by Rebecca Diem
It had been harder to part with Trick. It was not that they never were apart; Trick usually spent the storm season visiting his father, while the Captain had his own pursuits. It was the uncertainty of whether he would ever again have the privilege of flying with his first mate by his side. Though Trick had regained a measure of his former joviality, there was a weariness to his manner. His smile did not always reach his eyes. It was good that Clara would be with him to ensure his recovery progressed.
But the hardest goodbye had been to the children. Cat had taken on a stoicism at odds with her usual cheerfulness. It was while they saw Madge’s crew off that she’d cornered him, out of earshot of her brother.
“You swore you would never leave us behind.”
Her look of betrayal cut him to his core.
“I would never. You’ll be with Trick still, and Clara.”
“But we want to fly, Captain. We want to come with you and Nessa.”
“You are needed in Reading, Cat. I cannot leave Trick unprotected in his current state and you’ll be busy assisting Clara in organizing the crews. You and your brother will hardly notice the time passing.”
“I will not be tucked away like a child anymore. It’s not fair,” she scowled.
The Captain Duke had crossed his arms,
“You asked for greater responsibility and I am giving it to you. Protect Trick and watch over your brother. Assist Clara. Those are your orders, pilot.”
He didn’t think it kind to mention that her brother certainly felt differently about the matter. He’d hardly left Archie’s side since his arrival at the Haven, and had taken to tinkering with the designs from the books loaned to him. In truth, he thought it good for the boy to see more of the world beyond the deck of an airship. The Captain had always felt it his duty to protect them, to try to preserve something of the childhood that was stolen from them with the death of their father. Cat rarely spoke of how she and her brother had made their way to find his crew, but he knew that she had seen hardship that no child should have to endure. It was not his place to coddle her. And so, he fought his initial impulse to ruffle her curls and send her off. Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder,
“Cat, growing up does not mean getting to do as you like. We are all bound by our duty to one another. Some days those duties weigh heavier than most. You have proven yourself to be a capable pilot, but I must request this of you. I know they’ll be safe in your hands.”
Now the Captain Duke leaned against the rail, looking over the landscape below, wishing he was better at taking his own advice. He could feel the morning air fresh on his face as he breathed in the sky. This was where he was happiest, high above the earth. And yet, he was unsettled. He felt at odds with the world. He wanted someone to act against, no more of these nebulous plots and schemes. Deep in thought, he hardly noticed the disturbance in his crew until Nessa tugged at his arm.
“Captain? We have visitors.”
“How—?”
Then, he saw the gliders. Three of them flew down as though originating from the clouds themselves. It must have been a massive airship to reach such heights. The pilots looped through the air, banking against the winds, aiming for his ship. His small crew readied themselves for a fight, but Nessa held them back with a laugh and the Captain soon recognized their guests as well.
The first of the pilots landed with an elegant flip as she collapsed the wings. Her companions were more subdued, but just as graceful. As the leader removed her goggles, the Captain Duke walked forward.
“Captain Buchanan, an unexpected surprise.”
She reached out to shake his hand, “I hope you don’t mind our joining you a little early. The skies of London have been rife with upjumped sergeants and I thought you might appreciate some backup.”
Nessa came to stand at his elbow. The air between the two women seemed to hum despite their formality. The distinguished captain stood as tall as Nessa, hair drawn back in tidy locs to cascade down her back. Her cream jacket was tailored to suit her figure and complemented her dark complexion.
“It pleases me to see you looking well, Nessa.”
“It has been far too long, Marie.”
Captain Buchanan extended a hand, and Nessa raised it to her lips for a kiss. Her breath caught as their eyes met… then, with a shake of her head and a laugh, she pulled Nessa into her arms and kissed her.
When they broke apart, Nessa looked flustered but happy. And Marie Buchanan—the captain who conquered the Atlantic trade routes, the Black Widow who won over the Empire with her fearless resolve—was positively glowing.
“I’ve been waiting some time to do that and I’ll not wait a second more.”
The two seemed happy to continue in their own world, and the Captain was loathe to interrupt such a reunion but the crew was rather distracted. He cleared his throat to remind them of their duties, and they quickly returned to their work.
“Your concern for our welfare is touching,” he said. “I’m quite certain your presence is appreciated.”
“Anything for a friend,” she smiled, looking at Nessa. Then she grew serious. “Alice here has been assisting with the mystery of the stolen gunpowder and knows as much as any of us. And I’ve brought along my bosun, he knows the city well and has a number of useful connections. Both will help with anything you need during your time here.”
“And how much longer will you be in the city?” he asked.
“It is uncertain, but the negotiations with the Tradists have hit a standstill, shall we say, and the storm season is fully underway in the Caribbean. It will be another month at this rate.”
“I am sorry to hear that. If there’s anything we can do to help, you have only to ask.”
“Good. I may have a favour to call on—but that is a discussion best saved for later.”
