A Midsummer Night's Steampunk

by Scott E. Tarbet

  All the way down the Mall, the unusual group excited curious stares from the well-dressed Sunday strollers, many of them in London for the first time, come to see Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. The mechs stoically ignored the stares and whispers, and every time a bobby stopped them to ask their business, Bottom repeated his imperious refrain about the business they had with the Artificer to the Queen. It sufficed well enough until, on Knightsbridge Road itself, nearing their destination, they encountered a bobby with considerably less patience.

  “Oy! Where do you think you’re going, then?”

  “We, sir, have business with the Artificer to the Queen, in Prince Gate Mews!”

  “The devil you say! What is it, then, a convocation of mechanical men at the Golden Gear today? Your big, black mate came through this way not five minutes since.”

  Quince and the others looked at one another quizzically, and Bottom replied, “Our business is with the Artificer to the Queen, no one else.”

  “All right, then, but mind you don’t linger! Do your business and get back to Bethnal Green, you lot!”

  So they were at least a little forewarned when they turned the corner and saw a towering black form striding ahead of them, approaching the door of a stately Tudor shopfront with elegantly rounded bay windows, and a large golden gear hanging above the door.

  “Crikey,” breathed Snug. “It’s Shaka! What’s he about, then?”

  “Let’s not ask him,” answered Snout. “I don’t want to know what Doctor Malieux’s man is doing here ahead of us.”

  “Right, then—back around the corner and keep a sharp eye,” instructed Quince. “We can wait.”

  ToC

  In our two loves there is but one respect,

  Though in our lives a separable spite,

  Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,

  Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.

  —Sonnet XXXVI, by William Shakespeare

  Chapter Five

  A Separable Spite

  A delicate brass bell tinkled in the entrance of the shop in Prince Gate Mews in Knightsbridge, London. Above the door, a gold gear hung glinting in the afternoon sunshine. Discreet gold foil lettering on the cut-glass door informed those who looked closely that this unassuming locale was The Golden Gear, Ernst Spiegel, Proprietor, Artificer to the Crown.

  Alexander MacIntyre stepped into the hushed space and gazed around at the floor-to-ceiling shelves, his blue eyes scanning the hundreds of polished hardwood-fronted drawers, all neatly labeled with engraved brass tags. Facing the street window stood glass display cases with delicate and beautiful music boxes, clockwork toys, and small intricate automatons.

  From beyond the velvet curtain that hung across the interior doorway, a soprano voice, hardly less musical than the bell above the door, called a greeting. “One moment, please!”

  Alex smiled. “Take as long as you like. I would wait for you forever.”

  There was a gasp and the curtain flew back. “Hush, Alexander! Papa has only stepped away for a moment!” Pauline flew around the end of the counter and, standing tiptoe, pressed her finger to his lips. “Hush!” She deftly twisted away from the hands that found their way around her lithe waist. “You, sir, are incorrigible.” She smoothed her chignon with an air of mock reproach, but a tiny smile crinkled the corners of her mouth.

  “Can you blame me, my darling?” he asked.

  She rewarded him with a warm smile. “Someday soon, the time will come when we can make our intentions known. Until then, my love—discretion.”

  Alex drew himself up to his full height. “Today is that day. I am resolved. I shall speak to your father. He will finally know of our feelings for each other.”

  She turned back and looked up into his eyes. “Are you quite certain?”

  He swallowed hard. “Quite certain.”

  Pauline nodded. “You know nothing would make me happier, but be warned: he will question you closely as to your living, prospects, and parentage.”

  Alexander cleared his throat. “My sweetest, I have an adequate living. Within a year or two, I shall be able to afford to marry—and my prospects, too, are considerable.”

  “Yes,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “But I know that you are concerned your parentage may not pass his muster. You need not fear. My father is of the old school, yes, but he is an intelligent, compassionate man.”

  “I do indeed dread that conversation with him.”

  “Take courage, my love. I have faith we will prevail.”

