Her Own Devices, a steampunk adventure novel

by Shelley Adina

  Lizzie, standing watch.

  “Quickly,” Claire whispered. “Someone’s coming—probably the bobbies.”

  She tugged on her rope, and on the other side of the wall, Snouts hauled on his end. Up she went, her corselet creaking as it took her weight, her feet in their sturdy boots scrambling for purchase. At the top, she pulled herself upright using the iron spikes, thankful that Bedlam had not yet seen the necessity for embedding broken glass in their masonry.

  She slid down the inner side, and when Snouts caught her, released the rope from its clip. They had no choice but to leave it hanging there, ready for the return trip. She heard the scrape of boots on cobbles on the other side as her team scattered into the streets and alleys opposite, and then silence. The air sawed in and out of her lungs as she tried to breathe quietly, huddled with Snouts behind the bench she had occupied that afternoon.

  A pair of male voices murmured, and they distinctly heard the scrape of the barrel as the bobbies—if that was who they were—disassembled their makeshift ramp.

  Please don’t let them look up and see the hook.

  A very long ten minutes later, another night bird called at the opposite end of the block. Maggie, sounding the all clear.

  “It’s all right,” Snouts whispered. “We can manage wivout a stair.”

  “I hope Doctor Craig can, too. Come.”

  Keeping close to the ground, they dashed across the open lawn and into the shadows. Claire moved along the wall of the incurables wing, Snouts close behind her, until they reached a set of frosted glass windows. “The cold baths,” she whispered. “This is the easiest way in, and the furthest from anyone with ears.”

  Snouts gazed upward. “Lady, they got bars on ’em. You proposin’ to squeeze between?”

  “No, I’m proposing to use the rifle.”

  She unholstered it and pushed the switch. The hum sounded uncomfortably loud in the silence, but instead of allowing the charge to build up to lethal force, she stepped back and took aim at the window. If one sent a bolt of power into sand, the result was glass. And if one sent a bolt of power into glass ...

  A tendril of blue-white light arced across the space, illuminating every leaf in the shrubbery before spreading over the surface of the window like spidery cracks in a sheet of ice. With a shivering sound, the window disintegrated into a million shards, sifting into piles of glittering grains on the sill.

  “Completely disintegrated and returned to sand,” Claire whispered. “One would think it would melt, but no. It’s a property of this current that—”

  “Lady! C’n we leave the lesson for after?”

  Right. Perhaps after Dr. Craig was vindicated in the eyes of her peers, Claire would write a paper on the properties of the current. Leaving out its uses for burglary and vandalism, of course.

  Meanwhile, the iron bars still remained.

  Another dose of the current took care of this problem, as the metal glowed, cracked, and fell into the shrubbery like a house of cards falling down, no matter how hard Snouts tried to catch them in his gloved hands. The noise was deafening.

  They dropped to their knees, frozen in place. Another long ten minutes went by, but when the sleeping building did not rouse with an alarm, Claire gripped the sill and hoisted herself in.

  She did not need to tell Snouts to exercise caution. He was taut with nerves, his face a pale mask. She was rather tense herself, as she skirted the dual tanks of water. They were not bathing pools, exactly, bearing no resemblance to those in the gymnasium at St. Cecelia’s. They were big enough to accommodate perhaps two people, floating, and from the light seeping in through the window in the door, seemed about five feet deep.

  Dr. Craig had not wanted to speak of them.

  The sound of their footsteps echoed off the water in an uncanny way. Claire made her way to the door as quickly as she could. She was quite prepared to shoot it, but it was not locked. Evidently the main doors to the incurables’ wing kept the general populace out, and the baths themselves kept the incurables out.

  Unless they were brought here under duress.

  They slipped through and around the corner to the doors to the ward. The bolt slid across easily, and, knees bent so they could not be seen by a sleepless lunatic through the locked rooms’ little windows, they crept into the ward.

  Which bed belonged to Dr. Craig?

