to repeat from all directions. Even in the dark bowels of the Academy, Ian could not avoid it. His day assistants brought their own papers and added their own punch-lines amid bright roils of laughter.
It was universally agreed that the Countess of Caithmore had always been cold, the heiress to vast fortune and an overabundance of inbreeding. She rode through the capital in her fancy coaches and waltzed across ballroom floors with her jewel-like gaze fixed on nothing. A beautiful doll without a heart or mind, a statue finally knocked from her pedestal to the delight of those eager to see her crack.
Of course, there were those who cared nothing about the abandoned woman and focused their contempt on the Earl instead, a man who had forsaken his country and his Parliamentary seat, during a time when such dangerous and heroic wars were being waged in far off places, all for a homeless actress that no one had ever seen.
Ian made a good show of being unconcerned. No one could have suspected that he thought of her, or that as he put charcoal to paper, he designed for her. A ghostly muse formed itself in her image, whispering memories of the women he’d slept with and what had pleased them the most, reminding him of tender places and breathless sighs.
For as long as he could remember, he’d taken volatile artists or free-thinking unconventionals as lovers, women who shared both his distaste for society and his love for inspired creation. He’d treasured their wild and soulful temperaments, their poetic dramas and aptitude for selfishness or willful destruction. He’d enjoyed their bodies and their minds, accepting their arrivals and departures in his life as best he could.
What his romances had lacked in longevity, they had balanced with passion, schooling him well in the soft science to be applied here. He considered the Countess, her detachment, her rigidity, what would surely provoke instant aversion and what, with luck, might pique her curiosity. Finally, he considered her measurements, her overall height and weight, a mathematical calculation like any other.
The list of supplies he passed to his assistants was met with bland acceptance. Nothing surprised them anymore, nor did they take any item they were sent to procure at face value. They knew that, more often than not, everything would be dismantled for parts and cut to a new purpose.
It was late when he began to weld and early when he sent the letter to her address. By mid-afternoon, he had fallen asleep at his desk, lured into a fanciful dream by a jewel-eyed muse wearing nothing but a white ostrich feather hat.
A Wondrous Surprise
Leda pressed her lips together, watching as her footman directed the carriage onto the dark path that curved behind the Academy. Heavy hooves clapped from stone to sand, the clink of bridles and creaking of whe
els intruding on a lush and moonlit garden.
Flowering trees appeared on either side of the path, roses, lilacs and peony blooms nodding their heavy heads in greeting as the draft horses ambled past. The Academy loomed above the wistful sway of branches, its tiers of dark windows catching the faint glow of the coach lanterns.
The driver pulled in the reins. The black Percherons danced in their harnesses, pattering the earth with their restless strength as her footman swung open the carriage door. Leda went hot and cold, the anticipation of this moment almost too great to bear.
The world felt new as she stepped from the carriage. There was a new taste to the air, a new luster to the moon, and a new Leda to notice such things. She now stood at the edge of something that should absolutely not be done, a deed which was greater than the sum of all the scandals she knew of. She was about to surrender herself to a man she didn’t know and be tested, in the most intimate of ways, by a machine.
She should have felt some measure of shame in this.
Instead, she felt free.
The footman led her down the steps of the side entrance, the air growing colder and darker as they descended. He paused before a solid iron door and clanged the metal knocker, grimacing at its vast echo.
A moment passed in silence.
She heard a small click, then the screech of the lock. The door cracked opened to the glow of lanterns and metal-working equipment, great gears and boilers shining in the half-light.
Mr. Anderson stood in the doorway, the breadth of his shoulders casting her in shadow. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Good evening, Countess. I presume you’re now prepared to inspect the machine you commissioned. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He gestured that she should precede him and she crossed the threshold.
He closed the door on her footman.
The Inventor Page 2