Tough Prospect

by Laura Strickland

  And seen which house she’d entered.

  A bit of circumspect investigation had told Mitch who owned that house, a family named Trask. Once wealthy, they’d invested in clockwork rather than steamworks and, when clockworks became secondary, lost big. Now, like a lot of other flashes in the pan, they’d spent beyond their means and were hurting.

  It seemed Mitch would have to pay yet another call. On Mr. Richard Trask.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I am so pleased to see you again, Mrs. Carter,” said Lily Michaels, gazing at Tessa with large, impossibly blue eyes.

  “And I you, Mrs. Michaels. But please call me Tessa.”

  The automaton, so very difficult to identify as a mechanical, inclined her head. “Only if you will call me Lily, in turn. I hope we will be friends.”

  “I would like that.” Tessa smiled, and meant it. She’d come to this second meeting at the Meadows Club as prearranged in hopes of encountering Richard, and found Mrs. Michaels instead. So far, Richard hadn’t showed, but Tessa genuinely liked the automaton, and Lily’s company would make a great cover till he did arrive—or didn’t.

  Politely she said, “Is Mr. Michaels not with you?”

  “Rey is at work,” Lily confided. “He has a very important job, you know.”

  “Oh?” Tessa thought of the big man with the careful brown eyes and tumbled shock of brown hair. “What’s his line of business?”

  “The transportation of corpses.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Tessa must have heard that wrong.

  But Mrs. Michaels answered proudly, “It is his job to collect deceased clients—human ones—who have died at their homes or elsewhere, and carry them back to McMahon’s Coffin Shop, where he is employed. They produce a wonderful product, as I can attest, having spent the night in one. Though, of course, I do not remember much, having been shut off at the time.”

  Tessa wondered if she’d slipped somehow, unnoticed, into a crazed, parallel dimension.

  “As far as I know,” Lily Michaels rattled on, “McMahon’s has never built a coffin specifically for an automaton. We are usually scrapped when we cease to function—at least, the metal parts are.”

  Tessa could not help but stare. With her golden curls piled beneath a clever little blue hat and her trim figure in a simple dress, Lily Michaels could not look more human.

  She wished suddenly she could hear Lily’s whole story, how she’d ended up married to a human. Of course, the large automaton wedding that had taken place last June in the park on Delaware was still big news. But automatons married other automatons, right?

  “I am glad, Tessa, you are here today. It is to be a very important meeting. Oh, and look—another new arrival.”

  So distracted had Tessa become by the paradox of Lily Michaels, she’d failed to notice the young man come in. Now her heart leaped alarmingly, and the breath stuck in her throat.

  Richard.

  He paused just inside the meeting room and their eyes met.

  “Oh, ah,” she said to Lily, “I know him, actually. An acquaintance of mine.”

  “How splendid. We need all the members we can attract. Will you introduce me to him?”

  “Of course.”

  They crossed to Richard’s side while Tessa fought to disguise the extent of her relief at seeing him.

  Her voice quivered when she said, “Mrs. Michaels, I would like you to meet Richard Trask. I spoke to him about your marvelous charity work and asked him to attend today.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Trask.” Lily shook his hand; Tessa wondered if he guessed she was mechanical. So far he’d spared barely a glance for anyone but Tessa.

  “Charmed,” he said, displaying some of the warmth that had first attracted Tessa.

  “I was just saying to Mrs. Carter that today is very important to our mission.”

  “And exactly what is your mission, Mrs. Michaels? Mrs. Carter did try to explain, but as a newcomer I’d like to learn all I can.”

  “We aim to alleviate the suffering of orphaned children in this city, either through adoption or reform.”

  “Reform?”

  “Of the orphanages. Did you know, Mr. Trask, there is no governing body for these institutions? No overseers? Anyone can set up and open what they call an orphanage and, henceforth, sue for funds both from the city and private donors. With very few exceptions, conditions in these houses are appalling. Children rarely see benefit from the money meant to feed and house them. It goes into the pockets of those supposed to care for them, instead.”