  Claire berated herself for not finding out. They had not been occupied this afternoon, and she had been so horrified by the leather straps that she had put the entire ward out of her mind. Now she must pay for that mistake.

  “Stand guard,” she whispered in Snouts’s ear. As silently as she could, she glided down the aisle between the beds. It was impossible to see. The light filtering through the ward door was not enough to make out the features of the sleeping women, and she dared not switch on the electricks overhead.

  At least, she hoped the women were sleeping.

  Someone made a sound practically under her feet, and Claire jumped, clapping a hand to her lips just in time to muffle her own cry.

  “Mama?” a woman said. “Papa’s hurting me.” Claire moved to the next bed. “Mama?” the woman said, louder.

  Oh dear. Someone would come, and there was nowhere but the lockers at the end of the ward to hide. And once they were hidden, how would they get out? These walls were designed to contain, and designed well.

  “Shh, dear,” she whispered. “You’re all right.”

  “But he’s hurting me. Make him stop.”

  “I shall. Mama will shoot him and then he won’t hurt you any more.”

  The woman seemed to subside. Claire fervently hoped that her dreams would not come up in discussion with her doctor.

  “Who’s there?” came a voice at the far end of the ward. “Is that you?”

  Swiftly, Claire moved toward the sound. “Doctor Craig?” she whispered.

  “Of course. I’ve been awake all night. You’ll have to undo these straps.”

  They were tighter than Claire expected. How did the doctors think the women were going to sleep, battened down like this? She unfastened the buckles by feel—one hand, one foot, then the reverse on the other side. Dr. Craig gathered the thin woolen blanket around her shoulders and swung her legs over the iron bedstead.

  “Where are your clothes?”

  “I have none,” she whispered back. “They were all confiscated when I was admitted. I have nothing but this nightdress and blanket.”

  “Possessions?”

  “None.”

  “Money?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Right, then. Let’s go.”

  “Mama?” Blast, the woman had awakened again. “Mama, make him stop.”

  “I will, dear,” Claire whispered as she went past.

  “Don’t encourage her,” snapped Dr. Craig. “It makes the memories more intense and upsets her.”

  “Mama!” The woman was struggling against her restraints now. “Mama!”

  Botheration. Snouts held the door and they hurried through, then locked it behind them. “This way!”

  “Papa, no!” They heard the terrified shriek through the solid wood panel, and Claire skidded around the corner and pushed open the door to the cold baths.

  “What are you doing? I’m not going in there!”

  “Afraid you are, ma’am,” Snouts said behind her.

  “Take your hands off me!”

  He pushed her through and closed the door behind him. Now the woman on the ward was screaming, and down the corridor, they could hear the approach of running feet.

  “Doctor Craig, you must go through the window. Stop this struggling at once!” Claire grabbed her hand and between the two of them, they dragged the woman around the two tanks and over to the window, where Claire jumped down and Snouts pushed her out.

  “Oof!” Dr. Craig fell heavily on her hands and knees.

  “Come on. They’ll have seen you’re missing by now.”

  Dr. Craig dragged in
a shaky breath. “I ... hate ...”

  “I know. Come. We haven’t much time.”

  Running low, the three of them dashed across the lawn. Snouts whistled and tugged on the rope to be sure the grappling hook still held. An answering whistle came from the other side. Still clear.

  “I’ll take you up pick-a-back, ma’am,” Snouts said tersely, bending his knees. Without giving her a chance to protest, Claire boosted her onto his back. Fortunately, the scientist was not a hefty woman. Snouts gripped the rope and began to climb while Claire watched frantically over her shoulder.

  The longest thirty seconds of her life passed, while Snouts grunted and scraped his way up the rope and onto the top of the wall. From there, he delivered Dr. Craig into unseen hands and at last it was Claire’s turn.

  She had never gone up a rope so fast. She had just stepped over the iron spikes when a shout from the building—outside the building—brought her head up.