  The bell sounded again, and Pauline’s father entered his domain. He greeted Alexander warmly with a proper Prussian bow. “Good day, young sir. Welcome back to the Golden Gear. All is well with Her Majesty and the Royal Family, I hope?”

  Alexander returned Ernst’s bow. “Herr Spiegel, the Palace sends its warmest greetings. I bear a commission for an automaton for Her Majesty’s Christmas gala.” He glanced at Pauline, who gave him a knowing smile. She wondered if the commission had existed before their encounter in Hyde Park the afternoon before.

  Alexander produced a cream-colored envelope bearing the royal seal, and Ernst perused the contents eagerly.

  “Ach so! Wunderbar!” He turned excitedly to his daughter. “My dear, the queen will have an automaton ballerina to dance at the palace. It is to be fully mechanical, one-half life scale.”

  Pauline clapped her hands. “Like the clockwork horse and rider we made several years ago. Her Majesty’s Christmas gift for her favorite grandson, Prince Waldemar of Prussia.”

  “Just so!” Ernst said. “We must begin immediately.”

  He rubbed his hands and turned to his daughter thoughtfully. “My dear, you are my ballerina. This automaton must have every bit of the delicacy and grace your work has come to show. It must dance with the same elegance and beauty as do you.”

  Pauline smiled and took his hands. “Thank you, my dearest Papa.”

  “Mein Liebchen, what would you think if this ballerina were your masterwork?”

  She gasped, and the color drained abruptly from her face. “My masterwork?”

  “Just so. The time has come. Your steam horse proves you ready for the ultimate test. Succeed, and you shall apprentice no more.”

  Pauline dropped to a stool, suddenly afraid she might faint. Apprenticeship at an end? Her very childhood at an end? “Oh, Papa! I don’t know what to say!”

  He took her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. “You must know that your masterwork must be yours and yours alone. You must do it entirely without my help, as if I have passed from the scene and you are the master artificer.”

  Pauline nodded mutely. A ballerina for the queen herself! Her father truly had the highest confidence in her, to risk his standing as Artificer to the Crown. She swallowed hard and nodded again. “Yes, Papa. I understand.”

  Spiegel raised her hands to his lips. “How proud your mother, my Hermione, would be of all you have learned and accomplished—of all you can do, all that you have become. Your imagination and skill are as good as hers ever were. How I wish she could witness this day.”

  “I will honor Mother in my masterwork. I shall begin with the drawings she made for the automaton she was building with her friend in Bombay when she died. It was exquisite.”

  “You have kept them?”

  “Yes, I have had them in my desk these three years for inspiration.”

  Smiling, Spiegel turned back to Alexander, tapping the paper quizzically. “Young sir, the automaton is to dance to the music of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, a new piece? The waltz from”—he consulted the note—“the new ballet, Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Alexander. “Prince Waldemar brought Her Majesty news of the ballet from Moscow, where it is a sensation.” From his breast pocket, he produced a small, ornate music box, which he placed on the counter. Removing a tiny silver key from its underside, he inserted it, gave it a practiced twist, and lifted the lid.

  Tchaikovsky’s
enchanting Sleeping Beauty Waltz tinkled through the room. The undersecretary bowed deeply, held out his hand to Pauline, and soon the two of them filled the small shop with the swirling steps of a Viennese waltz. They were a striking couple, possessing an innate grace and regal bearing even in street clothes. Together they spun, lifted, spun again. Pauline laughed delightedly, her eyes locking with Alexander’s, and for a moment, all else faded to nothingness. They were alone in the universe.

  When the music box clinked to a stop, the young pair halted in the middle of the floor, still in one another’s arms, reluctant to let the moment end—until they became aware that Pauline’s father stood regarding them, his head cocked to one side. Finally, they stepped apart.

  “It is an old man I am,” said Ernst, “not a stone without eyes. You will please explain yourselves.”

  “Papa—” Pauline began, blushing furiously, but Alexander interrupted.

