Comets and Corsets

by Anthea Sharp

  * * *

  Eleanora did not have a chance to tinker with the harp until four days later, when her mother went on an afternoon outing to bestow charity upon the orphans. Eleanora had stationed herself in the drawing room in case such an opportunity might arise.

  “Are you quite certain you don’t wish to accompany me?” Lady Thomas asked as she settled her cherry-decorated hat upon her upswept coiffure. “Lady Eldwin and her daughter will be coming, and it would do you good to cultivate their company.”

  “Perhaps next time,” Eleanora said.

  While they were acquainted, she’d never felt a particular resonance of fellowship with dark-haired Anne Eldwin. The girl had a dour disposition, her eyebrows always pinched together and a frown upon her mouth. Her younger sister, Belinda, had been much lighter of spirit—and fairer of coloring as well. The two sisters had been like night and day.

  It was a tragedy that Belinda had drowned the summer before, in the lake near the Eldwin’s country estate.

  “Suit yourself,” Lady Thomas said, with a sniff that indicated she would prefer it if Eleanora did no such thing, but instead bent to her mother’s wishes.

  “I shall be glad to remain at home.” Eleanora gave her mother an unruffled smile. “Pay my regards to the Eldwins.”

  She continued sketching the pot of narcissus on the drawing room side table, pretending to be wholly engaged until her mother at last took her leave. Still, Eleanora scribed the trumpet-like shape of the flowers on the page until she heard the steam-carriage pull away, the iron-bound wheels rumbling over the cobbles.

  She flipped the page of her sketch book, turning to the study she had made of the clockwork harp. It would come in handy, particularly if she dismantled any part of the instrument. Mother would not be pleased if her new instrument were broken.

  Eleanora set her book down and pulled the spanner set from behind the divan’s cushions, where she had earlier concealed it.

  Despite her outward serenity, nervous energy ran just beneath her skin as she knelt before the harp. Carefully, she wound the key, then sat back as the spidery legs deployed and played a lively rendition of a Bach minuet.

  The piece ended, the mechanism folded closed, and the harp was still once again.

  Eleanora waited a full five minutes, but nothing further happened. Very well. She unrolled the canvas sheltering the set of tools and chose her second smallest wrench. She was not entirely certain about how to begin, but she felt more secure as her fingers wrapped around the solid metal.

  Carefully, she rotated the harp so the back of the soundbox faced the window. Intermittent sun shone in, enough to illuminate the hollow inside of the harp through the oval holes set along the length of the instrument. The plucking mechanism was fastened to the outside of the box, but the gears that powered it were located inside. That must be where her answers lay.

  Eleanora peered into the soundbox through one of the holes. The clockwork seemed perfectly fine at first glance. Held above the mechanism were a half dozen articulated arms, each one holding a thin metallic sheet with holes and bumps punched into the metal. Those must be the scores of the melodies the harp played, the pattern directing how the outer mechanism should strike the strings, like one would find inside a player piano.

  Something glimmered at the bottom of the soundbox, something that resembled silk rather than metal or wood.

  Frowning, she set her spanner down and rolled back the puffy sleeve of her gown. She did not relish the idea of reaching into the innards of the harp, but it was not as though the mechanism would bite. Clockwork could not hurt her.

  She hoped.

  With a deep breath to steady herself, she inserted her arm into the bottom hole of the soundbox. She could not see what she was doing, but let her fingertips glide over the teeth of the gears, then further down. She managed to fit her arm in just past the elbow, and continued to grope about.

  At last her questing touch met a tangled softness. Her hand jerked away involuntarily at the impression she’d encountered a spider’s nest, or something equally nasty. Gritting her teeth, she forced her fingers to close about the unsettling material.

  She drew it out, her arm prickling as though some multi-legged creature were about to leap up and run along her skin. The instant her hand was clear of the harp, she dropped the object on the multi-colored carpet and rubbed vigorously at her forearm and fingers, trying to erase the sensation.