  “Oy! You there! Stop!” A man ran across the lawn, his white coat flapping around his knees.

  Claire didn’t wait to see any more. She gripped the rope and leaped, the rough hemp burning through her gloved hands so fast she could feel its heat. She landed in the street with a thump.

  “Leave the hook,” she gasped. “Billy Bolt!”

  The hem of Dr. Craig’s night robe vanished into a dark alley, and Claire dove across the street to follow it. Dodging from one building to the next, it wasn’t until two streets over that she could open up and run in earnest.

  The silky gleam of the landau waiting on the corner of the next road, with Tigg in the driving seat, was as welcome as a sunrise.

  By the time the Southwark bobbies had been roused and begun to comb the area for the escaped lunatic, Dr. Craig was being ushered into the cottage in Vauxhall Gardens—disheveled, out of breath, and still struggling to believe that the evidence of her senses was actually the truth.

  She had been broken out of Bedlam and was free for the first time in over a decade.

  Chapter 11

  The first order of business was to find clothes for their guest, since one could not go about in a nightdress, particularly in a house full of boys. Claire had just tied Maggie’s blue hair bow—the one that went with her best dress—in preparation for a shopping trip to Regent Street, when she heard the familiar whoosh and thump of a tube arriving.

  Dear Lady Claire,

  My greetings and best wishes for your continued good health. I am in receipt of your letter inquiring after the property adjacent to the Regent Bridge and am happy to tell you that it belongs to a business entity whose directors assure me they are only too happy to sell. Having taken a drive to inspect said property, I confess myself mystified as to your reasons for the purchase. However, your business is your own and I would not presume to interfere.

  I recommend that you offer no more than fifty pounds sterling for the place—a sum so generous, considering its condition and present occupants, that I am sure you will not need to negotiate further. If you agree, I will begin proceedings immediately. Once you have the deed in hand, you will need to hire bully-boys to turn out the squatters that appear to be living there at present. I know a man who could handle this for you.

  I have heard interesting rumors that the glass-works on the other side of the bridge is looking to establish a housing development for its workers. Should this prove to be the case, you stand to make a tidy profit when they make you an offer for the property. I would be happy to act on your behalf in that event.

  I remain,

  Yours truly,

  Richard Arundel

  Arundel & Hollis, Solicitors

  Excellent. Claire folded up the letter and tucked it into her reticule for answer later. It was clear the good Mr. Arundel did not pay much attention to the address codes on his tubes—which was all to the good. He would be terribly embarrassed had he known he had referred to her as a squatter.

  “Will you be comfortable here until I come back?” she asked Dr. Craig, who was sitting on the bed attempting to make Weepin’ Willie answer her questions.

  “Yes, certainly, once I find some breakfast. I haven’t had such an appetite in years. Why will this child not speak?”

  “’E don’t,” Lizzie said, ever brief and to the point.

  “Is he dumb?”

  “’E ent.”

  “Is he damaged psychologically?”

  “Hey, now, don’t be sayin’ such about our Willie.” Lizzie’s frown was fearsome. “Lunatics wot got sprung out o’ Bedlam got no right to call others names.”

  Claire gasped. “Lizzie! Apologize to Dr. Craig at once.”

  “She ’as to go first.”

  To Claire’s surprise, Dr. Craig was not offended—or even shocked. “My dear child, psychological simply means dealing with the mind. Sometimes a trauma early in one’s life can produce effects such as the inability to speak. I simply wondered if this was the case with, er, Willie.”

  Lizzie eyed her, unconvinced.

  “And I am not a lunatic,” Dr. Craig went on in the same tone. “I was put in Bethlehem Royal Hospital against my will by powerful men who wished to keep me quiet.”

  “About what?”

  “About my devices, among other things.”

  “You gonna teach the Lady ’ow to make ’em?”

  “That is our agreement. And I would very much like to begin work, so if you are joining Lady Claire in her expedition to find me clothes, I offer my thanks and wish you good speed.”

