Clockwork Chaos

by C. J. Henderson

  “You didn’t ‘ave to yell,” he said, sticking a pinky finger into his right ear. “Wot can I do you for, Milady Liza?”

  “Just coming to inspect your wears, dear Russell. And to see if any more of your ‘clients’ have work for me.”

  Russell grinned a grin that was a bit too wide for his face and held up a finger, ducking back down behind his stall. Elizabeth smiled.

  It was true that her parents gave her a decent allowance to spend whenever she wanted, but it was closely watched. They knew of their daughter’s “tinkering habits” and highly disapproved of them. And refused to fund them as a result. So, Russell, who was always eager to keep such a loyal customer, had found a way for Elizabeth to make a little coin on her own.

  Reemerging from the bottom of the stall, he laid a small stack of thin, pale papers about the size of maps before her. Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve never had so many at once,” she said, beginning to leaf through them.

  Pictures of machinery and its inner workings decorated each leaflet—schematics that the “clients” had brought to Russell. Often, the sort that the Sky Pirate did business with did not have the... ah, talent to build these machines themselves, no matter how desperately they wanted them. And Russell barely had the time in between his shop-keeping and his pirating to do so for them. Which is where Elizabeth fitted in. For a decent cut of the profits and a discount on all items in his shop, Russell would pass the schematics to her, she would build the machinery, return it to Russell, and both would collect. And often this was more than enough to keep Elizabeth’s own private tinkering going, seeing as she collected the broken clocks of friends and family to harvest for gears.

  Sniffling once, Russell thumbed at his nose.

  “Well, word’s got around, Liza. You’re good, and that’s wot matters. Oh, and I’ve got sumthin’ else for you.”

  He ducked back down behind his stall again, popping back up much quicker than he had before. Holding up a rolled piece of paper, he allowed it to unfurl before Elizabeth’s eager eyes. It was a poster, announcing an Inventors’ Expo to be held in the city in a fortnight’s time. Gasping, she lurched forward—a move that her mother most definitely would have scolded her for—and snatched the paper from Russell’s hand to read further.

  Her eyes hungrily took in every word of instruction printed in small type below the artist’s rendering of the building that the Expo was to be held in. The rules were simple. The inventor or inventors in question were to display a completely original design of some kind at a booth to be assigned once registry was completed. To enter, the only other requirement was to have a sponsor pay your way. One was not allowed to sponsor one’s self. Clutching the poster lengthwise in one hand, Elizabeth leaned forward to hug Russell about the neck.

  “This is wonderful! And you could be my sponsor, Russell. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough money to!” she squealed gleeful.

  Gently prying her off of him, he set her back on her feet.

  “Sorry, luv, I’m afraid it don’t work that way. You see, you’ve got to be someone of name within the inventin’ community to be a sponsor. ‘Fraid that’s just not little ol’ me.”

  Elizabeth’s bright, bright vision of her future of realizing her one true dream was dashed just as quickly as it had been handed to her. Visibly crestfallen, she felt Gerald move closer in some manner of comfort. Russell scratched at the back of his head absently.

  “Now, look ‘ere. It’s not ‘opeless. All’s you’ve got to do is find a sponsor.”

  “Russell, if I knew any inventors of name, it still wouldn’t matter. Nobody ever wants to sponsor a woman.”

  As a kind of apology, he gave her one of the jeweled necklaces—a simple ruby on a gold chain—to her. She didn’t have the heart to look over any of his other merchandise. Turning to Gerald, she announced their departure from Dockside Markets.

  “Where to now, Lady Liza?” he asked.

  “To the haberdashery,” she said sadly. “Mother must see me return home with a hat.”

  Suppers in the Nigels’ home were rarely a quiet affair. At least, for her parents. Elizabeth rarely spoke, often not finding an opportunity to do so. And when she did, Mary or William would shoot it down as either “silly” or “downright preposterous.”

