The Ghost Engine

by Theresa Fuller

  “The Engine is mine, James. I purchased it.”

  “With my money.” He narrowed his gaze at her.

  “My allowance.” She glared at him.

  “Oh blast it! Let Fotheringay have the damned Engine. He’s taken far more from you. Why do you want a reminder of him?”

  Berd gave a cry of shock. How dare James believe she had let Charles have his way with her!

  To her relief, James’s face contorted guiltily. He jumped up, and reached out one hand to console. “I apologise.”

  “Nothing happened. I can swear on the Bible that nothing happened.”

  James’s voice was soft, bitter. “Whether or not anything happened is not the point though, is it?”

  Heat flared in her cheeks. She pressed her lips together stubbornly, refusing to look at him.

  He sighed heavily, and she smelled brandy on his breath. “I took my pistol last night.”

  “You didn’t fire it.”

  He gave a little laugh. “Should I have? It almost sounds as if you wanted me to. I went down thinking to use it on Fotheringay so he wouldn’t marry you. Only by the time I got there, I was thinking, I should use it to threaten him to marry you.”

  Berd frowned, confused.

  “In the interval, one thing became clear. You love him.”

  I love him. Berd swallowed hard as the blood rushed up her throat, but she refused to cry and instead dug the heel of her palms into her eyes.

  James sighed heavily as he slid onto the sofa beside her.

  She allowed him to gather her up in his arms.

  “Now I have my answer. Though it was a foregone conclusion,” he muttered.

  She said nothing, simply allowed him to hold her as her body shuddered. He had comforted her in this manner when she was little. It had always made her feel better, but not today. Only she could make herself feel better. “What made you change your mind?” she croaked as she pushed away from him.

  “At first, I thought it was Fotheringay who abducted you, however I was wrong. Apparently, he was just as much victim as you.”

  Berd nodded. That was true.

  James stood, picked up his glass and stared at the amber contents. “So if I had shot him, I would have shot a victim rather than the perpetrator.”

  “If you know he is innocent...”

  “Ah ... but once again it’s not me, you see. It’s what the rest of society thinks.”

  James was right. Society would condemn her whether or not she had done the wrong thing. She had gone missing for three days. It didn’t matter that Charles had gone missing for a year. He would survive. She would not.

  He was a man. She was not.

  Berd wet her lips and waited.

  “I called on Fotheringay this morning. Hoped he would see sense. After all, he had demonstrated affection for you last night.”

  James put the drink down without another sip. His expression was wary. Almost as she asked herself that question, a wagon rumbled up outside.

  She jumped up. “Charles! I must—”

  Before she could cross the room, James seized her arm. “Do not go to him. I warn you.” He spoke rapidly, “Fotheringay is a very busy man. He was in a hurry to return last night. I gathered his father has recently passed away and his estate was to be passed on to the next in line. I believe he has trustees at his bank to convince as well as the chancery that he has returned. Then the police.”

  There was only one reason she could think of, as to why James was telling her all of this now. To delay her. “Please, I must...”

  The squeak of the stable doors opening drowned everything else out. She struggled, but it was as if she had been grasped by a metal statue, her arm in its grip as the molten metal had been poured and now the statue had cooled and she was trapped.

  James’s jaw locked. “Are there to be any surprises, Berd?”

  She gasped, stunned. “What?”

  “Promise me there will be no unexpected... Will you need to retire?” He waited, the unsaid implication hanging in the air.

  Retire? Her heart almost stopped. He meant a baby. “No,” she whispered, unable to believe that James was betraying her like this. First, he offered comfort then insult, acting like Jekyll and Hyde, but then she had treated Charles the same way ... yet he had forgiven her.

  James forced a bright smile at her. “I could arrange a place in Wales. Perhaps Harold...”

  She frowned.

  James gave a helpless shrug. “Harold knows the situation. I could set both of you up in a little cottage...”

  James expected Harold to marry her should she be in a family way. The butler was thrice her age!