  What lay on the carpet was not a creature of any kind. Eleanor leaned over to inspect it, still wary of touching the thing. It was a necklace woven out of golden fibers. An ornate braided flower in the center was decorated with a few pearls. The leafy fringe at the bottom was what she had first touched.

  Gingerly, she poked at it. When the necklace did not move, she picked it up and studied it closely. It was, if she were not mistaken, woven of human hair.

  Memorial jewelry made of the deceased’s hair was quite fashionable, although why the necklace had been hidden in the bottom of the harp was a mystery. Even more disturbing: who was the dead woman whose hair made up the necklace?

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Eleanora announced to the empty drawing room. “Particularly not ones who take up residence inside clockworks. The two are mutually exclusive.”

  Despite the firmness of her voice, however, she felt rather disquieted.

  She tucked the necklace into the pocket of her morning gown. Perhaps with its removal, the harp would cease its uncanny playing. If it had ever actually done so, and the music had not been simply a figment of her imagination.

  Briskly, she turned the harp back around. It seemed her spanners would not be needed, and she must put them away before her mother returned. She slipped her small wrench back into its pocket and re-rolled the canvas.

  As she ascended the stairs, she heard the steam-powered carriage puffing and clattering up the street, bearing Lady Thomas home. Eleanora paused and glanced out the stairwell window, but it appeared the Eldwin ladies were no longer accompanying her mother.

  Eleanora tucked her tools into their hiding place at the bottom of her wardrobe, along with the necklace, and met her mother in the front hallway.

  “How were the orphans?” she asked.

  “Ungrateful.” Lady Thomas sniffed and pulled off her kid gloves. “You ought to have come.”

  “I will, when you next visit them,” Eleanora said. “Shall we ring for tea in the drawing room?”

  Lady Thomas did enjoy her civilized comforts. It would be no use questioning her until she was sufficiently recovered from her outing.

  “That would be lovely. I need something to calm my nerves.”

  Some minutes later, the two of them sat on the davenport, the second-best silver tea service set on the table before them. Lady Thomas nodded to the maid when she brought a plate of biscuits, then poured out two cups of tea.

  Eleanor stirred a lump of sugar into hers, then waited until her mother took a sip from the gold-rimmed cup and let out a sigh.

  “I was wondering,” Eleanora said. “Where exactly did you find the clockwork harp?”

  At the time, she’d assumed her mother had purchased it from one of the instrument dealers she was fond of frequenting. In addition to the larger instruments in the drawing room, there were several flutes made of metal, wood, and bone, a mechanical snare drum (never used), and an antique lyre.

  “It’s quite the showpiece, I do agree,” Lady Thomas said, glancing at the harp. “You know, I snatched it out from beneath Lady Eldwin’s nose.”

  “Did you?” Eleanora set her teacup down.

  Lady Thomas gave her a smug nod. “I was on High Street, and a steam omnibus had broken down, blocking traffic. A tinker in the most colorful cart was stopped there, and I saw the harp in the back. Of course, I immediately recognized it was a treasure.”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked the fellow if he would sell it to me, and he replied he was charged with delivering it to Lady Eldwin. I told him I woul
d pay him double the commission. It did not take long for him to accept my coin, and move the harp into my carriage.”

  “Wasn’t Lady Elwin upset?” Eleanora asked.

  “She claims she knows nothing of any such instrument. Hmph. Clearly she was jealous of my coup, and did not want to admit it.”

  Eleanora gave the harp a long, considering look. If the instrument were somehow connected to the Eldwin family, then it was entirely possible the necklace she had removed from it was made of dead Belinda Eldwin’s hair.

  Why, then, did the family not know of the harp?

  “Did the tinker say who had built the instrument?” she asked.

  Lady Thomas waved her hand. “That minstrel mechanist in Suffolk. He’s rather well known, although the name escapes me at the moment.”

  “Tallesin,” Eleanora supplied.

