The Doomsday Vault (12 page)

She gathered her long skirts and hurried up the stairs. In the tiny hallway, Louisa was already opening Alice's bedroom door. Before Alice could stop her, she strode on in. Alice halted. There was a long, long silence.

“Alice!” Louisa called. “Really!”

Alice sighed, straightened her back, and marched in. “Yes?”

Louisa stood in the middle of the room surrounded by Alice's little automatons. More than a dozen of them scampered, climbed, crawled, and flitted about her. Louisa stared at them, her mouth agape.

“I'm so sorry,” Alice babbled. “I usually shut them away when company comes, but I didn't know you were—”

“These are astonishing, darling.” Louisa put out her hand, and one of the whirligig automatons landed on it. “The work of a true genius. Are they gifts from Norby?”

“No.”

“Did you make them yourself, then?”

“I assembled them. They came in pieces as gifts from my aunt Edwina.”

“She sounds a fascinating woman! I
must
meet her sometime.”

Alice edged closer. “You're not upset?”

“Upset? Why would I be upset?”

“Women aren't engineers,” Alice said.

“Yes, they are,” Louisa said. “You of all people must have heard of Countess Ada Lovelace, and she isn't alone in the field.”

“Ada Lovelace didn't work for money. She had the wealth to flout convention.”

Louisa flipped the automaton into the air and leveled a hard gaze at Alice. “You honestly thought someone who flouted convention would bother
me
?”

“Oh.” Alice felt she was rapidly losing more and more control of the situation. “I mean, we haven't known each other that long.”

“Now you owe me two apologies,” Louisa sniffed. “Let's get you changed. You smell like machine oil from that dreadfully overstated carriage your beau drives. Do you keep your wardrobe locked?”

“No, of course not.” Alice straightened again and clapped her hands. “I need an at-home dress. My blue one, please.”

The automatons rushed to open the wardrobe and bring out Alice's dress, which glided through the air like a ghost. Another automaton dashed up to pry open Alice's shoes while a flier zipped around behind to start on her back buttons. Inscribed on the flier's side were the words
Love, Aunt Edwina.

“I'll do that. Thank you.” Louisa brushed the whirling machine aside. “So this is how you got ready for the ball without the help of a maid. They're so well designed, darling. The work of a genius.”

“You said that.” Alice stepped out of her shoes and carriage dress, and Louisa set to work on the stubborn crinolines. “They make Father uncomfortable. That's why I usually keep them up here.”

“A shame. Lift your arms, darling. Why have I never heard of this aunt Edwina?”

“She lives like a hermit on a small estate on the edge of London.”

“Did she make these automatons so you could put them together? Is she a... clockworker?”

“Louisa! Certainly not! She's been sending me automatons since my teenage years. If she had contracted the clockwork plague back then, she would have died years ago.”

“True, darling, true. I didn't mean to offend. What was she like? I'm dying to know.”

“I barely knew her, to tell the truth, though in some ways I feel I know her very well.” And she found herself telling Louisa the entire story, including the death of her brother, mother, and fiancé, even though Louisa doubtless knew most of it.

“I'm so sorry,” Louisa said when she finished. “It's unfair.”

“It
is.
” Alice pulled the last crinoline layer off and tossed it aside with a vehemence that surprised even herself. “Sometimes I think the worst of it isn't that everyone died—I've learned to cope with that—but that, though I'm good with machines, as a woman of quality, I can't do anything with my talent. My only hope for a decent life is to persuade Norbert Williamson to propose marriage, and I don't even like him very much.”

“Oh dear. So the lovebirds rumor...?”

Alice dropped onto the bed. “I
should
love him, Louisa. He's rich. He's intelligent. He's not bad-looking. He seems utterly smitten with me—or with the family title; I'm not sure which. But I feel nothing. Nothing at all.”

“You hardly need to,” Louisa pointed out. “You said you can't look for work, but it sounds as though you're interviewing for the position of rich man's wife.”

“You make it sound so mercenary.”