They continued their discussion in his quarters, maps and books spread across the large table. But, with no new information, the conversation quickly devolved into catching up on the latest manoeuverings of the Tradists, the political climate of London and news from Captain Buchanan’s extensive network of pilots. Her company was now based in Saint Vincent, a volcanic island at the border of the Atlantic and Caribbean Sea, but her airships travelled to every corner of the empire and beyond. They traded goods, mostly, but she had long held that information was also valuable currency.
The rest of the trip to London was uneventful, particularly as Captain Buchanan’s Fregata tracked their progress from above the clouds. The air was filled with airships of every shape and size, making the Captain Duke’s galleon seem quaint and unremarkable by comparison. It had been months, but the weft and sway of the urban hubbub was comforting in its own way. And so the Captain privately celebrated his homecoming, a secret known to but a handful of souls.
Chapter 10: In which our heroine is the cause of offence and inspiration
Their days fell into a charming routine. Clara would spend the mornings sending out new assignments over the wireless, tracking the Tradist ships and going over the port logs to select their next targets. Cat would take care of the maps and logbooks, charting out the most secure paths and ensuring that safe havens were close by. Each of the crews would report their positions throughout the day, giving the names of the captains they had encountered and updates on the conditions of the port towns. Master Tims’ black market connections had proven invaluable. There was a growing discontent among the towns with the monopoly exercised by the Tradists and their sympathizers. The prices for many common goods were out of reach for many, and poorer families were struggling to feed and clothe themselves.
Lunch was set out by the household staff, and Archie would often join them if his research permitted. Mouse was always at his ankles, but her brother did not seem to mind. In fact, he told Clara privately, Mouse was a better assistant than the grad student Oxford had sent for him, and the Lovelace students had adopted the orphaned boy as a sort of mascot. He told them all of how Mouse had solved a complicated
equation by himself while their team was still discussing how to proceed. His logic was sound, but with no formal training he had no way to teach the others how to solve it. And so Archie had taken it upon himself to learn as much from Mouse as he did from Lovelace.
In the afternoons, they walked over to the campus together. Clara spent her time in Lovelace’s extensive libraries, examining their primary sources on the trade laws enacted after the formal dissolution of the East India Company in 1874. The main library was a grand, imposing affair, with marble columns and three stories of bookshelves, linked by balconies that soared overhead. But the Southern Reading Room was Clara’s favourite. It was tucked away in the third floor solarium with a view of the city spread out into the distance.
She could see the airships travelling to and fro, imagining herself on them once again. It had been over a month since she’d been able to practice her gliding. Their extended stay at the Haven had put her training on hold. But she did not suffer the loss so greatly as Cat. She knew the girl ached to be in the skies again, although she was doing her best to be patient, likely for Trick’s sake. And, well, he needed all their patience.
Since their arrival, he had done the bare minimum necessary to improve his condition. His exercises were performed dutifully, morning and night. He submitted to the poking and prodding of the physicians. He answered Professor Sewell’s questions and allowed her to take his measurements. He ate the food that was put before him. He complained of nothing. And yet, it was apparent to all that he was going through the motions of life without actually living. When left to his own devices, Clara would catch him staring into the middle distance, his face bare of any emotion.
For the frequency of her visits to the Kendrick Road house, Archie had given up a small study to Professor Sewell as a workroom, to allow her better access to her equipment. Her mechanical leg was more than up to walking the distance, but it would have been taxing and taken valuable time away from her research. Even still, her team of protégés would be summoned to run back and forth for her, fetching the various tools and materials she required for her work.
Clara was impressed by the Professor’s devotion to their friend. At first she had suspected it to be on her brother’s behalf. But as she grew to know Professor Sewell, she realised her driving force ran far deeper. Her endless patience and optimism, the careful way she treated Trick’s arm as an injury and not a disfigurement. In spite of his melancholy—perhaps because of it—she kept up a stream of cheerful encouragement, taking the smallest improvement as an achievement of merit. And Archie, always, was at her side to support and reassure, his genuine joy in her abilities spilling over into effusive praise at every opportunity. It was rare for them to spend an evening apart, with invitations flowing in both directions for dinners with the university faculty or private suppers with their new little crew.
It was one such evening that found all of them seated in the parlour of Archie’s home, laughing over a tale of Clara’s training to be a proper young lady.
“Poor Mrs. Ellington, she tried to have her play the flute every afternoon. And every day I’d listen to the fruitless whistles, until one day Clara managed the most piercing shriek. And the shrieking whistles continued for all of three days before Father decided that was the end of the music lessons.”
“I thought I was rather getting the hang of it at the end,” Clara laughed. “But I’m happy to leave it to the true virtuosos, like Trick.”
A brief smile crossed his face, before fading into a mask of such pain that it tore at Clara’s heart.
“Trick, I’m sorry. Please, don’t get up. I only meant—I didn’t mean—”
He gripped his shoulder, collapsing into himself, chest heaving for air as he struggled for composure. Cat rose to go to him, but he waved her off. He would not meet their eyes, but—with a great swallow and a deep, shaking breath—he did his best to assuage their concern.
“I know ye meant nothing by it. But all the same, I think I’ll retire early tonight.”