  “How—uh—admirable of you to take an interest.” Richard shot Tessa an incredulous glance.

  “Someone must,” Lily said very earnestly indeed, for an automaton. “My husband first discovered the plight of these children when he went to collect the little ones who had died there. You would not believe how many perish alone and unloved.”

  “I see.”

  “My husband and I hope to adopt, since we will never have children of our own.”

  “Ah—” Richard faltered.

  “Today,” Lily announced, “we plan to stage a raid.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  At that moment an older gentleman whom Tessa had met at the previous meeting called them to order. Mr. Ellison had gray hair and tiny spectacles, but he spoke like a Roman general.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you on this day to harness your sensibilities and marshal your courage. You will see things that cause you outrage and rouse your ire. You will want to act, perhaps to become physically violent. Please remember this is a fact-finding mission—a sortie, so to speak, a way to make aware those in charge of the heinous prisons known as orphanages that someone is watching them.”

  “What have you got me into?” Richard whispered in Tessa’s ear. His warm breath tickled her neck and made her shiver.

  “I’m not quite sure,” she responded. What she’d expected to be another genteel meeting—an excuse to see him—seemed to have transformed into something quite different.

  Mr. Ellison’s audience responded to him with enthusiasm. Tessa felt a little frisson go through the room. Mrs. Michaels listened like a woman enrapt.

  Or perhaps like an automaton.

  “There seem to be eight of us here today,” Mr. Ellison continued. “We will embark in two carriages and descend on the chosen orphanage unannounced.”

  “Which orphanage?” asked a middle-aged gentleman.

  “I have selected at random from a list of the worst offenders. We shall, today, tour the Home For Abandoned Children on Elm Street.”

  A woman asked, “What if they refuse to let us in?”

  “Mrs. Roberts, we are prepared for that eventuality. We have a police sergeant on call, one sympathetic to our cause. Since this institution takes donations from the public, we intend to impose our right to see just how those funds are being spent.”

  “My God,” Richard breathed. “Tessa—”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea.”

  “Officer Fagan awaits us at the address. Shall we carry on?”

  Tessa managed to maneuver herself next to Richard in the carriage. Under cover of her skirt, their fingers meshed and held; her heart thudded. Worth anything, she decided, to be with him this way.

  Did he feel the same? She shot a look at him from the corner of her eye. Golden hair, perfect profile…there could be no one else for her.

  Unexpectedly, an image of Mitch Carter superimposed itself over Richard’s countenance. She jerked in reaction, and Richard turned his head.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  The other two passengers in their carriage looked at her also. She fumbled for something to say.

  “I hope this will not prove too distressing.”

  The elderly Miss Carroll, who with her sister comprised their fellow passengers, smiled acerbically. “Courage, my dear. If we cannot stand to tour these places, how much worse for the wee ones forced to exist there?”
>
  And Richard’s fingers squeezed Tessa’s in reassurance.

  The building before which both carriages drew up had a grim façade of weathered wood and bars on the lower windows. A tall policeman clad all in blue waited on the pavement out front. Mr. Ellison disembarked to speak with him while Richard handed all the ladies from their carriage.

  Even as they approached, Tessa could hear the officer’s Irish brogue. “—want no trouble. Understood? Mr. Ellison, your attorney was after telling us you just want a tour of the premises.”

  Mrs. Michaels stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Sergeant Fagan.”

  He smiled at her. “Mrs. Michaels.”

  “How is your lovely lady?”

  “Very well, indeed. And your husband?”

  “Very well also. Are you certain the officials who run this place will let us in?”

  “Quite frankly, I don’t suppose they’ll be too happy about it. But the law is the law in this city—institutions that accept public funds or donations must be willing to open their doors to inspection when requested. I’ll do my best to enforce that and get you in. But as I said, there will be no trouble, mind?” The officer inspected them all through bright blue eyes. “Whatever you see in there,” he jerked his head toward the building, “it’s best to keep your opinions to yourselves.”

