Edmond looked up, expecting either a wry smile or stony-faced concentration. What he saw haunted him all the way to Vincey Park, and instantly told him two things: Mr. Mulqueen would indeed follow through on his promise to help put things right, and something sad and tragic had happened somewhere in the old soldier’s past.
It was the first time he’d ever seen a grown man cry.
A German Shepherd poked its head through a back yard fence on the outskirts of the park and barked at the aerogypsy. A few neighbours peeked out from behind bedroom curtains. A sudden gust sent up a whirl of snow from a nearby verge. It went straight up Edmond’s nostrils, making him cough, but he still managed to steal away from Vincey Park unnoticed.
Mr. Mulqueen had opted to stay in the park until dinner time, to let his young companion return home alone, thereby allaying any suspicion of Edmond’s detour, for which he would certainly feel the rap of a stiff belt if Father found out.
It was freezing cold outside. Even the powdery top layer of snow had hardened enough to crunch under his steps—a guilty noise that preceded him past John’s house, then Saul’s. Lamp flames through their frosted windows were warm, steady. House after house looked safe, even dull after where he’d just been, what he’d seen, who he’d been with.
When he arrived home, this time remembering to take his boots and socks off in the vestibule—Mrs. Simpkins would be all smiles for that—the lack of any sort of greeting disappointed him. They were all busy getting themselves ready for dinner and clearly couldn’t give two hoots about what he’d been up to.
Then he grinned to himself and flew upstairs, two steps at a time. Better if they never find out. It can be our secret—mine and Mr. Mulqueen’s.
Mother had laid his Sunday best shirt, waistcoat, tie and trousers with braces out on the bed. On his tallboy, the untidy stack of Horace Holly and Allan Quatermain adventure comics he’d read umpteen times since he was little. Perilous journeys into places that existed only his imagination...until tonight, that was. His breath caught when he realized...
The real stories are less than an hour away.
Mrs. Simpkins set the crockery and had to brush past Edmond to retrieve the wine glasses from the drinks cabinet. He acted as a deliberate obstacle, and went a little dizzy when his blood fizzed to his head at her touch.
One of Father’s most precious heirlooms, the second maritime chronometer invented by his ancestor John Harrison toward the end of the eighteenth century, ticked away in the display case on the wall, above the spinning globe-cum-drinks cabinet. Edmond had spent hours pouring over the far-flung countries on that spinning atlas, imagining the beasts, waterfalls, rainforests, and impenetrable mountains he might one day get to see—hmm, if Mr. Mulqueen was as good as his word on the small matter of the expulsion.
“You look bonnie this evening, Master Edmond.” Mrs. Simpkins combed over his parting with her long nails. Embarrassed, he shot a breath up from the side of his mouth, into his eye, inadvertently messing up his fringe. It was the best he could come up with in reply. She tittered and recombed it for him, then cupped his molten face in her soft hands. “Merry Christmas.” Her brief kiss on his forehead resounded epically in his imagination. The bouncing rubber ball in his chest grew heavier, its bounce too quick to keep up with. As she left, the room melted away, and he felt like keeling over onto the Christmas tree.
Oh my God.
What had started out as a thoroughly wretched day was quickly becoming the one in his lifetime to beat.
And it’s far from over yet.
He bumped into Father on his way to the curtain, to see if a certain someone had arrived.
“Easy, lad, easy. I say, you’re full of beans today. Not shook up at all by that narrow escape this morning, I see. You take after your mother—made of stern stuff, full of vim.”
“And you, Father?”
Father raised an eyebrow, then glanced down to finish buttoning his waistcoat. “Aye. Aye, we’ve all got a bit of that, haven’t we. Now that you mention it, none of us in this family are exactly pushovers. Speaks for good breeding, son. We’re from hardy stock.”
“Have you ever been abroad, Father?”