“Trick, please stay. It’s not as though you’ll never play again,” responded Professor Sewell, with a look of genuine confusion. “You’re nearly ready for a prosthetic, you’ll be able to do just as much as before and likely more.”
After a heavy pause, Trick replied in barely more than a whisper.
“It will not be the same.”
“Of course it won’t, it will be better! This new arm will be unbreakable. Just imagine what you’ll be able to do. It will have ten times the strength of the average man.”
“You cannot know—,” he started, before glancing at the golden leg framed by the layered ruffles of her skirts.
Professor Sewell narrowed her eyes, “I cannot know what, exactly?”
He stood, clutching his shoulder, “I’ve accepted my lot. I wish you would all do the same. It is no favour to keep hold of such false hopes, and worse to pretend they have some chance at reality.”
“But Trick, you’ve seen Professor Sewell’s work. If there’s any chance…” said Clara.
“Can she give me back the feeling of drawing my bow across the strings? Can she stop the phantom pains that plague my mind? Can she give me back my dignity?”
Trick was shouting now, shocking Clara and all the room into a laden silence as he continued.
“No. She cannot. I am a cripple, just as she is. And no matter your playacting, there’s no magic in this world that will give me my arm back.”
Professor Sewell was immediately on her feet, but she addressed Trick’s back as he made his way to the door.
“I am no cripple.”
Bursting into tears, she fled through the opposite door, leaving the assembled company to gape at each other. Cat, as usual, was the first to collect herself.
“We’ll take Trick,” she said, gesturing to her brother. “You two go find the Professor.”
Professor Sewell stormed into her makeshift workroom, skirts swishing around her mechanical leg. Clara and Archie followed behind, at a distance of reasonable caution with respect to the esteemed inventor’s state of agitation. Peeking around the doorframe, Clara watched as she turned about the room, stuffing papers and drawings into a large brown satchel. Archie pushed past her to enter the den of the lioness, hands raised in supplication.
“Professor, please, he did not mean what he said.”
He was ignored.
“Professor?”
The woman continued to whirl about the room, gathering her belongings. Charts and quills and tools of measurement, all were thrown together in a jumbled mess. The brass mechanisms of her clockwork limb flashed in the light of the gas lamps. Clara could see the cogs and gears working in perfect, sublime synchronicity as the Professor circled Archie as though he were invisible. Then, he reached out to pluck the sheath of papers from her hand, forcing her to pause.
“Georgie.”
For a half-second, Clara thought her brother was about to be pummeled. Instead, the Professor’s face crumpled and she collapsed into his arms with a sob. At his look of complete shock, Clara believed her brother might have preferred a blow. She mimed for him to comfort the crying woman and he awkwardly patted her head. Throwing her hands up in the air, Clara leaned against the doorjamb to watch the tableau before her. Archie rolled his eyes and half-turned away from her, smoothing the Professor’s hair and murmuring something inaudible as he held her close. After a moment, Professor Sewell pulled away, sniffing and attempting to blot her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Please, excuse me, I—I never—,” she began, “I hate that word. Cripple. I am no cripple. And how dare he—Oh!” Professor Sewell stomped her golden foot and crossed the room to sit in a high-backed chair.
Archie gestured at Clara to assist him in operating the tea-making device, and within minutes the three of them were seated in the midst of the now-messy workspace drinking a steep brew as they waited for the Professor to collect herself. Archie prepared the tea for Georgina—no sugar, a dash of milk—and within a
few sips, the distraught woman had visibly relaxed.
“Thank you, Archie. I do hate to lose my temper.”
“And I do hate to see you so distressed.”
“When I was young—,” Professor Sewell started, setting her tea aside. “I loved to dance. My family had a large home in the country and all our neighbours would come to our little soirees. I always begged my father to permit me to stay up past my bedtime and he would graciously oblige—but only for three more dances. The musicians would humour me, drawing out the last song as long as they could, and then I would bid one and all good night. That was before the accident.
“I don’t remember much of it. Rather, I remember the afterwards more than the incident itself. My father was crying; he had tears on his cheeks when I woke up. But he was crying because he was happy, he said. Happy that I was alive.
“I had a chair at first, but I was a restless child and crutches could only take me so far. In their efforts to distract me, they brought me books. Books on every subject you can imagine. The ballroom was converted into a library that stretched to the second storey of our home. And when my reading material was insufficient, they encouraged my correspondence with the authors.
“One of my early champions was Mrs. Somerville, as you know, who indulged my queries and pushed me to pursue my studies. She helped my parents secure the best tutors, and they, in turn, humoured my early inventions. It started as a means for my own independence. I hated having to ask for assistance when looking through our library. So, I learned the principles of mechanical design and made up a conveyance that could reach every single shelf. It was rather primitive, of course; I had the household staff work for weeks to install tracks and a pulley system that could bear my weight. Then I used what I had learned from the writings of Babbage and Lovelace to program my device. I could sit in a sling and enter the desired coordinates, and my invention would convey me to any part of the room I so desired.