  The crusaders exchanged glances. “Understood,” said Mr. Ellison. “Let us get on with it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Out of the question.”

  The man who faced off against them in the grim front hallway of the orphanage had a healthy set of jowls and eyes cold enough to freeze alcohol. He’d appeared from the doorway of an inner office when Sergeant Fagan pounded on the door—Tessa could see that much through the wavy skylights of the entryway—but refused to allow them in any farther. “This is a private institution. I have no intention of admitting you.”

  Sergeant Fagan stared him in the eye—not an easy feat since the police officer topped the jowly man by at least a head. “Sor, there’s a city ordinance says that any institution that accepts donated funds must be accountable to the public as to how those funds are spent.”

  “On paper, yes. Officer, we issue our annual report. I suggest any interested parties”—he swept the rest of them with a glare—“should peruse that information. Nothing in the law states I must admit a boatload of do-gooders without advance notice.”

  Mrs. Michaels stepped up onto the step beside Sergeant Fagan. “What, sir, would be the purpose of an inspector giving advance notice? You would quite likely correct what violations you could beforehand.”

  “We just want to see where your donors’ money is going, sir. Surely that is perfectly reasonable,” Mrs. Roberts pressed.

  The jowly man glared at her. “And are you a donor?”

  “I have contributed in the past, sir, yes, and I demand admittance.”

  An angry flush rose to the man’s cheeks. “No.”

  Sergeant Fagan spoke, “Then, sor, I am afraid I shall have to issue a citation and ask you to accompany me to the station.”

  “I can’t do that. I have no one here to look after the children, except some steam units.”

  Sergeant Fagan tipped his head. “Then your easiest course, sor, may be to allow the inspection.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “You are Mr. Agnostus Grupp? Administrator of the Home for Abandoned Children?”

  “I am.”

  Sergeant Fagan made a notation on his pad. “Duly registered.”

  Grupp grunted and stepped back into the hallway; the rest of them followed.

  The first thing that hit Tessa was the smell, a heavy fugue that thickened the air and nearly stoppered her throat. Second was the sound of sobbing at a distance.

  Not so surprising, that. Children cried—often in anger or demand. But she heard a different note to this wailing—the sound of weariness or defeat.

  These children did not expect anyone to respond to their cries.

  Officer Fagan made a gesture and stationed himself at the door.

  Mr. Ellison turned to Grupp. “Where are your charges schooled? Fed? Where do they sleep?”

  “They do not take lessons as such. I have a steam unit that instructs them in their A-B-Cs and 1-2-3s.”

  “Then,” asked one of the Miss Carrolls, “how do they pass their time?”

  “In learning a trade, of course, so they may be productive citizens.”

  “A trade?” Mr. Ellison cocked an eyebrow.

  Mr. Grupp sighed. “Come along.”

  The house became more distressing the farther they penetrated. A large, cavernous room, now empty, boasted a few tables and led to a kitchen staffed by three battered mechanicals, all of which ignored their presence.

  “How many children do you house, Mr. Grupp?” asked Mr. Ellison.

  “It varies. Some leave. Or die. Others get dropped off like bundles of dirty laundry.”

  “Leave?” inquired Miss Carroll.

  “Some run away,” Mr. Grupp told her tersely. “Here is the gallery where the children work at their trade.”

  He opened a door onto a still larger room. Tessa, peering around Mrs. Michaels’ shoulder, took a glimpse into what looked like a hell.

  Long tables had been set up the whole length of the room. At these stood ranks of children aged from what appeared to be toddler to teen, all busy with their hands. Dim light and a lack of windows left them in dense gloom.

  “What are they doing?” asked Mrs. Michaels even as every small head turned toward the door.