  Lizzie hovered by the door. “Sorry I called yer a lunatic, Doc.”

  “That is quite all right. You were laboring under a misapprehension, easily corrected.”

  Claire went downstairs, hoping her astonishment was not plain on her face. Lizzie had never apologized to anyone in all the weeks they had been acquainted. She had come close to it once, but the words had not actually crossed her lips.

  Perhaps the child was becoming civilized after all.

  In Regent Street, Claire purchased a corset, several sets of unmentionables, a good walking skirt in navy wool, and two blouses of the sort she herself favored. Last, at the expedition outfitters’ in Market Street, she bought boots, a duster, and goggles so that the scientist’s clothes would not be damaged from traveling in the landau—or anywhere else.

  “Is the Doc goin’ to South America?” Maggie gazed at the parcels and bags in wonder.

  “She may, someday, as may we all,” Claire answered, stowing everything in the compartment behind the seat. “But for now, she may ride with us safely. What do you say to some tea at Fortnum’s and some new boots for the two of you?”

  When they were comfortably seated in the tea room and had each ordered a plate of finger sandwiches, she looked up from enjoying her own creamed soup to see Emilie Fragonard across the room.

  Her best friend from her past life was enjoying tea with a party of girls Claire vaguely remembered from their class at school. How strange. She hadn’t realized Emilie had been close with anyone but herself. But how lovely to see her here. She put down her spoon.

  “Stay here and enjoy your lunch, girls. I’m just going over there by that row of potted palms to say hello to the young lady in the yellow sprigged walking dress.”

  “’Ave a sandwich.” Maggie pointed to a delicacy on her plate. “These little ’uns with crab inside are ever so good.”

  Maggie was right. The crab sandwiches were indeed delicious. Claire could empathize with Dr. Craig in one way, at least—food never tasted so good until you had gone a long time without any. She would never take it for granted again.

  She made her way between the tables, glad she’d dressed in a particularly nice waist with eyelet embroidery and rows of tucking, and that—thank you, Cowboy Poker—her hat was new, pleated at the back and trimmed with a jaunty blue-and-white striped bow. “Emilie! I’m so glad to see you.”

  The astonishment in her friend’s eyes behind their spectacles was almost comical. “Claire! Oh, Claire, whatever
happened to you? Are you mad?” Emilie gathered her into a hug that was so sympathetic it almost hurt. “Dearest, to what desperate straits you have been driven—and to think I am partly responsible!”

  Claire righted her hat and sank into the nearest gilded chair. “I—what?” She directed a vague smile at the other two girls. What were their names? And what on earth was Emilie talking about?

  “We have just heard the news, haven’t we?” Emilie appealed to the others, who nodded. “About your engagement to Lord James Selwyn. It’s all over London. Claire, you don’t even like him!”

  Oh. That.

  Claire gathered her wits. She had been so focused on electricks and in freeing Dr. Craig that she had not devoted a single thought to her new fiance, nor thought up an appropriate story to explain him.

  “He—he has improved on further acquaintance,” she said rather lamely.

  “I heard he was a shocking rogue,” said the girl on the left in a voice just above a whisper. “And that no lady is safe with him.”

  “Abigail, that can’t be true,” the other girl said. “Claire would never engage herself to a man like that.”

  Abigail. Yes. That meant the other one had to be Charlotte. They were cousins, but for the life of her, Claire couldn’t remember their surnames. “Certainly not,” she said. “I feel perfectly safe with him.” As long as she had her lightning rifle to hand.

  “You shall be Baroness Selwyn,” sighed Abigail. “A perfect match, since you are the daughter of a viscount.”

  “The sister of one, presently,” Emilie corrected her. “Claire, do tell us how this came about.”

  Oh, dear. “He wrote to my mother informing her of his intentions, and then he proposed.”

  “Oh, you comical person. But was it terribly romantic?” Charlotte wanted to know. “Was it outdoors, in a pavilion, or indoors, with a bouquet of flowers?”