  So, sitting across from her mother at the family’s long, rectangular dining table, Elizabeth ate in silence. Her mother, however, had her head constantly turned to the right, chattering away at the head of the table, where William sat, dressed in a fine gentleman’s suit—in the highest fashion, of course—his wheat-colored hair grown to a precise length and very well groomed, and his sideburns artfully connecting to his thick mustache.

  “Well, tomorrow is the first day Elizabeth will be spending with Cecil. Hopefully, the first of many before their wedding,” Mary smiled at her husband.

  Elizabeth groaned so low that neither of her parents caught it.

  “Indeed,” William answered in his gruff voice. “Might as well get used to the chap, as she’ll be seeing a lot of him after the wedding.”

  The two chuckled as if this had been very droll. Elizabeth began to concentrate very hard on her roasted fowl.

  “Marriage will do our Elizabeth well,” William said in some all-knowing voice.

  They could at least act like she was there. Instead, Elizabeth felt more like she was watching some scene from the play of her life, unable to interact. And it seemed unable to stop.

  “I agree, William. It ought to knock all that girlish silliness right out of her,” Mary said, right before taking a tiny bite out of her food.

  Elizabeth gripped her fork very tightly.

  “Yes, all that inventing nonsense. Her husband will put an end to that, and rightly so.”

  Her foot began to tap beyond her control, and she tried with all her might to channel all her growing anger down to it. It would not help her in the least to have an outburst at supper.

  “Oh, yes, of course. But you know our Elizabeth, stubborn as a mule! You know she’ll fight us to the very end. You know, her sisters were not that difficult to be married off. They wanted a wedding day.”

  “Right, right,” William agreed. “But they were married young. Elizabeth is now twenty. And Lord knows we spent our biggest dowries on the first two. The only reason Cecil is taking her is probably because he too is getting to the age where he needs a wife.”

  Taking her? Like she was some sort of horrible pet that nobody wanted? Elizabeth could stand no more. Dropping her fork so that it clattered loudly onto the plate, she shoved herself to her feet. Both Mary and William, shocked, stared up at their daughter.

  “If you will please excuse me, I am not feeling well,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, of course, dear. Get your rest. Tomorrow’s a big day,” William said.

  Without another word, Elizabeth all but flew out of the room and up the stairs to her own bedroom. Slamming the door, she growled, tearing off her daywear to switch into her dressing gown. She knew, once dressed, that she should go straight to bed. It would be an early morning. But her parents’ careless words coursed through her. Throwing herself into her chair, she sighed.

  Bella peeked from her place at Elizabeth’s pillow. She meowed once and with a soft smile, she assured her beloved cat that she was fine. Chipper, from his mysterious hiding place, emerged, dragging an oddly furry looking object toward her.

  It was, in fact, a sheet of natural chipmunk fur. She had gathered it all from some dead chipmunks she had found that had died from either cruel little boys or natural causes. It was to be Chipper’s coverings when she was done. Once he had dropped it in her lap, she grinned, petting his metal head.

  “I supposed it does always calm me. Could you fetch me my needle, thread, and loose fur?”

  Chipper did just that, and then he spent the next few hours watching as Elizabeth—almost mechanically herself—sewed on the pelt that would soon make him look more animal than machine.


  Cecil Waltham was not an unattractive young man. And Elizabeth was sure he was quite nice. But as the two walked silently through the blossoming, sun-filled park the following day—with Gerald a few paces behind—annoyance was all she could feel for the future viscount.

  Cecil’s chestnut-brown hair was feathery and well kept, with it coming out a little from his head to cast a slight shadow over his bright amber eyes. His face was clean shaven, and his suit was similar in fashion to the one Elizabeth’s father had worn the night before, except cut for a more youthful wearer. The gleam off a golden chain that obviously led to a pocket watch kept catching Elizabeth’s eyes, which she tried to keep downcast.

