A Clockwork Christmas Angel

by J. W. Stacks

  ****

  Abigail gasped at the fine lacquered carriage that stood waiting for them. It was of the old type, drawn by real horses, two imported barrel-chested bay duns from the Americas, rather than the mechanical ones that billowed smoke and leaked oil, but that made it no less grand in her eyes. In some ways, its quiet dignity made the jitters in her stomach slightly less when she realized that she wouldn’t have to ride in one of the infernal machines that had maimed her for life. Maggie maintained a comforting grip on her arm to let her know that she was there. A coachman in a red jacket and top hat courteously opened the door and helped them inside the velvety interior. Abigail couldn’t help but notice his good looks, green eyes, and blond hair. “Good evening, ladies,” he intoned with a practiced air and bowed slightly.

  “I thought you said that you’d settle for no less than an Earl?” she accused Maggie the moment the door was fastened behind them and they felt the carriage dip as the driver took his customary place.

  “Abby, my dear, there is a big difference between money and title,” Maggie said. “This one belongs to a merchant of my acquaintance who lets me borrow it from time to time.”

  Abigail thinned her lips and wondered about the “acquaintance.”

  Maggie chose to ignore the look or missed it and rapped her hand against the carriage’s window. “Home, please, Matthew,” she called out and, with a gentle lurch, their fine ride began.

  The town changed before her eyes as if she was stepping back into time even though it had only been a little over a year. The soot-streaked clapboard and brick buildings that loomed over dirty, tight alleyways gave way to rowhouses that became more dignified as their jaunt continued. Here and there, garlands of holly and wreaths decorated the facades, looking festive even in the harsh glare of gaslight. Snatches of carols sung by roving groups of ragamuffin children in search of a few pence wafted through the air. Maggie appeared to let Abigail soak in the scenery for a bit before starting in on all the theater and society gossip that she had missed. The girl had a way with it too, adding in her own little comments and wanton asides that, in more refined company, would have been scandalous and vulgar. Abigail devoured it all like a starving woman. It had been so long, and Maggie made it sound so enjoyable. She found herself almost missing it.

  “Not that you heard any of this from me,” Maggie cautioned playfully.

  “Heavens, no. You’re the very model of discretion.”

  Their laughter had just died down when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a fine home. Abigail’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the elegant carved columns, pale green painted wooden walls and dainty windows spilling out welcoming light.

  “Oh, Maggie...” she breathed.

  “Well, when you left...” Maggie started and looked terribly guilty.

  “I’m happy for you. I really am,” Abigail beamed joyfully at the other woman and seized her hands. “You deserve the good things in life!”

  The clump of bootsteps cut off Maggie’s reply as Matthew opened the door and helped them descend. Abigail flinched as he took her clockwork arm to help her down.

  “M’lady” was his only comment.

  Her steps faltered as she neared the doorway. Her stomach felt as though it was tied up in knots. Maggie’s arm went through hers. “I’m here,” she said softly. “You’ll do fine. Remember you’re the best damn actress that ever graced the boards.” Her last words were delivered with such conviction that Abigail’s heart went out to her friend, but she still felt as though she wanted to vomit.

  The two women ascended the front steps and Maggie grasped the door knob. “God be with you,” she intoned.

  “Or Devil take me,” Abigail immediately responded quietly to their old theater jest and then they stepped inside together.

  ****

  Matthew Boucher pushed the driving goggles up on his forehead and reached inside the ridiculous red jacket for his makings pouch, his fingers idly brushing the heavy Volcanic pistol strapped to his side. He deftly rolled a cigarette, not giving a damn if it was appropriate behavior or not for his position. He struck a lucifer against his boot heel and lit his smoke, inhaling deeply. It was bad enough to be stuck here at Christmas but all this high-falutin’ talking was about to drive him loco. This whole assignment had been nothing but a wild goose chase from the beginning.

  That Roland Worchester believed he was in danger, Matthew had no doubt. The truth of it was the man would piss his britches at anything he imagined as a danger. If it hadn’t been for Worchester’s ever-present jacket, Matthew was sure he’d find a wide yellow stripe down the man’s back. It was only his burgeoning munitions business and its importance to the U.S. government that had caused Washington to send him here as a undercover bodyguard. Worchester had a better chance to drink himself to death or burst his ticker while balls deep in some expensive whore than through an assassin’s bullet. Still, here he was, masquerading as—what did the limeys call them—A chauffeur. Goddamn. It wouldn’t do to call a man a driver when a fancy French word would do.

  Still, he reflected, the scenery wasn’t bad. He had been taken with Lady Talbot since he first laid eyes on her and wild imaginings of her crying out beneath him had relieved his manly needs more than once. Now she had brought a friend, and he felt the pang of something other than lust. There was something about her, a haunted vulnerability that she could not hide with her painted eyes. In his years of service he had seen that look—usually in those wretched souls headed to the gallows. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or just an inner plea for mercy. However, he had never seen it on a woman and it moved him to the core. There was something not quite right about her, a inner agony. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She intrigued him, and he had plenty of time to take a fancy to a mystery.