  “Sir,” he said quietly, “it has been nearly two years since I was first sent to you with a commission. I have returned time and again, on business sometimes contrived, because at first sight of your daughter, I lost my heart. And I have every reason to believe that she returns my—”

  “Young sir,” Spiegel broke in, his eyes kind but insistent, “before you continue, caution you I must against making any proclamation contrary to my daughter’s interests. You should know that since before her birth, there has been an understanding between our family and that of the Duke of Marlborough. When they are of age, Pauline and der Nachkomme—the scion of the Spencer family—are to be wed.”

  Pauline was once again glad of the stool. She felt as if she had suddenly been knocked from a dizzying height and plunged to suffocating depths. “But Papa, Winston is so very much older than I—almost twenty-five. I haven’t even seen him since he went away to the Queen’s Military College, five years ago. I was a child.”

  “Mein Liebchen, hardly a disadvantage this is. He has served with great gallantry in Cuba, India, and Egypt, with the Queen’s Own Hussars. You have both blossomed beyond compare. It is well matched you are.”

  “Papa, the very idea of arranged marriage is old-fashioned beyond belief. It is a relic of a time best forgotten.”

  Ernst’s lips set into a firm line, but Pauline pressed her case. “We are at the dawn of a new century. A new age, already full of marvelous things. Airships, steamships, locomotives—we have never before traveled so far, so fast. Why, the telegraph flashes messages around the world in seconds. Old things are passing away, and all things will become new.”

  “Not everything that is good has passed away,” her father said flatly. “Family. Loyalty. Fidelity. Honor. Agreements have been made, and shall be kept.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode through the velvet curtain, ending the conversation. Alexander and Pauline stood downcast and silent in his wake.

  “My love, have patience,” Alexander said, taking her hands and gazing into her eyes. “The course of true love never did run smooth. Even if war, death, or sickness conspired against us, they would be as momentary as a sound, as swift as a shadow, as short as any dream.”

  As he bent to kiss her, he was startled to see her eyes grow suddenly wide. He turned to follow her gaze. Outside the door loomed a huge dark form.

  “A mech, Alex! Right here in the middle of London,” exclaimed Pauline. In an instant, all thoughts of dancing ballerinas and arranged marriage fled.

  Alexander was speechless for a moment, then blurted, “In the daylight? During working hours? It just isn’t done.”

  Pauline scampered to the door. “I must see!” Alexander reached to stop her, far too late. She had reached the door and was opening it before she realized that the mech meant to enter. She backed slowly away as he ducked and turned his broad shoulders sideways to fit through the opening. Pauline was nonplussed, but with a gulp, she regained her professional equilibrium. “Welcome to the Golden Gear, sir. How may we help you?”

  The mech slowly straightened to his full height and spoke in a deep, rumbling basso. “I seek Herr Ernst Spiegel.”

  “And whom may I tell him is calling?”

  “I come bearing an inquiry from Doctor Malieux. And for the delivery.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The crate from Switzerland for Doctor Malieux.”

  “Thank you, Pauline,” said Herr Spiegel, striding through the curtain. “I will assist the gentleman. Sir, have you brought a wagon and porters? The case weighs more than four hundred pounds.”

  “There is no need.”

  “But it was all four strong porters could do to unload it from the freight wagon this morning.”

  “There is no need.”

  “As you wish, I’m sure.” With a bow, Spiegel ushered the huge mech through the curtain, and, after a brief muffled conversation, he emerged with the coffin-sized wooden crate tucked casually under one metallic arm, walking as if it weighed no more than a brolly. He maneuvered the box and his own bulk out the door without another word.

  Pauline turned to her father. “What was the inquiry, Papa?”

  “A very strange one, Liebchen. He asked if we had heard from Doctor Malieux’s wife.”

  “Lakshmi? My godmother? My mother’s design partner?”

  Ernst nodded. “The very same.”

  ~*~*~*~*~

  “Wait here, please, Jenkins.” The old man gratefully reined in his stable pony on solid ground as Clementine Hozier rode ahead onto the broad stone pavement of the Serpentine Bridge. The expanse of the Long Water stretched away mirror smooth to her left, the morning sun sparkled off the Serpentine to her right.