  “Sorting metal.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Tessa surprised herself by asking.

  “Scrap from disassembled steam units is brought here. The children sort and classify it by value and usability—”

  “With their bare hands?” This from Richard.

  Mr. Grupp laughed nervously. “Oh, there’s nothing harmful in it.”

  “And this is meant to prepare them for a future career—how?” demanded Mr. Ellison.

  “They might well become scrap collectors themselves, or even work in steam unit construction, since they are so familiar with the components.”

  Mrs. Michaels tipped her head in a characteristic fashion. “Mr. Grupp, I can hear children crying.”

  Indeed, the terrible drone continued somewhere, now closer by.

  “Oh, that would be from the infirmary. There are always a few ailing, or claiming to be sick so they can get off work.”

  “I would like to see the infirmary,” Mrs. Michaels said firmly.

  “Out of the question,” said Mr. Grupp again.

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “I cannot allow it. You might acquire an illness there.”

  Mrs. Michaels stepped up to him. “I, sir, am not human and therefore cannot contract human diseases.”

  “Eh?”

  “I am, in fact, a hybrid automaton. Allow me to view this infirmary.”

  Apparently robbed of further objections by his surprise, Mr. Grupp led her off. The rest of them stood where they were, whispering furiously.

  “What kind of place is this?” Richard asked Tessa, his blue eyes wide. “What have you dragged me into?”

  “I am sorry, Richard, I had no idea it would be this bad. But you must admit there’s reason to push for change.”

  He lowered his voice still further. “I’m no activist, Tessa. I only came along so I could be with you.”

  “I know. Now that we’ve seen conditions, though, surely you want to effect change. It’s so awful.”

  “Awful? I’ll have nightmares, and I haven’t even seen the infirmary.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to.”

  “Tessa, I…”

  Richard failed to complete the thought when Mrs. Michaels came back down the hallway with her head high and Mr. Grupp at her side. The rest of the group waited for her to speak; she did not disappoint.

  “Five children languish in the bare and comfortless chamber Mr. Grupp
insists on calling an infirmary,” she told the group, no emotion visible on her face. “Alone, without so much as a single steam unit in attendance.” She paused and added concisely, “Their cries go unheard and unanswered.”

  Her listeners stiffened in outrage. Mr. Grupp flushed with annoyance. From down the hallway, Tessa could still hear a child crying.

  What did that do to a child, she wondered—to be left wailing endlessly with no one to come? She could not remember a time when her mother, her nurse, or another family member had failed to comfort her in a time of distress.

  She did not want to imagine weeping alone. Yet had fate dictated differently, a life beginning in such a place as this might well have been hers.

  The luck of the draw—that alone separated these children from others.

  “Now, madam,” Mr. Grupp began defensively, “you must sympathize with my position.”

  “Your position? Yours?” Tessa almost fancied steam came out of Lily Michaels’ ears—quite possible, as it happened.

  “I have no funds to assign a steam unit to the infirmary. It would not pay. Sometimes there are no children there—should I purchase coal for nothing? That, madam, would be poor use of funds, indeed.”

  Mrs. Michaels stepped up to him. “Coal? Do you not also pay your mechanicals a wage, sir?”

  “I paid good money to purchase them. Why should I also waste funds on them? Do I pay the cooker in the kitchen a wage?”

  Mr. Ellison quickly stepped in. “Sir, how many steam units do you employ? I have seen only those in the kitchen and the two serving as overseers in the work room.”

  “There is another, currently broken down.”

  “Five units for the whole house? That is all?”

  “That’s plenty—they can run all day and all night. Who are you people to come in here questioning me? I have very limited funds with which to operate this house and see to the children’s needs.”

  One of the Misses Carroll laughed incredulously. “Is that what you call it?”

  “You seem, sir,” Mr. Ellison took it up, “to be well dressed and well fed. Funds enough for that, eh? And I assume you take a wage. How much?”