  ****

  All eyes turned to them as they entered through the front door. Abigail had the sudden urge to retreat and only the firm grip on her arm kept her from fleeing. “Apologies, my dearest friends, for being late to my own celebration,” Maggie smiled. “I’m sure you remember—”

  “Abigail!” exclaimed a stocky man in a waistcoat a size too small.

  “Good Heavens!” an older woman wearing too much make-up added.

  “Charles. Elizabeth—” Abby nodded, a fixed smile on her face, and desperately hoping that she wouldn’t swoon and embarrass Maggie in front of everyone. In addition to the theater manager and the chorus director there were two male actors she knew—James and Edward, were accompanied by young ladies she did not know. At the first sign of an impending surge towards them, Maggie held up a warning hand. “Abby’s story can wait until dinner. At the moment, however, we are here to celebrate the day.” She plucked two flutes of wine from a silver tray on the sideboard and handed one to her friend. “I would like to propose a toast...”

  Maggie, God bless her, kept her speech short and Abigail lost no time in draining the glass then helping herself to another. She was going to need all the fortification she could muster the way everyone kept staring at her like a insect under glass. They had known her for many years, and yet she felt as though she was a stranger. James and Charles both tried to engage her in conversation, but she kept her answers brief and noncommittal between drinks. Dutch courage steadied her nerves, a comforting warmth suffusing her body. She might be a mechanical abomination but, by jove, she had her pride. Her life was her own business.

  Thankfully, the dinner conversation strayed into more mundane territory such as cricket, the latest sensation at the opera, and who was favored in the latest election to Parliament—none of which she gave a fig about. It wasn’t until Maggie tapped her fork on her glass that the room fell silent. “I’m sure you’re all curious about our dear friend, Abigail, now returned to our company.”

  Abigail’s stomach lurched and her fingers gripped the table under the cloth until
she felt the wood begin to splinter beneath her unnatural grip. She quickly let go and forced her face to remain neutral. Nobody seemed to have heard. Maggie had not told her what she was going to say. Abigail trusted her to not embarrass her but the uncertainty was not comforting.

  “We were right.” Maggie chanced a glance at Abigail. “Our indomitable Miss Hogarth eloped with an Australian mine owner. It was all very sudden. Unfortunately he died a short time afterwards from a illness,” Maggie saw the discomfort before it could begin and silenced it with a raised hand. “Nothing catching, I assure you. Abby has just returned home after settling his accounts, and she still doesn’t like to talk about such a traumatic time.” Abigail had the wherewithal to look forlornly down at her lap, but inwardly she rejoiced. Maggie, you beautiful lying minx. I could kiss you!

  Elizabeth and the other young ladies murmured their commiseration at such love cruelly ended, no doubt imagining the florid escapades of countless penny dreadful heroines being a fair representation of Abigail’s woes, complete with the gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair. “Thank you,” Abigail said quietly as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes to quell the onrush of nonexistent tears. “Adam was...” she made her lip quiver, “a fine man.”

  Edward cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I believe there are cigars and port in the other room.” The men beat a hasty retreat while the women converged upon the new object of their affections, offering support and offers to entertain Abigail at their homes. She had suddenly gone from an unknown to one of a close-knit group of friends. Abigail had wallowed in pity for so long it seemed only fair that she use it to her advantage. One of the young ladies, “Julia,” she believed, pushed another glass of wine into her hands as Maggie excused herself to fetch another bottle.

  “John proposed to me,” she said.

  Abigail stared back at her and the blunt statement. Didn’t this foolish girl know what she was? Did she consider her a threat? No man would want half a woman.

  “I assure you I have no designs upon your intended.” Her cool tone seemed to make the younger girl realize how inappropriate the insinuation was.

  Her face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Abigail said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “Protect what is yours and be damned what others think. I wish the both of you happiness.” She raised her wine in salute as Julia visibly relaxed.

  The vintage was almost to her lips when the sound that chilled Abigail’s soul erupted into the midst of her burgeoning acceptance—the whirring spiral of a dying flywheel. Her arm froze halfway to her mouth as the gears and springs inside lost their motive force and locked into position. Abigail realized with horror that she had forgotten to wind up her arm that morning. Her eyes grew wide, staring uselessly at the wine that would never reach her lips.

  “I say, I wonder... what was that noise?” the other lady mused.

  “I haven’t the faintest,” Elizabeth replied from nearby. “Miss Hogarth? Are you all right? Do you feel ill?”

  “Y..yes... I mean... no,” Abigail gasped. “I need some... air. Excuse me.” The rest of the women looked on with concern as she staggered to the door and lurched outside before the tears broke for real this time. She hurried down to the carriage at the curb, her arm still stuck in its ridiculous position and her only thought to leave before her shame took over. She had been a fool to think that she could go back to the way things were.

  ****

  Matthew looked up from grinding out his third cigarette and saw the lady who had accompanied Lady Talbot running oddly back towards him. She staggered once which raised all kinds of alarms in his conditioned brain. He rushed forward and caught her before she could fall, one arm around her waist and the other around her forearm, but her glove rolled up to her wrist under his grip and revealed the sheen of burnished metal. “Oh, no! No!” She sobbed and tried to pull away from him.

