The Inventor

by Morgan Karpiel

  Leda wandered toward the center of the workshop, noting that the floor had been swept clean, the tools neatly arranged on the tables. Most of the overhead lights were turned off, the shop now softly lit by oil lamps. The frenetic energy of the previous night, with its smoke-flavored chaos and clutter, had vanished, leaving a hushed air of anticipation in its place.

  A boiler clinked rhythmically in the background, the whisper of steam hissing from pipes that were hidden from view. The shelves along the wall were stacked with springs, wires, bearings and sprockets, metal-jawed tools and rolled sheets of silver mesh, unidentifiable objects that seemed too alien to be real, paper breathing masks and round goggles with iridescent lenses.

  At the center of the workshop, an area lay sectioned off and surrounded by Oriental screens, forming the illusion of a private room with tall panels of painted silk. Leda approached the screens with wonder, marveling at the scenes of dancing birds and swirling pond fish.

  Reaching out her hand, she touched the smooth fabric, allowing her fingers to trace the painted figure of a graceful Koi circling a lotus frond, its fins spread like gossamer scarves under the water.

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “’Tis good you find them agreeable, as they’re for your benefit.”

  “What?”

  “They shield the machine from view.”

  “From whose view?”

  “From mine. I will stand out here.”

  “So you’re not—”

  “No.”

  “I see.” She straightened. “Yes, of course. That’s quite thoughtful.”

  “I’ll be here, just not in view.”

  “Yes, you’re exactly right. I shouldn’t want to be tested in front of anyone. I’m grateful for the privacy.”

  “I’ll still be able to hear you.”

  “Hear what?”

  He opened his mouth as if to reply, then stopped himself, a reluctant conclusion forming in the blue depths of his eyes. He said nothing.

  Leda shook her head. “I find you much changed from the man I met here several days ago.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know.” It was true. She couldn’t quite comprehend it. Some of the harshness and the impatience had eased perhaps, though in truth, he seemed no warmer towards her.

  He remained some distance away, as if keeping space between them was important, and stood with his long legs resolutely planted apart, surrounded by objects he had bent, beat and melted into shape. Dressed in a thin, unvested shirt and fitted trousers, he fit the appearance of a laborer and seemed to make no real effort to contradict it.

  His physique obviously lent itself to such work, strengthened by broad shoulders and firmly muscled arms, thick-boned wrists and large, calloused hands. But there were traces of refinement, a silver bracelet around his right wrist, a gift from a lover, perhaps, and a pair of delicate reading spectacles resting on the design table behind him.

  When last they met, he was stark and guarded, willing to treat her with same coldness and suspicion as any busy tradesmen who despised her class might, but there was a deeply empathic side to Mr. Anderson, something that was easier to appreciate when standing next to an ornately painted screen in the glow of lamplight, something that glinted in the deep blue of his eyes as he kept his distance.

  “Perhaps it’s just my imagination,” she said.

  He frowned, seeming uncertain how to take that.

  “In any case, I should inspect the machine.”

  “Through here.”

  He led her through a break in the panels, remaining behind as she walked forward, her attention focused on the miraculous thing he had built.

  It stood on four claw-foot pedestals, a massive wooden throne with a smooth golden dome for a seat. Flat velvet pads appeared on either side where the armrests would have been. The backrest had been distanced and modified, offering two carved and polished posts for handholds.

  She lowered herself to the floor, glancing under the dome in the center of the seat. A ring of tiny hammers appeared on the underside of the metal, supported by a column of wheels and sprockets, a compact machine waiting to be put to its purpose.

  “What does it do?”

  “Allow me to demonstrate.” Reaching down to the floor, he turned a knob on one of the small pipes leading to the seat. A slip of steam hissed from its connection.

  Under the chair, the wheels began to turn. Slowly, the movement rose up the column to the dome. Tiny hammers began to beat the metal, chiming rhythmically against it as if it were an Oriental gong. The gold vibrated in the seat, the thrum of it powerful enough to tremor the wood and clatter against the floor.

  “Remarkable.” Leda realized that she was holding her breath.

  “It’s a very simple test. Remove your skirts, climb onto the cushions there and sit down.”

  “On the dome?”

  “Right down on it, yes.”

  “And what will that do?”

  He hesitated. “I think you’ll find it pleasurable.”

  “A normal woman would?”

  “I’m fairly certain.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “They make larger hammers.”

  She stared at him, watching as a spark of humor lit his eyes, a smile curving at his lips. He shook his head. “This anxiousness willna help you, Countess. Sometimes, you just need to let things happen as they do.”

  She nodded, grasping the crimson taffeta of her skirts and knotting it between her gloved fingers. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll be just on the other side.”

  “Yes.”

  He disappeared from sight, though she could hear him moving along the backside of the screens. She slid her gaze to his creation, drawn to its chiming song. The lamplight gave the gold dome a brilliant luster, the machine itself thrumming, alive and ornate.

  The screens around it shone with a silky glow, the dance of birds and swirl of fish now sensual and beguiling, as if she were standing at the center of an Oriental music box, locked in its wondrous seduction.