  Indeed, if the harp had been built in his workshop, her mother had taken possession of a quite valuable instrument. Eleanora hoped it had not cost them too dearly.

  She could not fault the workmanship; the ivory and pearl inlays on the top of the soundbox were exquisite, and the tone of the harp was sweet and true. It was only that the clockwork did not match the harp, and it perplexed her. Especially if it had come from the master minstrel’s workshop.

  “Yes, that’s the name.” Lady Thomas took another sip of tea.

  “Isn’t the Eldwin’s summer estate in Suffolk?”

  “Indeed. Which is why I believe Lady Eldwin is telling me untruths. I might have taken pity on her, had she actually confessed to commissioning the harp, but as it is…” Lady Thomas lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug.

  The maneuverings for position among the top ladies of the gentry generally were of little interest to Eleanora, but she suspected that her mother was incorrect in this matter.

  “Speaking of the Eldwins, I trust your gown is in working order?” Lady Thomas asked. “The ball is in two days, after all.”

  “I will try it on now, but I’m certain the lifter mechanisms are well-tuned.”

  If they were not, she would simply tweak the lifters until her skirts floated about her like a cloud. It was an interesting fashion, and Eleanora did take some satisfaction in wearing something that was half contraption and half ball gown.

  It was not until she was upstairs, with her wardrobe open, that she realized the harp had not made a single sound while they discussed its provenance, and the Eldwins. She glanced down at the drawer holding the necklace. If she returned it to its hiding place, would the harp begin its mysterious sighing once more?

  She did not want to find out. Carefully removing her mechanized ball gown from the cedar-lined wardrobe, she closed the door, leaving the necklace and its secrets in darkness.

  * * *

  That night, Eleanora woke at the brush of a cold hand over her forehead. Heart pounding, she opened her eyes wide, searching the quiet shadows of her bedroom.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered.

  No one answered, but the door of her bedroom swung open. Almost, she saw a ghostly figure of a girl in a long white dress outlined in the doorway. Eleanora rubbed her eyes. The vision was a product of dreaming, surely.

  It took her several moments to gather her courage and slip out of bed to close the door. The wool rug was scratchy against her bare toes. She set her hand to the knob, then paused.

  Faint music drifted down the hallway.

  Curiosity warred with fear, and won. She snatched her wrapper and hastily donned her slippers, then went to the end of the hall. As she had known it would, the sound of a harp emanated from the drawing room.

  The melody was plaintive and slow, and after a few bars more, she recognized it as Greensleeves. Was that tune inscribed upon one of the metal cards inside the harp, or did ghostly fingers pull it forth from the harp?

  Quietly, she descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, the melody changed. It was another old ballad, and Eleanora hummed under her breath, trying to identify the refrain. By the bonny mill-dams of Binoorie.

  A chill swept over her.

  The harp was playing The Cruel Sister, a ballad recounting how a sister murdered her younger sibling by drowning.

  “No,” Eleanora whispered.

  She did not want to know this. Belinda Eldwin’s death was accidental. Surely her sister Anne had not pushed her into the lake.

  Yet the image came to her of fair Belinda, her skirts dragging her down into the cold waters while she held out her hand to her sister, pleading for rescue.

  Oh, why hadn’t Lady Thomas left well enough alone! The harp intended to haunt the Eldwins had instead come to the wrong house. And Eleanora was even more convinced that Lady Eldwin was innocent of all knowledge of the cursed instrument.

  A shiver wracked Eleanora while the notes of the ballad softly filled the air.

  Why had Tallesin had fashioned the harp in the first place?

  Perhaps the answer lay within the old ballad. Lord Thomas’s library was well stocked, and she knew where the collections of folklore and ballads were shelved.

  Unfortunately, she would have to pass the drawing room to reach the library.

  Clutching her wrapper tightly closed, she crept down the wide hallway. Fear clogged her throat, but as soon as she reached the open drawing room door, the music stopped.

  Eleanora forced herself to look in. There was no moon, just fog outside the bow window. The harp stood alone, each string faintly outlined in a pale glimmer.