  She glanced down. The watch pinned to her lapel ticked away the last few seconds before ten. Capital. She was precisely on time for the morning rendezvous she and Lord Spencer had set the prior evening, before he had been called away in the midst of the gala to meet with his mentor and protector, Lord Marlborough. And with his scandalous but most entertaining mother, the American heiress.

  Jennie, Clementine mused, would take some managing once Clementine and Winston were married. Jennie was far too lively, far too much the social butterfly, and lived up far too closely to her merry widow reputation. It would never do for a young man with Winston’s aspirations to be constantly battling rumor and innuendo of his beautiful young mother’s exploits and conquests as he followed in his charismatic father’s political footsteps. No, Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill was destined for a glorious future, and Clementine Hozier was resolved not only to be at his side throughout, but to assist and bolster him, love and comfort him, come what may. Even if that meant finding a way to corral his mother.

  The Ninth Duke of Marlborough, the titular head of the Spencer-Churchill family, would be a formidable ally. He, from all reports, looked upon his young cousin very favorably, and was intent upon fostering his career in public service. Clementine eagerly looked forward to meeting him. With such a powerful, moneyed sponsor, and an intelligent, supportive, loving wife, there would be no end to the heights to which Winston would rise.

  But where was he? She could see well beyond the northern end of the bridge, and he was nowhere in sight. This was the appointed place at the appointed time, and Winston was nothing if not prompt—the military training, she supposed. She reached the center of the bridge and stopped by the western rail, as arranged. Still no Winston.

  Twenty minutes later, she turned and rode toward the waiting Jenkins, determined to send him to Jennie Churchill’s townhouse to ask after her wayward son. She had nearly reached the old stable master when he pointed wordlessly behind her. She turned. Winston came plodding across the bridge, astride a tall chestnut gelding that shook its head and champed at being held to a snail’s pace.

  She wheeled and cantered back. Winston was splendidly accoutered in the cavalry parade uniform of the Queen’s Own Hussars: mirror-polished Hessian boots, chest bedecked with campaign medals and crisscrossed with looping braid, ornate scabbard and dress sword. But beneath the tall hat with its
towering, snow white plume, his face was ashen.

  He drew up slowly, and Clementine stopped, facing him. “Winston! Where have you been? Whatever is the matter?”

  “Clementine, I . . .” He seemed unable to continue.

  Without waiting for his assistance, Clementine dropped from the saddle. She landed lightly, strode to him, and took his gloved hand. He pulled away and swung down from his horse. She reached for his hand again, but he crossed them behind his back and turned to gaze out across the Long Water. He cleared his throat.

  “Clementine, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

  “Winston, you’re frightening me. What is it?”

  “You are aware that last evening the duke, my benefactor, summoned me.”

  “Of course. You left me standing there alone. And you did not return, even to say good night.” She tried a little pout, which she had seen work for other girls. Not for her, apparently. Winston took no notice.

  “I apologize. It was a long conversation. When I arrived in the smoking room, His Grace was waiting for me.”

  “What was so serious that he should interrupt the gala?”

  At last Winston turned and met her eyes.

  “I am distressed to have to tell you . . .” He hesitated again, cleared his throat once more. “I am afraid it is His Grace’s firm opinion that my betrothal to Miss Spiegel can in no wise be interrupted.”

  Clementine could not credit what she had heard. “What? Winston . . . you and Pauline? But—” Abruptly, her head swam. The bridge seemed to lurch beneath her feet. Winston sprang forward and caught her in his arms before she could fall. She threw her arms around his neck, unsure whether she did so to keep from falling, or to hold him to her.

  “Clemmie! Oh, Clemmie!” He seemed on the verge of tears. “I love you. I truly do. You must know that.” He held her close a long moment, daring the scandalized looks of passersby, before he assured himself that she was steady on her feet and stepped back. But he kept her hands.