  Shakily, she lifted her gaze to her brother. The trouble was that in James’s own mind, he was doing the right thing by her. He was showing her he cared. However, she cared not for his method. “No,” she whispered, her voice taut with anger. “There will be no surprises.”

  James nodded, but the muscles on his face were still rigid. “Good. Good.” He appeared to be listening intently.

  Men’s voices muffled in the morning air... The squeak of something metallic and heavy being shifted, grinding in the dirt... and then the crunch of boots on cobblestones.

  The Engine was being loaded.

  “James, I must speak with him,” she rasped, desperate to get away.

  The stable door slammed shut with a bang. She hurled herself once more at the library door, but James twisted her arm, holding her back. The scent of his white carnation swept over her, bringing tears.

  “No.” He glared. “I forbid you to go near Fotheringay.”

  A whip cracked the morning air.

  Berd startled as if the full force of the lash had been unleashed upon her. She jerked, trying to wrench herself free. “Let me go. Please.” If she ran she could catch them. Him.

  The tears in her eyes spilled over, rolling down her hot cheeks.

  “Berd, please!” James swung her round, grasping her by the shoulders.

  His grip was gentler. She could have escaped ... except something in his tone made her pause. She stared into his hazel eyes, stunned. James wasn’t angry. Instead, he was pleading. She had never seen him in such agony.

  “He didn’t want you. Fotheringay made it very clear he did not want to ever see you again. That’s why I kept you inside.”

  Chapter Twenty

  BERD GAVE A hoarse scream as her heart shattered. Sharp pain shut everything else out. She blathered. Words flew out of her mouth. She heard herself, and it was as if someone else spoke. Someone else acted.

  A madwoman.

  “No! It’s not him, James. It’s Gine. And Gine’s a machine. An Engine. And he, I mean it, it is controlling Charles. Only Gine’s Charles and Charles is Gine!” she wailed.

  “Please, stop this,” James urged, pinning her against him as she raged.

  “We’re engaged. I need a word with Char—”

  “Berd!”

  White light flashed over her, cutting out sight and sound. She froze as a different sort of pain blinded her. Black spots hung before her eyes, dropping as they faded. Her cheek throbbed.

  James had slapped her.

  “Berd?” Her brother’s voice was extremely mild. The sole sign of violence present in the stark lines of his face and the hollow slits of his eyes as he stared open-mouthed at his hand.

  He must have released her in order to do so. It was an illusion to think she had broken free. Once more it demonstrated how powerless she was. But the pain of being slapped and the acknowledgement of her powerlessness was nothing compared to the grief that now surged through her: she had lost Charles.

  The enormity of her loss crushed all the fight out of her. She could not even respond to James’s overtures of calm. He hauled her to the sofa where she slumped like a ragdoll upon the cushions.

  In frustration, he ran one hand through his blond hair. “Rose! Damn it. Rose!”

  Her maid appeared.

  Rose had been listening. Likely, a
ll the servants were. Berd felt her body go through the motion of stiffening back into control as she pushed herself upright.

  James half-turned away as if unable to bear the sight of her. He linked his hands behind his back and stared into the distance, the impassive lord of the manor. “Escort your mistress to her room,” he said brusquely.

  But before Rose could move, Berd had risen gracefully to her feet. She pressed her arms to her sides, refusing to let her maid touch her. Before she left the room, she turned to her brother, who was gazing out the window.

  She lifted her chin. “You do not know what you have done,” she said quietly.

  James continued to stare out the window. The solitary sign he had heard her was a hardening around his mouth.

  Back in her room, Berd allowed Rose to undress her and help her into a nightgown. Worn out, hurt beyond belief, she crept into bed, thinking she would be unable to sleep. Giant hands were squeezing her insides, wringing and wringing until all that was left of her were scattered threads.

  She awoke to find the room lit by a pair of candlesticks on the mantelpiece and another pair on her dressing table.

  An elegant voice was calling her. “Berd? Berd, my dear girl, you have no idea the amount of worrying I have undergone.” The dulcet tones purred, mixed with the scent of lavender, horses and earth.