“What? Oh, yes, yes—once or twice to the continent. Leipzig was the farthest, where I first met Professor Sorensen.” He seemed only half-interested as usual, his gaze aimed more at the kitchen than at Edmond. But this was the longest conversation they’d had about Father’s past—at least, his unofficial past, the one he hadn’t already packaged for one of his Leviacrum gloats—in a long time. And Edmond wanted to hear extraordinary things tonight. This seemed as good a place as any to start.
“You never wanted to go further, you know, like on big adventures? You always used to tell me about those faraway countries on the drinks globe. Did you ever—”
“Yes, I suppose.” He looked away to the kitchen, then sneaked a glance at Edmond, as if he was totally unprepared for the question. “But starting a family is its own adventure. It can be every bit as exciting, and equally unpredictable.”
Edmond pulled a face, which made Father snort a laugh.
“You’ll understand when you’re older, son.”
“Father, how stupid do I look?”
“On a scale of one to ten? That face you just pulled...oh, I’d say a—”
Edmond laughed—“Fa-ther!”—and gave his old man a light punch on the arm.
“Ha, ha. You walked into that one, kid. But to answer your question, yes, I did want to go adventuring when I was your age. My biggest dream was to sail down the great Amazon from top to bottom.” He leaned in close. “Not that I’ve entirely given up hope of that, mind you.”
There came a knock at the door, but Edmond couldn’t think who it might be—not when Father had just mentioned the A word with such sincerity in his voice. The idea of him one day giving up his boring work in the Leviacrum to go sailing where Holly and Bates and Pizarro himself had visited was, frankly, not Father.
He opened the front door. “Mr. Mulqueen, how are you? I’m glad you could make it. Come in, sir.”
“A merry Christmas to you, Professor Reardon. Your wife and son are well?”
“Very well, thank you. Extraordinarily resilient by my reckoning—they bounced back like nobody’s business—but then they always do. English through and through, and Mrs. Reardon has already planned her next shopping outing down to the exact pace and pound. The stores ’ll never know what hit ’em.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“This way, sir. I believe dinner is almost ready. Mrs. Simpkins has exceeded herself, apparently. You know my son, Edmond?”
The click-click of his clockwork stride sounded softer on the carpet. Otherwise, he looked scruffier than Edmond remembered, and, apart from the dignity his red tunic afforded him, not really clean enough to eat at their best-laid table. The rich lighting showed up every black smudge and smear on his white belt. Even his grey beard sparkled—the specks of ice fell to ground as he scratched his chin.
But there was also something magical about him, glowing, a dear emotion Edmond sensed he was too young to grasp. But he was old enough to recognise its warmth.
“Hello again, Master Edmond.” The old soldier shook his hand.
“Good evening, sir. I don’t believe I thanked you properly for earlier.” For the last part, in particular.
Mr. Mulqueen winked. “Think nothing of it, lad. Anyone in my position would have done the same.” The way he scanned the living room, taking his time over seemingly every trinket on the mantel, every pattern on the Anaglypta wallpaper, every bauble on the tree, reminded Edmond their old guest probably hadn’t been inside a home like this for a long time. What he’d said during the flight about true adventurers only setting out to experience the joy of returning home—what happened when they were homeless? Was this the face of a true adventurer come home too late? The face of regret, of envy, or of happy memories?
Dinner started ten minutes later than expected becaus
e Mrs. Simpkins had “underestimated the stubbornness of the pork.”
Mr. Mulqueen laughed and gave the edge of the table a tap with his knuckles when he heard that. “Resisting a redhead with a carving knife in her hand and a murderous look in her eye—that’s some impressive pork. But I’m sure it succumbed readily in the end, ma’am.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out.” Father affixed his napkin. “Lisa, dear, you seem distracted. Anything the matter?”
Sure enough, Mother had been studying Mr. Mulqueen ever since she’d taken her seat opposite him. “Hmm?” She sipped her wine, her gaze still fixed on him.
“Darling? A penny for your thoughts? Sixpence? A doubloon?” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Mulqueen, I must apologize for my wife’s—”
“A penny?” Mother asked.