  If Mr. Anderson still stood behind the screens, she could not hear him. She could, however, hear the whispers of her past.

  Some porcelain goddess on a shelf.

  How long had she been that? A perfect wife, a perfect daughter, confined and restricted by clothes that scarcely allowed for breath and titles that precluded all hope. Freedom had always been so far away.

  What had the wealth of that life bought her?

  Stepping forward, she pulled the heavy cloak from her shoulders, allowing it to slide to the ground at her feet. She wore no petticoats, no bustle, just a dress that was loose and misshapen without them, with a gold embroidered neckline and a blood red skirt of shimmering taffeta. She loosed the buttons and let the dress fall.

  Stepping out of this skin, the rich appearance of a woman she barely knew, she slid out of her drawers and left her chemise behind, walking to the machine in nothing but her corset and garters.

  It hummed in welcome, her reflection playing across the golden treasure at its heart. Reaching down, she smoothed her hand over the dome. It teased at her fingertips, trembling them in anticipation, its power so thick it sang through delicate bone and flesh.

  She felt her lips part on empty breath, a coy warmth stirring between her legs. It felt good to touch it with her hand. How good would it feel against even more sensitive skin?

  Rising up, she climbed onto the throne, placing her knees on the velvet cushions on either side of the dome. It shimmered hotly beneath her, reflecting the shining pink skin of her quim, the plump, engorged lips now slick and tingling.

  Grasping onto the carved spires, she lowered herself to touch the dome. It connected with her flesh, creating a bright moment of sensation. The vibration was electric, spreading a melting pleasure through the skin, through her flesh and into the blood. A feeling of delicious weakness seized her and she gripped the carved posts to stay upright, her fingers digging into the woo
d.

  She released an awkward, rasping cry, the intensity building between her legs. Her body strained upward like a bowstring pulled too tight. The feeling was so incredibly good, so glaring across her senses. It swept her into a game she could not escape from, a mindless pursuit with an end that came within reach, then torturously flitted away.

  Her stomach tensed, her body trembling. It came so close. She could not draw breath. Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t. I—”

  “Relax.” He was behind her now, his solid warmth at her back. She felt his large hands clamp around her hips, angling them so that her quim drowned in the thick vibration. He pressed her forward, holding her firm.

  She clasped onto his wrists and arched her back against him, sobbing as the moment shattered into a thousand golden lights. Her eyes rolled under fluttering lids, her body sinking into bliss.

  A moment passed, lost in the satisfied chime of the dome. She realized that she sat above it now, wedged tight against Mr. Anderson, her hands still locked around his wrists.

  His breath was warm and uneven against her neck.

  She released him and he withdrew.

  “You’re far from cold,” he said.

  “You were supposed to remain outside the screens.”

  “I became concerned.”

  “I didn’t call for you.”

  “I heard something.”

  “I—” She couldn’t argue anymore. Her mind felt heavy, her limbs made of water. Even her breathing seemed to take effort. She wanted nothing more than to find an immediate place to curl up under blankets, to revel in this glorious moment and what it had felt like.

  He was right, after all. She was far from cold.

  And now she knew.

  Finding her clothes on the floor, she stepped into her drawers then reached for her dress. The garment came up with a whisper of taffeta and she tugged it around her waist, straightening it with difficulty.

  Mr. Anderson crouched down and lifted her cloak from the floor. He turned back toward her, his eyes drawn to the tight press of her corset as she pulled the straps of her dress higher. He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide his interest.

  Fresh from release, she felt herself grow bold.

  “Your machine is a marvel, Mr. Anderson.”

  “T’would seem it served its purpose.”

  “As you knew it would.”

  “What?”

  “You are an infamous bachelor, it seems.”

  A reluctant grimace. “Aye.”

  “Your experience in this area must be truly vast.”

  “Not vast, just well spent.”

  “You are to be congratulated.”

  He looked at her, a flash of warning in his eyes.

  Her heart sank, suddenly not quite so bold. “I only meant that intellectuals and academics of your caliber are not generally—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Forgive me.”

  He shook his head, her apology as unwelcome as her careless probing. “I have little regard for polite society and its disingenuous rituals, Countess. It would be a mistake, however, to think that I dunna value people.”

  “Ah.” She accepted the cloak and pulled its heavy fabric over her shoulders. “So you take your romances quite seriously.”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps you even limit yourself to one woman at a time.”

  “I prefer it so.”

  She smiled, knowing that there was pain in her expression she had no wish to hide. “How refreshing you are. Your paramours have certainly been lucky, to be respected so. It is treatment the rest of us may envy.”

  He watched her for a moment. “You’re not cold.”

  “Your machine—”

  “There’s no excuse for what he did to you.”

  She paused at that, her fingers poised on the button of her cloak.

  “You dunna have to live this way, afraid to indulge your passions.”

  “Not all of us can be artisans.”

  “But none of us should be prisoners.”

  “Is that what you think I am?” She finished buttoning her cloak. “Quite the opposite. In fact, I have decided that this machine, remarkable though it is, shall need some fine-tuning.”

  His brows raised. “Fine-tuning?”

