The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella (11 page)

"There! See. We have ever so much in common." Miss Green Dress quit ministering to George and gave Weatherby another curtsy. "I told Aunt Sylvia that you wouldn't remember me at all, but I was ever so wrong. And to think! The Duke of Blackledge even remembers what I was wearing! From now on, I shall call it Lord Blackledge's Blue Ball gown."

Poor George had just taken another sip of his punch and now sprayed it out his nose.

"I'll fetch some... something." Weatherby set his cup on the mantel and bolted for the door. Was it cruel to use George as a distraction? Undoubtedly, yes, but if he left Helena alone upstairs any longer he would lose his mind.

In the entry hall, he spied a footman and approached him. “Can you take me to the vault? I should like to be certain my automaton has suffered no mishap.”

“Of course, my lord. If you will give me but a moment to fetch Mr. Abercrombie.”

“Mr…?”

“Our butler.”

“Ah.” Weatherby pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. Only he and Lady Worthen had the key to the vault, which is why they needed to go to such lengths to get Helena inside. And if she were out of the case, as she surely must be by now, then taking anyone with him would only expose her before she had an opportunity to find the papers she needed. “I should not like to disturb him when he must be occupied with all the company. I shall go up closer to the time.”

Straightening his cravat, Weatherby faced the drawing room again. He could survive a half hour of conversation.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Playful Pup

Helena scratched her nose with her big toe and waited for the footmen and the butler to depart. By comparison to the box she fit into for the circus, this was quite spacious, although somewhat awkwardly shaped. Weatherby had proposed removing all the mechanics, but she had been able to fit between them and the driving engine.

“Will we be able to watch, Mr. Abercrombie?”

“I should think not.” He sniffed. “The room will be quite crowded enough without the staff pestering her ladyship.”

“Why’ve they got to come in here?” the other footman asked.

“Because it is where her ladyship stored the automaton after the 5th Baron of Worthen’s death.” He sniffed again as they reached the doorway. “She would have simply sold the lot if the current Baron were not so fond of them..”

“Why is—” The door cut off his final question and left the room in complete darkness.

Helena counted to twenty and then pulled on the latch that Weatherby had installed inside the case since it had not originally been designed to have anyone inside it. The side of the mechanics housing fell open and she stretched her arm out into the room. By careful measures, she worked her way out of the case, unwinding her legs from the gears until she was able to wriggle out of the opening onto the cold, bare floor. She felt back inside the case for the lantern and matches that Weatherby had secured for her.

The match flared, illuminating the space around her, but Helena did not look up until she had the lantern safely lit. Shelves lined the walls behind them and on some, smaller of her father’s creations waited to be wound. But her attention was caught by the cluster of cloth draped pedestals that marched in two rows down the center of the vault.

She went to the nearest and set her hand on the cloth. How different would they be from her childhood memories? Helena slid the cloth off and then let it drop to the ground. “Oh… Papa.”

Beneath the cloth, a stag made of silver, with golden horns stood with his head raised, ears pointed forward. At his feet a stream of glass rods waited to trickle with the turn of a key. Flowers rendered with wire and hammered sheets of copper stood by the stream. The silver had tarnished to nearly black but the golden horns remained as vibrant as her memories.

The automatons used to stand in the gallery overlooking the courtyard. She and Papa would come into the gallery and try to wind them all. It was a race from one end of the long hall to the other, winding mechanisms as each wound down.

Helena wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. No time for that. She had a mission. Pulling out her supplies from the case, she tried to keep her mind on business. She carried the lantern down the rows of silent figures, unveiling The Skating Couple, The Mathematician, The Playful Pup, until she came to the Painting Lady.

Someone had taken care of the figures, at least as far as dusting them. The porcelain figure’s skin was warmed by the lantern and her silver ink pot gleamed in the light. Helena tipped the cover back and poured the ink she had brought with her. From the small satchel she pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the Painting Lady’s easel. Kneeling, she set the lantern on the ground next to her and opened the base of the mechanism. Inside the door, were five slots for punched tin discs. The sixth was inside, ready to guide the Painting Lady’s quill. She pulled it out and held it close to the lantern.
Swans, swimming.

Nodding, she pulled out the other discs one by one, setting aside
The Tower of London
and
Toby
until she found
Mother and Child.
Biting the inside of her lip, she placed the disc in its place, shut the door, and stood. Please let the mechanism work. She wound the crank in the side of the case, turning until she felt the mainspring tighten. Please. She released the key and gears within the Painting Lady began to turn.

Helena knit her hands together and watched as her childhood sprang to life. The Painting Lady turned her head to look at the ink pot and leaned forward to dip her quill. She wiped it on the edge of the pot, and with smooth precision laid a line down on the paper. Her gears were louder than Helena had recalled, but that was hardly surprising considering how long she had been sitting. Or had her aunt brought guests in to look at the oddities?

Toby
had been Helena’s favorite as a child. It had been a drawing of a puppy playing with a ball and she had asked her father to have the Painting Lady draw it over and over. This, though… This was the key to her inheritance. She hoped.

The door to the vault opened.

Helena dropped to her knees, spinning to hide behind the pillar of the Painting Lady. She snatched the lantern, snuffing it as she pulled it behind the pillar.

Weatherby’s voice outside did nothing to obscure the sound of the Painting Lady at work.“I must insist on doing my preparations without observation.”

“But we are so curious.” Her aunt’s voice sent chattering teeth up and down Helena’s spine. “My dear late husband’s brother was such an eccent— What is that sound?”

“It is likely the mechanism on— Oh my God. The Silver Stag. I’ve— I’ve seen illustrations and read about it but…my God it is beautiful.”