  Aunt Agatha.

  Berd threw herself into her aunt’s arms, startling the duchess, so it was a good thing the older woman was seated.

  “You’re back! When did you get home?” Berd clung to her saviour, like a drowning man a plank of wood.

  “Hush, child,” Aunt Agatha soothed as she stroked Berd’s hair.

  Berd pushed herself out of her aunt’s arms and stared into those sparkling grey eyes. Aunt Agatha had always been her staunch supporter, the one person Berd had never disappointed. No doubt James had brought their aunt up-to-date with what he thought had happened. But he was wrong.

  It was time she told her aunt the truth: what really happened. It was also the only way Berd could see to extricate herself from this mess. “I was simply trying to get the Engine going.”

  Aunt Agatha’s forehead creased with the effort of trying to understand. “Your autocar.”

  Autocar? The trouble with telling the truth, Berd suddenly realised, was that she would also be revealing how much she had lied. But perhaps all was not lost. Her aunt’s own mother, Ada Lovelace, had worked with the inventor of the Difference and the Analytical Engines, Charles Babbage. Surely Berd should not be chastened, but applauded for having done the same thing, with another inventor.

  She put on her most serious expression as she willed her aunt to believe her. “No, a computer.”

  Aunt Agatha brightened with pride. “You built it?”

  If only Berd knew how. Too late did she remember that seventeen-year old heiresses should not be attending auction houses even if it was to purchase computer engines.

  “I was merely emulating grandmother,” Berd said in a firm voice. She prayed her aunt did not inquire further. “I er, purchased it.”

  Purchased? Aunt Agatha mouthed. Her eyes glassed over as if trying to understand how and where Berd could have obtained the device. She stiffened and when she gazed at her niece, Berd knew that whatever trust remained was being swiftly eroded.

  Telling the truth was not going well.

  Berd’s voice wobbled even more as she hurried on. “I wanted to use the computer as a tool. For research. So no more women need die prematurely like Grandmother. I tried to program it.”

  “You disappeared for three days. What really happened?” Anguish laced the duchess’s words.

  “I— I ended up being abducted by the Engine.” As Berd spoke, she felt she teetered on the edge of a precipice. With each wrong word, she was slowly overbalancing. It wouldn’t be a good idea to mention Gine wanting to kill her, but at the least she should explain about Charles.

  “Charles Babbage Fotheringay. He’s the one I’m engaged to. The inventor named him after his good friend, Charles Babbage. You remember him, don’t you? His house in Marylebone? The inventor of the Difference and the Analytical Engines? He worked with Grandmother. Well, I met Charles in the Engine and—”

  “Charles? Isn’t that the man you were found with? The one attired like a savage.”

  Savage? Oh, how Aunt Agatha was harping on the wrong things! “Yes, but—”

  Aunt Agatha gave a horrified gasp. “Charles Babbage is dead!”

  “No, Aunt. Fotheringay.”

  “There’s no need to snap. Why was he attired in that fashion?”

  Berd almost growled, ‘Wasn’t it obvious?’ But then it probably wasn’t. Aunt Agatha never had to fend for herself. She had never to fight to survive or search for food or water. Or wonder if anyone was out to kill her.

  Aunt Agatha had participated in a fox-hunt, but there she was the hunter; whereas in Berd’s case, she had been the fox.

  Berd tried not to ground the words out, but she knew her explanation would not sound good. “The reason he was attired in that fashion was because his clothing wore out. He couldn’t go around unclothed. He used the skins from, from ... these moths, you see...”

  “Moths?” Aunt Agatha stared at her, stark horror in her gentle eyes. “Oh my darling, my poor, poor darling.”

  “Auntie, please believe me. I know it sounds incredible, but...”

  Aunt Agatha swallowed. She rose rapidly from her chair. “My brother’s child. My poor brother’s child,” she muttered, looking lost as she swept out of the bedroom.

  Berd opened her mouth, but no words came out, which, she decided was probably just as well after what she had said. Aunt Agatha had been her last hope, but her aunt did not believe her.