  Her mind was being just pulled in way too many directions today. At the forefront was, oddly, not her impending wedding. She had woken up that morning and caught sight of the poster for the Expo, which had sent her day into a spiral downwards. Coupled with the wedding thoughts that meeting with Cecil again after so many years had brought, Elizabeth had been barely able to utter a greeting. Now, on their third circle about the park, Cecil seemed determined to conversation.

  “How-um, I mean, isn’t, no rain,” he muttered incoherently, interrupting Elizabeth’s all-consuming thoughts.

  She turned her face toward him as they continued their walk, one blonde brow raised.

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  Cecil cleared his throat. “Lovely weather we’re having, yes? I mean, it’s so nice not to have so much rain.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Quite.”

  Silence fell once more. But, after a few paces, it seemed that Cecil was not going to give up so easily.

  “You’ve, ah, grown into a handsome woman, if you don’t think me too forward to say so,” he muttered.

  She fought rolling her eyes. Was she really to marry a man who had so little to say to her that he would resort to weather and her looks? But, the invisible shadow of her mother loomed over her, and she felt inclined to return his compliment.

  “And you’ve grown into a handsome man yourself, Lord Waltham.”

  He seemed to perk up a bit at that, and it may have been Elizabeth’s imagination, but she thought she had heard Gerald snort a bit with laughter. She hid her growing smile behind her daintily gloved hand.

  “Has your mother shared any thoughts of the wedding preparations with you?” he asked.

  Elizabeth’s smile was wiped away as quickly as it had come. Pursing her lips, she set her eyes deliberately straight ahead, focusing on the lovely blooms and birds that encircled them in the very green park.

  “No,” she said a little too curtly, drawing Cecil’s gaze.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied quietly.

  She spared a slight glance in his direction before setting her eyes once again forward.

  “Thank you, Lord Waltham.”

  “Cecil, please. Call me Cecil. We are to be married. It is pure nonsense that you should still be calling me such so close to our wedding date. If it is acceptable to you, I should like to call you Elizabeth instead of ‘Lady Nigel’ as well.”

  “Actually, I prefer Liza. My parents find it an unsavory nickname, but I like the sound of it better.”

  “Liza,” he said, as if trying it out. With a small smile, he added, “I like it.”

  The two—three—of them were now in the shade of a great tree. Stopping, Elizabeth smiled at him. As a person, Cecil was nothing horrible. In fact, under ordinary circumstances, she might have been quite excited to marry him. But despite his kindness, she knew that she still did not know much of him. How were two people supposed to live their entire lives together without knowing what to say to one another? Would they always be reduced to tiny compliments?

  Cecil looked as if he were about to say more to her when a man, dressed quite shabbily in torn and dirty clothing, approached them. He stopped so close to them that Elizabeth suddenly had to change from breathing out of both her nose and mouth to just her mouth. Cecil arched a brow at him.

  “May I help you?” he asked gently.

  The man ran his left hand through his equally as dirty hair—so dirty that Elizabeth could not tell if it was supposed to be brown or blond—and his black, beady eyes shifted back and forth. Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he drew a knife from within one of his tattered pockets and held it close to Cecil’s face.

  Gerald moved forward protectively toward Elizabeth, and the man shifted the knife warningly toward the butler.

  “Easy, please,” Cecil said.

  Turning the knife back to Cecil, the man said, “If I could have all the coin in yours and the pretty lady’s purse, Milord?”

  Elizabeth clutched her purse, thanking God that she had thought to leave the majority of her personal coin and papers at home this afternoon. Cecil nodded and slowly raised his arms so that the elbows were perfectly crooked.

  “I need to retrieve it from my breast pocket,” Cecil said soothingly.

  Elizabeth admired this man’s calm. For all her silence, calm was the furthest thing from describing her current feelings.

  “Fine. Slowly,” the mugger warned.