From the sounds, other people had followed Weatherby besides her aunt. The murmurs of delight unwrapped a memory of a party when she was very small. She had shown her cousin The Playful Pup and he had spent the entire night watching it.

“Why are all the cloths on the floor? Abercrombie! What is the meaning of this?”

“My lady… I am not certain.”

“Mother! Look. One of them is moving.” A young man laughed with delight, his footsteps coming closer. Helena felt the pedestal, looking for a way into the mechanism. They were going to find her. If she knew more than a child’s worth of glamour, perhaps Helena could have hidden herself, but as it was she had only a shadow to hide in.

“Lord Worthen.” Weatherby jogged after him. “Be careful. Sometimes these old clockworks can start up when jarred.”

And suddenly, Weatherby was standing by the pedestal, his legs and tailcoat offering slightly more shielding for her. He had worn breeches with stockings that revealed beautifully shaped calves.

“Mother! Come see. I remember this. It used to draw the cleverest dog but… I say. Who is that?”

He must have seen her. Helena drew breath to speak, but Weatherby put his hand on her head and pushed down, stopping her. He asked, “Is it a self portrait?”

“I think… I think so. The figure looks remarkably like my aunt Miriam.”

Sharp footsteps sounded and then Helena’s aunt said, “This figure was to be left alone” She stepped around Weatherby, reaching for the cloth on the floor and saw Helena . “You.”

She had hoped for more time for the Painting Lady to finish, but the figure was still going through its motions. She needed to buy time for it to finish. Helena rose to her feet. “Hello, Aunt Paulina.”

“Abercrombie! Remove this thief, at once.”

“Yes, my lady.” He reached for her, but his hand closed on empty air as Helena bent backwards.

Helena continued the backwards bend into a walkover. When she straightened, the butler was staring at her with a rather stupid expression. The vault had become quite crowded. In addition to Weatherby, Aunt Paulina and cousin Andrew, other guests had followed them. This was not what she and Weatherby had planned, but there was no stopping now.

She faced the assembled crowd. “I am Helena Worthen, daughter of James, Lord Worthen who made these automaton.”

Aunt Paulina sniffed and snapped her fingers at her butler. “She is a shyster. My niece died tragically in a fire.”

“I am quite alive.”

“Take this opportunist out of here.”

The butler closed on her, but Weatherby stepped between them. “I cannot help but note that Miss Worthen has more than a passing resemblance to the Painting Lady.”

“An interesting coincidence, to be certain, but blonde curls do not make one a Worthen.”

“No one would argue that. There’s a circus performer with blonde curls, but no one would mistake her for Miss Worthen.” Weatherby’s friend, Mr. Corke — that clever man — stood beside the painting lady, with his head bent in a frown. “However looking like a portrait is decidedly more compelling.”

On the easel, the Painting Lady had continued to draw a mother and child. Even rendered in black and white, the abundance of curls seemed to glow. Helena’s mother had worn her hair like a halo.

“That could be anyone.”

The Painting Lady dipped her pen once more and then beneath the drawing wrote, “Helena and Miriam.”

Mr. Corke cocked his head and looked from the drawing to Helena and back again. “You are… Miriam?”

“Helena. Miriam was my mother.”

“You are the spitting image of her.”

Her aunt snatched the cloth off the ground. “This is a travesty. Clearly she has altered the thing in order to make a claim on my household.”

“No.” Weatherby’s voice was cold and his hands flexed at his side. “I assure you, that is not possible.”

Cousin Andrew shook his head. “Come now, if you were my cousin Helena — and I’ll grant that there is a resemblance — then why wait so long to come forward?”

“I came when I was ten and asked for help. I had a drawing from the painting lady and
she
burned it as I was watching. She sent me to a poor house.” Helena turned to her cousin and spread her hands out in entreaty. “I know I promised not to tell but… Do you still have the Wind-up Dog’s bone?”

His jaw dropped. “I… Yes. In fact.” He ran his hand through his hair and turned to his mother. “I had wondered why there were no portraits of my uncle’s family anywhere in the house, though I remember them from when I was a child.”

“She… This is…” Aunt Paulina sputtered and then put her hand to her head and fainted. Or, rather pretended to faint. She slumped down toward the butler, but he stepped back and let her hit the floor. She moaned.

Helena turned her back on her aunt so she didn’t walk over and kick the woman.

Weatherby cleared his throat. “George?”

His friend started. “Oh! Yes. Yes, he’s downstairs in my carriage.”

“Who?” Cousin Andrew raised his brows rather comically. “Someone else back from the grave?”

“In fact…” Weatherby gave a little smile. “Your uncle, Lord Worthen.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Melted Wax

Weatherby followed Helena as she ran down the stairs. Her cousin was close on her heels and seeing their blonde curls from behind, there was no doubt that they were related. Beads of sweat coated his back and he could barely catch his breath.

George appeared at his elbow. "Are you all right?"

"I hardly know. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have never seen you so pale."

"It is just that I am about to meet Lord Worthen. The Lord Worthen. I'm not sure if I'm more nervous that the man is Helena's father or that he is a brilliant automaton creator."

They turned the last round of stairs into the awful rose filled foyer. Helena’s foster mother, Mrs. Mohabir, directed the footmen and Mr. Mohabir, who were just carrying a wheeled chair up the stairs to the front door. Bundled in a blanket, sat an old and horribly burned man. Weatherby stopped, in shock. She had told him, but he had not realized the extent of the injuries. His face was like melted wax, one eye gone entirely, and the other a haze of white.