  She was doomed.

  Berd tented her nose with her hands as she lay in bed, silent, unable to feel, unable to think beyond the fact that everything had gone wrong.

  An hour later, Rose stumbled into the bedroom without knocking, her eyes red with crying. “I told them you weren’t, but they didn’t believe me. I’m sorry my lady, I’m sorry, but they’ve sacked me for telling the truth.”

  Berd pushed herself into a sitting position as she stared at the weepy Rose. She wanted to say ‘I could have told you that telling the truth would make things worse.’ Instead she said, “What do you mean?”

  “Why, my lady, they say you’re mad.”

  Berd allowed her chin to drop to her chest. She had been expecting this. The sight of her panicking in the library, the conversation she had just had with her aunt. Things could not get worse.

  Rose’s face caved in. “They’re going to cart you away to Bedlam, my lady.”

  The words bore into Berd.

  Bethlem Royal Hospital for the insane.

  She had heard horror stories of guards being paid to take tens of thousands of members of the public through for an afternoon’s idle entertainment and what they did to the inmates. Of experiments. Chains. Of ending up a gibbering, drooling fool... Maybe the stories were merely rumours, and the asylum was really the only place possible where the mentally ill were healed, but she had no desire to go within to discover the truth. Once in, there was no chance of escape.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  She clenched her hands into fists.

  Have to deal with this. Have to take control. Have to make things right.

  Rose’s sniffling grated on her, but it gave her focus.

  She would deal with one thing at a time, starting with Rose.

  Berd’s eyes snapped open. “Calm down,” she ordered.

  Rose gawked at her mistress, but obediently stopped her whimpering.

  The gesture helped. Berd rolled her eyes, though inwardly she wanted to hug her silly maid. She had not expected such demonstrations of affection from Rose and was touched. “Anyone would think it was you going to the madhouse. Now sit and compose yourself.”

  Rose complied, eyes dark an
d hopeful. Her maid’s implicit trust boosted her confidence. “Good. Now be quiet while I think.” Berd wrapped her arms round her knees and rocked.

  She had tried appealing to James. That hadn’t worked. She had tried explaining to Aunt Agatha. That hadn’t worked either.

  The only person left who could help her was Charles.

  Berd stopped rocking. She had to know if he wanted her. Perhaps James had lied. There was but one way to find out.

  “Rose!” Berd flung the duvet off.

  Her maid jumped up. “Yes, my lady?”

  Berd threw on her dressing gown and strode to her writing desk. “I need to send a message. I need someone... trustworthy.”

  “Henry,” said Rose without hesitation.

  Berd cocked her head at the closed door. “Isn’t he outside?”

  “He was replaced an hour ago. Stephen is outside now.”

  Berd nodded. She sat at her desk and wrote. The letter contained one sentence.

  I need to speak with you.

  She sealed the letter and then handed it to Rose. “Get Henry to deliver this to Mr Fotheringay.”

  Rose started. “Now? My lady?”

  It was 8 p.m.

  “Yes. And Rose. Very. Important. Tell Henry to wait, do you understand? Tell him to wait until he gets a reply. He is not to leave until he gets a reply.”

  Rose’s eyes narrowed, but then she nodded.

  “Good.” Berd handed her a pound note. She knew it was vastly more than she needed to pay the footman, but she also knew that Henry could lose his job if caught. The amount signalled the urgency. And the risk.

  Rose hesitated, pocketed the money, curtsied and was off.

  After an hour, Rose was back, breathing heavily as if she had been running. She handed over a sealed letter freshly edged with black and sealed with black wax. Black denoted that Charles was in mourning for his father.

  Berd sliced the envelope open. Even the creamy paper inside was edged black. It read:

  I do not wish to speak with you.

  She felt herself collapse inwardly.

  So it was true.

  James hadn’t lied. But she had not spent the last hour idle. She grabbed another sheet of paper. This time she wrote one word. All her hopes hinged on that word.