“I'm not judging you, darling. But let's talk about something more pleasant. Tell me what this is.” She picked up a bit of pasteboard from the workbench.
“Miss Glenda Teasdale, Third Ward
, and the square root of two. What on earth?”

“Oh, er...” Alice flushed again. Louisa had an absolute genius for ferreting out awkwardness. “On the way home from the ball, I had an unfortunate encounter with a plague zombie or two. Miss Teasdale and... and some friends of hers rescued me.”

“What?”
Louisa's squawk sent the automatons skittering about the room. “Now listen here—I pride myself on knowing everything of interest that goes on in London. Heaven knows I have nothing else to do. But in one afternoon I learn you have a brilliant aunt who managed to escape my notice, and we add to that a zombie attack? Alice!”

“It's all right,” Alice said, rushing to reassure her. “I wasn't hurt.” She found herself telling yet another story while Louisa sat rapt on the bed. It felt oddly palliative to relate even these scandalous events out loud.

“What a fascinating adventure! Shouldn't you write this Teasdale woman?” Louisa asked when Alice finished.

It was such an unexpected question, though Alice realized she should be used to them from Louisa by now. “It's not a proper thing for a lady. I'm only glad no one found out about the entire sordid affair. Mr. Williamson would no doubt drop his suit immediately.”

“There
are
worse things,” Louisa sniffed.

A dreadful thought struck Alice. “Louisa, you must promise you won't tell anyone. This is all in strictest confidence. It would ruin me.”

“Not a word, I promise,” Louisa said, raising her right hand. “Besides, who would believe that an up-and-coming baroness single-handedly defeated a clockworker and a horde of zombies?”

“Stop that! I did no such thing.”

“That's not the way I would tell it,” she said, then added hastily, “If you let me. But I won't. Well, darling, I really should go. Visiting you delivers a number of shocks to the system, and I find myself in need of a lie-down.” She smiled. “I have to say I find it quite refreshing. Quite Ad Hoc. Call. On. Me.”

And she left.

 

Nearly a fortnight later, Alice was bringing morning tea into her father's study, where he was reading a letter.

“I was just going to call you in,” he said. “We've something to discuss.”

“Tea first, Father,” she said, setting the tray next to him. “The doctor said you've been losing weight. I want you to eat everything on this tray.”

“Yes, my dear.” He set the letter on the desk with a spidery hand and reached for bread and butter. Alice, who knew his every gesture, noted how slow and heavy the simple movement had become, however much she didn't want to admit it. How much longer did he have? The thought of his absence made her throat thick, and she forced herself to look elsewhere. A bit of paper on the desk caught her eye—a business letter across which someone had scrawled
Final Notice
in red ink. Alice bit the inside of her cheek. Tonight she would slip down to the study and see which bills were the worst. Tomorrow she would take two or three of the little automatons into town and sell them to stave off the creditors for a few more weeks.

And when those weeks were over?

“I'm worried, Alice,” Arthur said, echoing her own thoughts.

She sank onto a low stool next to his wheelchair. “About what, Father?”

“You. I need to know you're taken care of before I pass away, my dear.”

“Father.” She took his light, thin hand. “You'll bury us all.”

“I don't want to,” he said almost peevishly. “I'm tired, Alice. I'm tired of worrying about money and about this dreadful little house and about your future. I can't... go until I know someone will be able to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she said.

“There's care and there's care,” Arthur replied with a small smile. He sipped his tea and continued. “I just received an important letter. Our Mr. Williamson has expressed a deepening interest in you, and he has invited you to his town house for luncheon today. He's sending his carriage for you.”

“Luncheon?” Alice asked. “Unchaperoned?”

“Oh no,” Arthur said. “Norbert—Mr. Williamson—said there will be a chaperone, and I believe him. He and I have exchanged several letters and held numerous conversations about you, and I believe his intentions honorable.” His face remained expressionless, but Alice caught the tremor in his hands. “You might change your dress.”