  “Yes. It provides a very pleasant experience, to be sure, but it is one of over-stimulation, perhaps, and I think its mechanism must be made accurate to the real world.”

  “Countess—”

  “It does not simulate what happens between a man and a woman, and I prefer an accurate simulation.”

  “What are ya talking about?”

  “How many men feel like that machine?”

  His gaze cut from her to the golden chime in the background. “’Twas never supposed to feel like what happens between a man and woman. It was supposed to prove that you can achieve sexual satisfaction, which you obviously can. It took humans millions of years to fit together just so, and it is perfectly delightful when done with an open mind and a little skill. But you want to replace it with technology, which is a fine way for you to feel nothing. You want something I canna give you, Countess, intimacy with no accountability, some bit of vindication you don’t need.”

  “How would you know what I need?” Leda snapped at him, her voice small and cruel. She immediately regretted the words and opened her mouth to apologize, only to feel a sudden emptiness. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find her way through it.

  It wasn’t the inventor’s fault. She could hardly be angry with him. She could be furious, however, with the Earl and his child actress, furious with the world and the judgment it heaped upon her shoulders, furious at the open triumph shown by those who envied her wealth and longed for her disgrace. Everyone had gotten what they wanted.

  Everyone except for her.

  She closed her eyes, frustrated that she could not express this, that she could seem to do nothing but seethe and struggle against tears.

  “Fine,” he said. “You want to work this out on something that canna defend itself, fine.”

  She looked up at him, watching him soften his stance.

  “But a machine like that is more complicated.”

  “I’ll pay for both versions.”

  “It’ll require more than a bank draft.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll have to come prepared.”

  “Prepared?”

  “To do whatever’s necessary.”

  “Meaning?”

  He gave a half-shake of his head. “You’ll have to be agreeable to whatever technical plan I devise, however intrusive you may find it. I willna bring this work on myself if there’s a possibility of you losing your nerve at the last moment. I have no desire to waste my time.”

  She let the words hang between them, the challenge sending an odd thrill down her spine. “You have my full commitment.”

  He seemed to weigh that without conclusion, his eyes sharp, the lantern’s glow lustrous in the blonde of his hair. “Your man is waiting.”

  “Then I bid you good evening, Mr. Anderson.” She slipped past him, her skirts sweeping behind her as she crossed the workshop and headed for the side exit. Pausing before the door, she spoke without turning back, her voice soft. “And thank you.”

  If he heard her, he did not reply.

  Ian watched her go, waiting for the door to lock in place behind her. Hearing it click, he released a long breath through his teeth and glared at the machine he’d been left with. It had performed to expectation. The test had proved highly accurate. He’d never met a woman less cold than this one.

  And there lay the trouble. The feel of her was difficult to put aside, the way she’d clutched him and held on for dear life during that last, ragged breath of climax. In that moment, he’d felt more than just a physical release flowing through her, as if the tension of so many years had come apart in his arms, leaving the woman he held trembling and lost.

 
; The insanity he’d agreed to after that, well… It’d been a gut response, based purely on the realization that she was asking him for more than a machine. It was a reaction to the pain shimmering in those green eyes of hers, the hint of depth in waters he’d presumed were far too shallow.

  It’d been an easy decision, if not a wise one.

  Shaking his head, he crouched down to the floor to close the steam valve. The machine lost its strength, winding down with the slowing of the chimes until its gears finally clicked to an abrupt stop. He approached it thoughtfully, watching his reflection form as a shadow in the golden surface of the dome. Reaching down, he slid two fingers over the bright metal curve and found it smudged. He stroked over the enticing evidence, as if he might still feel her warmth there.

  “Countess, Countess, what a confused mess y’are,” he mused, allowing his fingertips to turn in slow circles along the gold. “I wonder if you even know the game you’re playing at now. To be certain, you ’ave no real idea who you’re playing it with.”

  Leda climbed the steps to her private apartments, bunching her skirts to keep them from dragging along the stone. Night rain pattered across the atrium glass above, the light of candles and lamps shining from marble columns and empty, cloistered hallways. Treasures lined the walls, great oil paintings in gilded frames depicting pale nobles with doe-like eyes and wistful faces, dressed in silks and jewels with children, horses or dogs in the background. She passed them without seeing them, without knowing their names or why they were there. She had never known.

  Her night maid ushered her past golden clocks and ornamental fruit trees, past windows lined with shimmering fabrics and across floors inlaid with precious stones. All doors were opened for her, hall after hall until she reached the heavy stillness of her own bedchamber. Towels were gathered, bed clothes arranged, tea and refreshments ordered. She was conditioned to see nothing, be part of nothing.

  The people who worked for her knew their roles and their tasks. They were quick, keeping their expressions slack, barely speaking to one another as they moved around her. They made every effort to be as soundless and invisible as possible, as if she were surrounded by helpful ghosts that dared not occupy the same physical plane she did.

  They stripped her of her dress, removed her garters and stockings, unlaced her corset in silence, with cold fingers. They brought a flowing dressing gown and a robe of pure white satin and fur. They loosened her dark hair and brushed through it without affection, another chore crossed from a long and dreaded list.