  And as slowly as he possibly could, Cecil began to reach for the pocket on the left side of his jacket. However, just as his hand was hovering over the pocket in question, he jabbed his hand right in front of the mugger’s face, holding it so that his wrist was stuck out. A small puff of smoke escaped from his wrist, and the mugger fell instantly to the ground, unconscious and the knife slipping from his fingers. Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

  “How—?” she asked as Cecil’s arms moved gently about her shoulders, ushering her forth with him. Gerald followed close behind.

  “We have to inform the constable, Liza,” he said hurriedly.

  “But how did you do that? What was that smoke?”

  “A type of knockout gas,” he said, spotting the park’s patrolling constable. “Wait here.”

  Cecil rushed forward and talked a moment with the constable, pointing out the location of the slumbering mugger. With a nod, the officer rushed past Elizabeth to perform his duty. Cecil returned with a sigh.

  “That was too close,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “But the knockout gas? How did you get it to puff out like it did?”

  “Oh. Uh, this is how.”

  He unbuttoned the cuff and sleeve of his right arm and rolled both toward his elbow. A long, golden pipe, with an opening that would be hidden just below the sleeve, ran up his arm. At the curve of the elbow it encircled his arm with an equally golden clamp. Attached to the pipe and hidden in the elbow’s curve were two very small vials of the knockout gas—one, of course, being empty now.

  “May I?” Elizabeth asked, stepping forward without waiting for his consent.

  She eyed the contraption hungrily, fascinated by it. It was an ingeniously simple device. She traced the pipe’s path with her gloved index finger, muttering to herself as she did.

  “Liza?” Cecil asked, clearing his throat.

  “It’s a pull switch,” she declared. “When you jerked your wrist forward, the pipe elongated just enough so that the seal to the first knockout gas was released, thus allowing it to travel up the pipe and into our attacker’s face.”

  Now it was Cecil’s turn to be fascinated. His amber eyes doubled in size as he gently pulled his arm away from Elizabeth’s grasp. He pulled his sleeve and cuff back into place and shook his head in wonderment.

  “And may I ask how you know about that?”

  She felt herself blush, something she rarely did in response to a person. It was mostly a flush of success that she felt when her cheeks reddened.

  “I... am an inventor... of sorts.”

  And she paused, holding her breath for a moment. Most the men she knew would laugh at her instantly. A woman fancied herself an inventor? How ridiculous! But Cecil only stared at her for a moment, seeming to be deciding upon some course of action.

&nb
sp; “Come with me, if you please. There’s something I would like to show you,” he said, ushering her forth to the edge of the park that met the street.

  He threw his hand in the air and signaled for a carriage.

  Elizabeth had heard of the manor that Lord Cecil Waltham had somehow acquired of his own means. It was a gorgeous place that was quaint, even in its large size. Flowered vines climbed the two stone towers that attached to the front of the building, its glass windows gleaming merrily in the sun. Its front doors were heavy, oak, and lightly stained. Cecil led her and Gerald into the main foyer, in which Elizabeth had to pause.

  “Your home is beautiful,” she said, glancing at the delicately carved handrails to his staircase and the polished flooring.

  “Yes, yes, but you’ve yet to see the best part,” he said, not unlike a child excited to receive a new toy.

  He led her down a hall that ran beside the grand staircase and passed her by room after room. Finally, he came to a stop in front of a large door that looked similar to the one that graced the home’s threshold.

  “Look,” he said breathlessly as he pushed open the door.

  And Elizabeth gasped. The room beyond was one she had only dreamed of having for herself. Long, sturdy tables were strewn about here and there, covered in all manner of machinery and gears and tools. Schematics hung from almost every wall, tacked unceremoniously sideways and over older ones. Elizabeth stepped into the room, her boots’ heels clicking on the flooring. Above her hung several finished inventions that, had she been close enough to inspect, she was sure she would be envious of. This, by no doubt, was an inventor’s room. She whirled toward Cecil, beside whom Gerald stood in similar wonderment.