  She had to swallow twice before she could speak.

  “I will try to help you,” she said, softly. Though she did not know how she would accomplish it.

  There was no acknowledgement, no chord of thanks or ghostly form materializing to make her a bow. The light faded from the harp, until it was a shadow silhouetted against the gray fog.

  Slowly, Eleanora’s heartbeat returned to normal. She took a deep breath, then continued on to the library.

  Banked coals in the fireplace glowed red. She lifted one of the mantelpiece candles and bent to light it from the coals, welcoming the heat against her hands and face. The wick flared to life, and she squinted against the sudden brightness.

  A few minutes’ searching yielded up the thick tome titled Collected Ballads of Scotland and the North. The gold lettering on the cover gleamed in the candle light. Eleanora paged through until she found what she was seeking: The Cruel Sister. She skimmed the text, fingers growing colder as she read.

  She had remembered it correctly; the ballad recounted the tale of two sisters, one fair, one dark. A knight came to court the eldest, but instead fell in love with the younger sister. Consumed with jealousy, the dark girl threw her sister into the sea and refused to help her as she drowned. All of that was terrible enough, but the end of the ballad made Eleanora’s heart freeze.

  A minstrel walked along the strand,

  And saw the maiden float to land.

  He made a harp of her breastbone,

  Whose sound would melt a heart of stone.

  That would explain Tallesin’s involvement, though why he would build a harp out of a dead girl’s body, she could not fathom. In truth, the instrument was mostly made of wood. But the ivory inlays took on new meaning. She shuddered, and continued reading.

  He took three locks of her yellow hair,

  And with them strung the harp so rare.

  The harp was not strung with hair, but with sinew. Eleanora most emphatically did not want to think about where it had come from. The hair necklace hidden inside the soundbox fulfilled that role well enough.

  Hair, and bone, and sinew. It explained why removing the necklace had not kept the harp from playing. There was enough of Belinda Eldwin in the instrument to anchor her ghost.

  He took it to her father’s hall

  To play the harp before them all.

  But when he placed it on the stone

  The harp began to play alone.

  And that was where the plan had gone awry. The harp was not in the
dead girl’s home—though it certainly played alone.

  The ballad went on to describe how the harp sang of the girl’s murder, and, in tears, the elder sister confessed.

  Well then.

  Eleanora closed the book and stared absently at the flickering candle flame. It was clear she must convince Lady Thomas to take the harp to Anne Eldwin’s betrothal ball. Appearances meant everything to her mother. Lady Thomas was proud and possessive, but she could be talked into showing her generosity of spirit by giving Anne Eldwin the harp as a wedding gift.

  And once there, Eleanora only hoped the harp would perform as described.

  * * *

  The Eldwin’s ballroom shone brightly, illuminated by crystal-bedecked gaslight chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling. Light glittered off gemstones fastened about throats and arms—rubies and diamonds, emeralds and sapphires, sending glints of color over the gaily-dressed throng.

  The air was sweet with mingled perfumes as Eleanora followed her mother across the polished marble floor to where the Eldwins stood on a dais, greeting their guests. The skirts of her gown billowed and floated about her like a gossamer cloud, the lifter mechanism expanding into empty space and pulling back when she got too near any object.

  Behind them, a footman carried the harp, draped in a blue silk cloth. Eleanora bit her lip, her heart sinking. What if she had been wrong? Haunted midnight melodies now seemed the product of her own fevered imagination.

  The noisy, well-lit ballroom was a bastion of normalcy. Even if there were a ghost, she would not materialize in such a place.

  “My dear Lady Eldwin, Lord Eldwin,” Eleanora’s mother said as they arrived at the foot of the dais. “Our most sincere congratulations to your daughter, Anne, upon her betrothal.”

  Dark-haired Anne, standing beside her mother, nodded, her face unsmiling. At her other side, her betrothed, Sir William Hunt, looked a bit glum as well.