by S. C. Green
“We should be out there,” said Aaron, anger bubbling inside him.
Quartz dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Let Brunel solve his own problems. There’s work enough in here for all the Stokers, for now.”
It was true — they’d never been so busy. Isambard had ordered every Stoker that could be spared to work in the Boiler workshops — he wanted them operational within the week. He’d secured some rusting factory machines from the old Navvy sheds, and they needed pulling apart and refitting to engineer and fit the precise parts of the Boilers, and new, precision parts custom-built for each specific task. With overtime pay on offer, Stokers rushed from one shift in the furnace rooms to another in the workshops, and there had never been such a great bustle of activity in the Engine Ward. But soon it would be quiet again, for when the workshops were operational, Quartz and two hundred Stokers would leave for the swamps.
“I don’t understand Isambard’s thinking,” said Aaron. “There’s a Wall over there that needs to be built quick as lightning, and here’s Isambard occupying his own workforce in making cursed Boilers and frolicking in the swamps.”
Quartz drained the final drops of whisky, threw the bottle into the scrap heap below, and pulled a fresh one from the pocket of his greatcoat.
From outside the Ward, in the direction of the new Wall construction, Aaron heard screaming. From this distance he could not hear the creature, but he could guess.
“Dragons,” said Aaron. He saw the workers scrambling off the scaffold. I hope Nicholas is all right, he thought.
“All this over a couple of dragons,” said Quartz.
“People just want to feel safe, I guess. I wish I felt safe here. But everything is changing so fast; Isambard becoming Presbyter, you going away …” meeting another who shares the sense.
He took another swig from the bottle, and the roar of the compies in his ears became fainter, as though he were listening through a layer of mud. He thought about what Nicholas had said last time he’d seen him — about the voice he’d heard down in Isambard’s workshop. “It was a compie, and it was in great pain.”
But if Nicholas heard something and I didn’t, what does that mean? Is my sense somehow broken? Is his?
***
Nicholas paced the length of the opulent receiving room, waiting to be admitted to the King’s private audience hall. His fingers drummed nervously against his leather document case.
Brunel, far from showing any sign of nerves, seated himself on an overstuffed French chair, folded his hands in his lap, and whistled “The Stoker and the Navvy’s Wife”. Nicholas shot him a murderous stare.
“I don’t see what you’re all worked up about,” Brunel remarked. “Your plans are brilliant, and with my new Boilers, I have the means to bring them to fruition.”
“The King wants a Wall and a railroad built in four months! And your plan … your only plan … involves a machine that exists as two heaps of scrap-metal in your workshop. We should be spending this time pressing as many men as possible into service, not sending the Stokers away to the swamps and trying to fund yet another engineering experiment.”
“I have every confidence in the ability of my Boilers.” Brunel smiled. “Just you wait.”
The outer door creaked open, and a maid entered, wheeling a tea-trolley and dressed in austere black skirts and a white apron. She can’t have been much older than eighteen, and was possessed of a rare natural beauty — porcelain skin, bright, intelligent eyes, and pert, delicate lips.
“Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” she said, giving a short curtsey, “but His Majesty thought perhaps you would like refreshments while you wait for him to prepare for your meeting.” She smiled at Nicholas, a warm, dazzling smile that made his head feel fuzzy.
Nicholas gratefully accepted a cup of steaming tea and a tiny scone, which she pushed into his hands with such delicate grace his nerves rather got the better of him, and they jerked uncontrollably, splashing scalding tea on the seat of his trousers and all over the French chair.
A flush crept across the maid’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Allow me to clean this for you, sir.”
“No, no, it was my fault. You don’t have to—” But she was already dabbing at the stain with a white handkerchief, her eyes downcast, concentrating on her work.
A few strands of her hair escaped from her bonnet in a tangle of brown curls, cascading down her face as she dabbed at his trousers. He fought the sudden, unbecoming urge to grab her by her beautiful hair and press her face to his.
No, Nicholas. Concentrate. You’re here to visit with the King.