Mr. Mulqueen’s glance skimmed around the table, rested first on Mother and then on Edmond. “Christmas is a-coming. The geese are getting fat. Please put a penny in the old man’s hat. If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do. If you haven’t got a ha’penny then God bless you.”
Edmond smiled dutifully at the old folksy rhyme, but he couldn’t understand this sudden queer atmosphere at the table. At least the rhyme had snapped Mother out of her odd trance. “Yes, I’m sorry. I was just trying to figure out where I’d seen you before, Mr. Mulqueen,” she said. “It nagged me after the crash this morning, but I put it out of my mind. Now that we’re face to face and at leisure, I feel it even stronger. You haven’t been in the papers at all, by chance?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.” The old soldier shifted in his seat, clanked his limb against the table leg.
“Cecil? What about you?”
Father’s appallingly brief glance would have struggled to tell snakes from ladders two inches away. “What can I say?” He shrugged, then leaned across to their guest. “She always says I’m the least observant pleb since the Trojan who saw the wooden horse urinate...and fetched a bucket.”
“Cecil. Not at the table.”
“Yes, um, sorry.”
“Well, I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else, ma’am,” said Mr. Mulqueen. “I’ve scarcely been back in England a fortnight, and before that, the last time I set foot on these shores I was middle-aged—not much older than Mr. Reardon here. Not much opportunity to make the papers, at least not personally. And I can’t recall ever having a photograph—” He broke his explanation with a quick, forced sniffle, as though he was conscious of over-explaining himself. When Mrs. Simpkins arrived with the main course, he struggled to his feet, tinkered with his clockwork knee joint and said, “Might I ask the way to the water closet?”
“Of course, of course.” Father directed him to the downstairs W.C. which extended from the kitchen. As soon as the old man had left, Father threw his napkin onto the table and glared at Mother. “Saints alive, Lisa! You invite him here out of gratitude and then you prod ’n’ poke him like a red hot cinder—poor chap must think he’s next for the rack.”
“Nonsense. He likes the attention. Did you see him light up when we all took our places. He’s a lonely man, full of memories but has no one to share them with. A little prodding ought to be on the menu, don’t you think? I want him to leave here with his heart aglow.”
“Just make sure it isn’t in ashes.”
“Oh, do shut up, Cecil. You can be an incorrigible bore sometimes.”
“No, it was you that—”
“And another thing: stop with the pally-pally freshman fraternity act. It’s faker than a Tory’s charity, and makes you sound sozzled.”
He almost choked on his wine. “Hey, since when did I become the villain in this little inquisition?”
“Since you forgot to button your fly.”
Father opened his mouth to speak, then looked down, saw that she was right. His slow nod and resigned smirk aimed in her direction was a familiar sight at the Reardon dinner table, one that Edmond waited for and loved to see whenever his parents argued.
Mother raised her eyebrows at Father. “A doubloon for your thoughts, dear.”
Chapter Five
When he returned to the dinner table, Red sensed the magic had already begun to wane. Like the photographer who tries to capture the joy of a moment but only really confines it to a still, lifeless image, he was over-thinking everything, not really experiencing it like he should. He was self-conscious, uptight. Perhaps he’d have been better not to come at all. As he ate his pork, stuffing, mashed and roast potatoes, mixed vegetables and gravy, the tension between his hosts burrowed into him, and he felt a queer splice taking place inside—moroseness with a kind of morbid curiosity. Then he watched while young Edmond picked at his food. The lad wore a vague, dreamy grin, seemed to be waiting, hoping for something...extraordinary.
I don’t belong here. They’d be having a pleasant dinner without me. But—
He cringed, then supped his wine.
The boy and his mother wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t intervened.
“So, Mr. Mulqueen, tell us of your plans after the holidays,” Mrs. Reardon said. “Will you be staying on at the emporium?”
He considered the safest response. “Regretfully no, ma’am. My colleagues and I are only engaged for a brief term, then we must seek opportunity elsewhere. It is easier for some than for others. For instance, Desbrusleys, our Frenchman, is stone deaf and prone to lapses in concentration—he can only manage safe, undemanding work. Joe DiStepano, our fusilier, is seventy-five and has only one arm and sadly little formal education. Despite his enormous pride, Joe relies on charitable employers these days.”