  “Ma’am,” he drawled and maintained his strong hold, “I can’t begin to help you if’n you run away. What’s the trouble?”

  Abigail stared at the blurry image of the man through her tears. “I’m a monster, can’t you see that?” Her voice shook with agitation.

  “No, m’am. I see you’re missin’ an arm. That’s all.”

  “What?” Her mind became lucid at the sudden unexpected turn of his words.

  “I was in the War ‘tween the States. Saw lots of folks, men n’ women, have to get ‘em.”

  “But I was an actress,” she sobbed. “My life is ruined.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. I ain’t going to start believin’ a pretty little thing like you is ruined.” A handkerchief appeared out of his jacket pocket as he guided her behind the carriage. “Best you not be seen from the house,” he explained. “Talk seems deadly in this part of the world.”

  “Now,” he said once he had concealed her from curious eyes, “what happened to your arm?”

  Abigail stared at the man and realized with a shock that it was Matthew the cab driver but his cultured speech was gone, replaced with an American drawl. “What happened to your voice?” she sniffed.

  “Good question. But I asked first.”

  Abby looked down. “I forgot to wind it up.”

  “Oh,” he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have to wind up a limb. “Do you have the key?”

  “Yes.” she said and flushed a deep red.

  Again, he seemed to know her meaning. “I’ll just... uh, turn my back while you... get it.”

  After a moment of the tantalizing rustling of fabric, her voice said, “I’m going to have to rely on you as a gentleman to help me wind myself.”

  Matthew turned to see her perched atop one of the carriage wheels, her dress exposed at the shoulder, the delicate curve and pale skin making his breath draw in. “I’m sorry for having to be so familiar, Miss...?”

  “Abigail Hogarth,” she replied and closed her eyes as his hands touched her. They were rough hands, used to work, but they were almost reverential in the delicacy with which they made contact with her flesh. The harsh sound of winding gears and springs came to her ears, and she let out a sigh. His hands stopped moving.

  “I’m not hurtin’ you, am I?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Mister... ?”

  “Matthew Boucher, but you can call me Matt, ma’am. I don’t stand much on manners.”

  He resumed winding up her arm, and Abby closed her eyes. She was enjoying his hands on her. It had been so long since she had... She shook her head at the inappropriate thoughts and then realized that her dress was inching farther down her shoulders.

  “Mister Boucher, if you persist, I shall scream.”

  “Miss Hogarth,” his deeply masculine voice, tinged with confidence that everything was under control, soothed her apprehensions. “Do you know who gave you this arm?”

  “No, I don’t. I woke up in hospital with it before they... sent me away. Why?”

  “Because the very same man who hired me to drive this cab has his weapon factory’s stamp on your arm. It’s near your back so it’d be easy to miss even with a mirror.”

  “What?” Abigail tried to look over her shoulder and only succeeded in allowing her gown to slide a bit lower. “What does that mean?” Her mind snapped back to her situation. She was unsupervised with a man she just met and had shown him more of her than was entirely acceptable outside the marital bed. She quickly adjusted the fabric and blushed crimson.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone like you, Miss Hogarth.”

  She tingled. It sounded more like interest than a casual observation. Stop it. You’re imagining things. You’re a wind-up toy, remember? She fought down her thoughts.

  “Abigail, if you please. If I must call you Matt, I insist
.”

  “Abby!” Maggie’s voice rang out worriedly from the walkway.

  She looked at Matt and seeing no objection called out, “I’m back behind the carriage.”

  Maggie’s clattering footsteps rushed the carriage only to be drawn up short as she rounded the vehicle to see Abigail calmly leaning against a wheel with her arm exposed and with Matthew. “Are you all right?” she blurted, concern in her voice. “What happened?”

  “Oh, Maggie!” Abigail hugged her. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to wind my arm, and it ran down so I scurried outside—but Matt helped me wind it up again.”

  “It was no trouble, Miss,” Matt said, his voice reverting to practiced English.

  “Do you want to come back inside?” Maggie asked.

  Abigail looked doubtful. “Do any of them suspect?”

  “They suspect that your nerves are at their end after the death of your husband and that sudden noise brought on an attack. I imagine the shock has passed by now.” Maggie grinned.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hogarth,” Matt said. “I did not realize you were a widow.”

  “She isn’t,” Maggie said. “We needed an excuse to explain her absence... wait, what happened out here?”

  “Nothing untoward,” Abigail said quickly.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Maggie quipped.

  “Wait,” Abigail said with a glance at Matt. “What do you know about the man who let you borrow Matthew and his carriage?”

  “Not much. Mr. Worchester is free with his money, has an impeccable knowledge of whiskey, doesn’t mind me smoking his cigars, and I understand he deals in silks. He often lets me use his carriage when he makes his frequent trips to Germany to inspect his supplier’s silk.”

  Abigail shared a look with Matt. Silks were leagues different from weapons.

  “I’d like to call on you tomorrow, if that is acceptable?” Matt said.