His own cheeks flushed, and, as he leaned forward to help her up, his fingers brushed against her arm. That simple touch of soft, warm skin sent a shiver through his entire body. She leapt away, averting her gaze once more, fussing with the items on the tea-trolley.
She set a teacup and saucer down on the ornate oak end table beside him, and dabbed a spoonful of clotted cream onto a scone. He watched her intently, not caring how rude he must seem. He saw her sneak a glance at him through her pretty curls, and quickly look away again. Behind him, Brunel gave an ungentlemanly snort.
A guard entered from the inner door, his rifle resting against his shoulder. “The King will see you now.” He addressed the girl. “Bring his tea.” The girl followed with the laden tray.
Nicholas had expected exactly what he saw — an opulent chamber, dimly lit, and festooned with exotic silks and damasks. What he hadn’t expected was to see the King lying facedown upon an oak couch of German design, while a waifish girl wearing a thin chiton kneaded his back. The last time they’d visited Windsor Castle, George had been immaculately presented, receiving his guests in the stately drawing rooms, his clothing perfectly pressed, his wig and makeup flawless. Even at the Royal Society when he was confined to his chair, the King still maintained a dignified air.
Compared to this earlier image, his current state was deplorable. The King’s wig was askew, hanging over one eye and revealing the thin, matted hair beneath. His bloodshot eyes blinked rapidly in the dim light, the skin around them drawn up so they bugged out of his skull like an insect.
“The Presbyter Isambard Brunel and his architect Nicholas Rose to see you, Your Majesty.” The guard darted away, as though he couldn’t bear to remain inside that chamber a moment longer.
“Your Majesty?”
King George raised his head, ever so slightly, and regarded them with his bulging, wild eyes; the pupils dark and slanted like an animal. Pushing himself onto his hands, he rolled over and faced the two visitors. Nicholas struggled to tear his gaze away from the blisters covering the King’s cheeks, from the skin that pulled around his mouth, revealing his long, blackened teeth and gums. As he stared, the King’s robe fell open, revealing a cluster of fresh, bulging pustules, and dark scars crisscrossing his chest. Nicholas averted his eyes, ashamed to see the monarch in such a state.
“Sit, sit.” His voice, calm and strong, seemed at odds with his deplorable condition. The King waved them to a formal couch. “You bring me the finalised plans, I see.”
Brunel unrolled the drawings and set them out on the table. “Mr Rose and I have been puzzling over how to meet your Majesty’s request to have the Windsor/Buckingham railway completed within your timeframe, to coincide with the completion of the shell of the Wall. We believe we’ve finally come up with a solution that will satisfy all parties.”
The King leaned over the table, his eyes poring over the drawings. The girl shuffled forward, trying to continue her work. He growled and pushed her away. Pouting, she flounced into the darker recesses of the chamber. As she turned, Nicholas caught the same crisscrossed scars and puncture wounds on her shoulders and back as he’d seen on the King only moments before.
Behind the King’s couch, the beautiful maid hunched over her tea-trolley. The King sat up and she handed him a cup of tea — a strange brew that appeared reddish in the dim light. As she straightened herself, King George’s ey
es swept over her body, and he licked his lips. She backed away and returned to her tea-trolley. Nicholas’ eyes met hers, and he was surprised to see terror there.
“Four months,” the King murmured. “It is not enough. I need it sooner. Two months.”
Nicholas blanched, but Brunel simply nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“You are certain these … machines … will complete my railway on time?”
“Oh yes, sir,” Brunel said. “I am certain.”
“Very well.” The King pushed the drawings aside. “You shall have as much money as needed to complete the job. Show me the latest designs for the Wall.”
Brunel unrolled the next drawing. “There she is, higher and wider than has ever been attempted before. As you can see, sir, we’ll be building new stations in Belgravia—”
“There are too many gates.” The King frowned.
“People still need to move freely about the city. Otherwise, the Wall would disrupt commerce. The gates are controlled using my unique steam-driven turbines. Once closed, only a command to the control room in Engine Ward will open them again.”