“I see. And yourself? You seem well-educated enough, and more, shall we say, independent than those you mention.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” A shiver of nostalgia tickled his fingertips as he held the stem of his glass. Forthrightness in a woman of class and beauty was something he hadn’t experienced since middle age, when his wife had assured him he was going to do extraordinary things in his lifetime. She’d meant every word, too, but little had she known how right she was, or that, alas, she would not live to see those extraordinary things come to pass.
“And you’re remarkably spry for a fellow with a custom-made appendage.” Cecil held his glass up to the lamplight, then took a sip. “I dare say you’d have no trouble finding work in any number of professions. Pray tell, who designed that marvellous limb of yours?”
“An ingenious fellow from Norway—met him after my release from—” No, don’t go there. Indeed, there was so much he couldn’t tell his hosts, navigating his way through even the most cordial conversation required a doctorate in diplomacy. “The design was experimental, funded by an organisation who specializes in...rare mechanics. Luckily for me, my injury coincided with their readiness to try a new procedure. The leg works well for the most part, but it freezes up something rotten if I stand in one spot for too long.”
“I have to say, it’s the most impressive perambulatory limb I’ve seen, and I work in the Leviacrum. Brass legs are usually little more than ornate pegs for the filthy rich. But yours, sir—yes, quite novel.”
“Indeed. You work in the Leviacrum. How...privileged.” Red tried his hardest to disguise his disdain, but this poor sap simply didn’t know who he was working for, the twisted ambition driving that monolithic monstrosity high above the people of Britain.
He felt the burn from Edmond’s gaze. That’s right—the lad read Parnell’s pamphlet. He might be putting two and two together. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
“Tell me, sir, what you think the ultimate goal of the Leviacrum Council is. Do you suppose they’ll ever be satisfied?” asked Red.
Cecil set his knife and fork down, dabbed the corners of his mouth with his serviette. “I don’t much care for your accusatory tone, sir, but Europe does seem to be rank with these conspiracy theories of late. It’s nothing new. They’re recycled every few years or so—there were some real humdingers when I was Edmond’s age. It’s simple
really: the unenlightened have always been suspicious of scientific progress. If there’s some new invention they can’t get a handle on—steam-powered travel, for instance, was resisted at first because it superseded horses—or a social reform that breaks from long-held tradition, people look for someone to blame for them being marginalized, for the world being changed without their say-so. They point fingers and invoke the dog-eared pages, but in the end, what are they really protesting? Progress? Technological advancements that actually reduce their workload and social reforms that give people more freedom?
“They’re casting a pox on the Leviacrum now because they’re frightened the world will soon be unrecognisable as a result of science. And it will be—trust me, it will be—but they’re wrong to be frightened. Science’s only motive is the betterment of humanity, the pursuit of egalitarian prosperity. If people could only understand that, they would not want to burn us down.”
Lisa reached across and clasped her husband’s hand. Her tight, crooked smile strained to burst open with pride. Red’s heart swelled for her, and it stopped him from launching an impulsive, likely dinner-ending broadside at his host’s pious ideology—a dangerously naive outlook on a world run not by equal opportunity but by power and greed and the packaging of the truth.
Yes, he’d been that naive once. But maybe, just maybe with his help, others might awaken to the truth before the shock of war touched these shores.
“Bravo, sir!” he said. “I believe you have put science’s case forward definitively. And if politics or corruption has poisoned the Council, it is through no fault of the scientists. I have always thought the purest science was done at home, though, in sheds and workshops and basements, where it is just a man alone with a problem to solve, with little invested apart from his time and his utmost determination. That is when small miracles happen. The more resources at his disposal, the more people looking over his shoulder, the less hungry he becomes, whereas the personal struggle begets the personal victory.”
Yuletide Miracle (The Steam Clock Legacy Book 3) Page 5