“Oh?” Alice said, then realized what he meant. “Oh!”

Sometime later, the ostentatious automatic horse and carriage pulled up to Norbert Williamson's London town house on Hill Street not far from Berkeley Square. Alice, seated alone within the machine, looked at the four-storied brick structure and tried to hide her awe. She had never visited this place. Even being here now made her uncomfortable, and she glanced up and down the wide, busy street to see if anyone was taking notice of her. The mechanical horse halted neatly at the front door, responding to a command it must have been given previously, and for a moment Alice was distracted by an inappropriate urge—not her first one—to take the horse and carriage apart to peer inside. The machine was so sleek and fine, hiding its secret workings and machinations beneath a coating of bronze and copper.

The front door opened, and two men in their forties emerged, donning high hats and smoothing their jackets like second skins. Their movements were brisk and businesslike as they strode down the short flight of steps to the street and turned to leave. Alice watched them go, trying to figure out what their presence meant, and failing. Unease made her shift in her seat. An Ad Hoc lady might enter a bachelor's home unchaperoned and eat a meal there, but Alice came from a traditional family. Were other men besides Norbert still in the house? People might think Alice had come to—well, who
knew
what they would think? Alice sat in the carriage, uncertain about what to do.

An automaton followed the men out and approached the carriage. It was dressed in gold footman's livery, and its face had been painted with human features that didn't move. It looked eerie.

“Miss Michaels,” it said, extending a hand. “The master and his other lady visitor are expecting you. May I help you down?”

The mention of the other visitor flooded Alice with relief. She shook off her initial reaction to the automaton and accepted its hand down from the carriage. Talking automatons were nothing new—the many improvements made to the Babbage and Lovelace analytical engines over the years saw to that—but they
were
extremely expensive. Using one as a mere footman showed even more wealth than Alice had imagined. She felt more and more intimidated in her outdated dress and aging hat.

Stop it,
she admonished herself sternly.
You are the daughter of a baron, no matter how poor, and he is a commoner, no matter how wealthy. He's asking for your hand in—
She stopped that line of thought, not wanting to bring a jinx.
He's begging you to grace his home with your presence, so act like a proper woman of your position
.

The footman led Alice up the steps and held the door open for her; she swept past as if it didn't exist. Here she halted again. The house's interior was stunning. High ceilings, marble floors, electric lighting, a grand staircase that swept upward from the entry foyer. Then Alice regained her composure long enough to let the footman take her coat and gloves and lead her through the house. They passed a number of large rooms—a ballroom, a conservatory, a library, a dining hall—all of them spotlessly kept, with up-to-the-moment furnishings. What tugged at Alice's attention was the army of automatons. They were breathtaking, even thrilling, in their numbers. Machines of all shapes and sizes scampered, flittered, and crawled everywhere. They waxed floors, dusted shelves, and folded linens. A few were human-shaped, mostly feminine and dressed in a variety of maid uniforms, which Alice found odd—most people required their servants to dress alike. One of the maids wore a scandalously low- and high-cut dress that Alice imagined was meant to be French. Well, once she was mistress of this house, that would—

No, no. Best not to get her hopes too high.

The footman brought her to a sitting room where Norbert Williamson was waiting at a small table laid with linen, crystal, and china for two. He rose when she entered.

“Miss Michaels,” he said, bowing over her hand with exaggerated formality. “I hope your journey here was pleasant.”

“It was, Mr. Williamson.” Alice found her heart beating a little more quickly as he moved suavely to seat her. Did that mean she felt what she thought she was feeling? How did one know one was in love? Perhaps it was possible to only
think
one was in love without truly being in love. More importantly, did it matter?

“And this is Mrs. Leeds.” He gestured toward an armchair in the corner, where an old woman dressed in black sat knitting. A pot of tea occupied a low table next to her. Mrs. Leeds inclined her head and kept knitting as Norbert introduced Alice. “Mrs. Leeds is the mother of my factory manager, and she kindly agreed to be our chaperone today.”