“And this will seal off the city?” The King’s voice rose in pitch.
Brunel nodded. “No men or dragons will be able to penetrate those walls.”
“Good,” the King nodded, rubbing his thin, hooked nose. “That’s good.”
The King’s eyes shifted erratically, and his head lolled to the side. As he moved, the wounds across his chest wept blood. He didn’t dismiss the maid, and so she stayed, crouching quietly in the corner so as not to be noticed. Nicholas met her eye, and smiled. She gave a little wave, and smiled back, though her eyes darted back and forth between the King and the bangtail at the back of the chamber. She was terrified. He didn’t blame her. The King was acting in a most peculiar manner.
Nicholas shifted in his chair, and accepted another scone from the tray in an effort to calm his shaking hands.
Brunel and King George bent their heads together and continued their discussion in low whispers. Pretending to be fascinated with some detail in the plans, Nicholas leaned over the table, tore a new page from his journal, and scribbled a note. Discreetly, while Brunel was demonstrating the positions of the new railway stations, he folded it and slipped it up the sleeve of his jacket.
The King nodded his satisfaction. Brunel held up his page of notes. “I shall see His Majesty’s requests worked into the final plans,” he said. The King waved them away, and called for his nymph to return. The girl in the chiton skulked from the shadows and draped herself over his couch. Nicholas looked away, not wishing to see.
As they rose and moved toward the reception room, he passed the tea-trolley and slipped the note into the pocket of the girl’s apron. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. He gave a tight smile, and left.
I should not have done that. But his steps felt lighter as he walked with Brunel back to the Engine Ward, his mind awash with the memory of her sweet smile.
***
After Brigitte put the tea things away, Miss Julie rattled off a long list of chores for her to finish. She rushed through the washing and the dusting, the note burning a hole in her pocket. Even so, it was well past dinner before Brigitte could extract herself from Miss Julie’s clutches and hurry to her chamber. She unfolded the note with shaking fingers, and laid it flat on her pillow, smoothing out the corners and admiring the gently sloping, elegantly curled handwriting of the handsome gentleman.
She couldn’t read it, of course, for she had never learned to read. Her mind raced with myriad imaginings of what it could say. She thought of the man who’d passed it to her: his soft features, the curl of his hair over his ears, his kind grey eyes tinged with sorrow. Her stomach fluttered.
A crash started her. Crying out, she dropped the note and turned to see Cassandra hobbling across the floor clutching her foot. “Hurt me toe,” she gasped, collapsing onto her bunk.
“You might be more quiet about it.”
“Why? You’re not sleepin’ or nothin’. Hey, what’s that?” Cassandra’s eyes fell upon Brigitte’s pillow.
“It’s nothing.” Brigitte shoved the note under her pillow. Her answer seemed to satisfy Cassandra, who rolled over, kicked off her stockings, blew out the candle, and fell promptly asleep.
Brigitte rolled onto her side and listened to Cassandra’s snores, her mind reeling with the events of two weeks: the King’s attack on Alison, his strange temperament and the peculiar marks all over his skin, the screams and snarls echoing through the castle halls, and now a gentleman was giving her notes. Finally, her eyelids fluttered closed, her hand feeling under the pillow for the note, and her dreams filled with visions of a certain grey-eyed gentleman.
***
“—and don’t go chasing after dragons. And listen to what the priests say, even though they’re idiots, they’re in charge, and they have the power to make your life miserable, and—”
Aaron and Quartz stood together under the giant iron arches that formed the gates of Engine Ward. A row of carts lined the street, some to carry the large crew of men, others stacked high with supplies — sleepers, building materials, tools, and chests of food and drink. Peter and Oswald and the other priests stood under the gates, their faces stony as they directed the workers. They didn’t look happy to be leaving the city.
Aaron clasped Quartz’s shoulders, rattling off long lists of instructions and platitudes, babbling so he would not have to face the silence of his own thoughts.
“—come back to London if you’re in any trouble—”
“Aaron,” Quartz grinned. “I aim to make trouble.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Quartz nodded his head in Aaron’s direction, and climbed aboard the cart. At least twenty men crowded in after him, so Aaron could no longer see his jolly, wrinkled face. He turned away, slinking back through the Ward before the carriages even pulled away.
His shack felt enormous, empty, without Quartz. He lay down on the bed and pulled Chloe close, hoping to lose himself in sleep, but he would not get his wish. After an hour of tossing and turning, he got up again, and opened the cabinet to find a bottle of whisky, only to discover Quartz had left it bare. Sighing, he looked under the bed, found a bottle with a few drops left in it, and took this outside with him. He went up to the top of the boiler tower, where he had sat with Isambard only a few years previously, and gazed out across the Ward and the city of London stretching on into eternity beyond her walls.
For the first time in his life, he was suddenly, inescapably alone.
***
They disembarked at Liverpool, and Stephenson went off to procure a carriage while Jacques relieved himself in the public latrine. The Frenchman sat by the platform and watched the men loading and unloading the wagons, marvelling at the weight of cargo the locomotive could transport. At the edge of the platform was a small stone shrine containing a votive statue of Stephenson that seemed to lurch under the weight of the floral wreaths that covered it.
These locomotives could make England rich, he realised. The richest country in the world, if only they had a king who wasn’t mad.
Someone called his name. He saw Stephenson waving at him from beside a comfortable carriage, while the footman helped two women settle into the carriage and tied their portmanteaus to the roof.
The woman introduced herself as Annabelle Milbanke, and, upon hearing his accent, insisted on addressing him in flawless French. Her daughter Ada, who must have been fifteen or so, tugged at her dresses and flipped through a notebook open on her lap.
He knew who she was, of course. One couldn’t go a day in Paris without mention of the famed poet-turned-Messiah Lord Byron and his tumultuous marriage to and divorce from Miss Milbanke, followed shortly thereafter by his daring escape across the closed English border into Greece.
He settled into the sliver of space left on the bench beside Stephenson, and as the carriage pulled away from the station, he addressed Miss Milbanke.
“What sends you fine ladies to London?”
“Why, the first sermon of Robert’s new Presbyter, of course,” said Miss Milbanke. “Ada writes often to eminent members of the Society, and we’ve been sent transcriptions of his lectures, which we’ve studied with great interest. He’s got some remarkable ideas about locomotion, Robert. He thinks you’re going about it all wrong.”
Stephenson’s face darkened. “He’s got this fandangled idea that a wider rail gauge will make the trains run faster. But my trains run plenty fast enough, don’t they, Mr. du Blanc?”
Jacques nodded.
“I’ve even heard he’s got the notion of a railway that doesn’t run on steam at all! And his Wall design is preposterous — ridiculously expensive and an inefficient use of men and resources. I don’t know what the Council was thinking. If you’ve come to London all the way from Kirkby Mallory for Brunel’s lecture,” Stephenson continued, “I’m afraid you’re going to be horribly disappointed.”
“Don’t forget, Mother. We’re also visiting Mister Babbage!” Ada piped up in a singsong tone, never looking up from her study.
“Now there’s a thing,” Stephenson said. “There’s not many who would admit such an acquaintance in public, young Ada.”
Miss Milbanke sniffed. “Ada and Charles have kept up quite a correspondence. She helps him with his calculations, you know. I myself am not sure he’s an appropriate companion for her, not since that business with the corrections and his disgraceful excommunication. But try telling that to a headstrong girl.”
“Mother!” Ada huffed.
“See, now, Babbage I approve of,” said Stephenson. “Smart man, and probably right about the calculations, but he got caught up in the politics. That’s all the city is good for, is politics. That’s why I left as soon as they gave me the jewels.” He gestured at the emerald-encrusted medallion — the mark of a Messiah — hanging around his neck. “In the north there ain’t no politics getting in the way of good engineering. Babbage would have done fine if he’d been in a university, but he wanted to start a church—”