The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  “I will not allow that! She will not be dragged into something like that, Alastair,” her mother snapped.

  “It will not only benefit her but both of us.” The reply was cool and barely audible above the din of the ball.

  “I don’t care who it benefits. Emmeline will not be going to London with you.”

  “She would have to go to London. That is the only way it would work. I would see to it that she wants for nothing.”

  “I forbid it. I will not let you take my child from me.”

  The girl’s eyes widened with glee. She picked up her skirts and hurried off in a dither to find her company of fairies. By the time she found them at the edge of the dance floor, her face was flushed and all she could do was stammer.

  “Did you see one of those ghosts your mother was talking about?” Annette chided as she looked around Emmeline for the young man she had been dancing with earlier.

  “Even better! Lord Rose wants to marry me.”

  “Of course he does.” The younger girl stood on tiptoe as she peered over her friend’s head. “Have you seen John Pemberley?”

  “No, it’s true. I heard him and mama in the library. He wants to take me to London, and he said it would benefit both of us. What else could it be but marriage?” When the girl continued to ignore her, she stepped closer until all Annette could look at was the flat, beaded bodice of her friend’s costume. “Mama, is highly opposed to the union. Isn’t that romantic? All the best romances are forbidden, aren’t they?”

  “John!” Annette squealed as she nearly knocked Emmeline over and caught the edge of her dress with her heel.

  Emmeline watched in horror as the edge tore half way to the dance floor before the girl’s heel finally dislodged from the trim. That was it, that was all she could take for one evening. She grabbed the piece of fabric and trudged back to the balcony in the rear parlor. The night air soothed her tears as she fitfully pulled the rest of the lace off and tossed it over the railing. She hated them all for ignoring her. After all, she was the important one, and her friends just threw her over for someone else. If it hadn’t been for me, the Raleigh sisters never would have even been invited since none of them had been presented into society yet, Emmeline thought as she sat on the edge and looked out at her kingdom.

  Her waltz was playing. The little fairy closed her eyes and hummed as she pictured herself dancing in Lord Rose’s arms. She checked to make sure no one was around before she held up her arms and carefully spun in measured steps to Tchaikovsky’s airy melody. Something clicked behind the girl, and as she gracefully turned with her skirts sweeping behind her, a rag-clad hand clamped over her mouth while the other pulled her into the shadows. Emmeline’s body stiffened and buckled, but as she raised her hand to her assailant’s, it drooped. The sickeningly sweet odor engulfed her senses as the Samhain ball faded away.

  Chapter Four:

  Penny Dreadfuls

  “Emmeline! Wait, Emmeline! Bring her back!” her mother screamed in the crackling darkness. She sounded so far away, and Emmeline was too drowsy to lift her eyelids to see where. The voice died away until she was left with only warm, passive blackness. The steady cadence of her breaths moved in time with her dream of fairy waltzes and red devils.

  Emmeline shivered and opened one eye and then the other only to see her hair hanging in front of her face. As she pushed it to the side, she started up in bed, rattling the flimsy iron cot with her sudden motion. The room was silent except for the creaking as she stood up with the woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. The chilled room was half the size of her bedroom and lacked all character or personal touches as there were no photographs, paintings, or even wallpaper hanging on the cracked, plaster walls. No, she was definitely not in the servants’ quarters in Headington. Standing in the corners were dusty specters, but when she pulled away their white mantles, all she uncovered were pieces of chipped and worn furniture. As she inspected the looming wardrobe, her eyes finally fell upon the peeling door.

  Emmeline held her breath as she reached for the knob and felt it easily turn in her hand. Behind the door was a narrow hall with two more identical oak doors catty-corner to each other and a wooden panel on the opposite wall. Her heart pounded in her ears as she noiselessly padded down the hall, careful not to alert an unseen presence to her flight. She feared what lay behind the nearest door, but as she wrapped her gloved hand around the limp, brass knob, the door squealed open.

  Emmeline’s heart sank at the dingy bathroom staring back at her. The once white toilet and sink had dulled to a sallow bone, and under the faucet of the tub, rust cascaded and crumbled in streaks of dull red. As her eyes ran up the cistern, she noticed that concealed behind some brown paper was a window. She looked over her shoulder and listened for any signs of life before carefully climbing onto the toilet seat. Emmeline teetered on the rim as she tore the paper away from the window, but when she finally created a big enough hole and stood on the tips of her toes for a better view, she could only make out the bleak, brick façade of the neighboring building less than a foot from the glass. Where am I? As she blinked away the remaining grogginess, the fear fell heavy in her breast. How did she get here? As she tried to recount the previous night’s events, her satin slipper slowly slid until her ankle rolled and her foot unceremoniously plunged into the cold water of the toilet.

  Her shrill shriek reverberated in the tiny space before she could stop herself as she hopped down from her perch with her foot held out in horror. She didn’t want to touch it, but the water was rapidly seeping through the delicate fabric. Grasping the dry lip of the shoe, she flung it from her foot and against the far wall with such force that it bounced back and nearly touched her. She sneered at the shoe one more time before rushing toward the only door left in the hall. If someone did hear her, she would need to escape now. This time, the door would not budge. Emmeline pulled on the knob with all her might until her sore hands slipped off and refused to grasp its surface. As she drew back with tears of frustration pooling in her eyes, the floorboards rhythmically creaked overhead. She froze as she listened to the tread of boots stop above the hall.

  Something scraped and squealed in the cavernous space behind the panel. Her brown eyes locked onto the wall as the straining noises grew louder until they terminated in a dull thud. Emmeline eyed the panel with suspicion, too afraid to open the pocket door but not knowing was too much for her to bear. She threw open the hatch and discovered a pot of tea, a tin of biscuits, and a plate of roasted mutton and carrots along with utensils and an empty cup on a chipped, wooden tray.

  “How are you feeling?” a nasally voice intoned, echoing from seemingly nowhere.

  The young woman spun around with her food in hand, sloshing tea as she searched for the source of the man’s disembodied voice. “Hello? Who is there?”

  “I asked how you were feeling.”

  She placed the plate and tin back in the miniature elevator before scanning the walls of the hall and the door at the end, which she was certain had not opened. “Scared.”

  “Physically, miss. I need a baseline.”

  “Fine. Cold?” Swallowing her fear, she cried, “Let me out! When my mother finds out what you did, you will be sorry you ever kidnapped me!”

  Her eyes finally came to rest on a brass pipe running down the wall above the dumbwaiter that ended in an open tube. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, Emmeline returned with a chair and placed it right below the pipe. The young woman drew in a deep breath and released a long, ear-piercing scream with her mouth directed toward the ear of the man upstairs. When she thought it would end, she drew in another deep breath and continued the shrill note. She always fancied that the great operatic divas would have envied her lung capacity, especially compared to her petite stature.

  The nasal voice at the other end cried sharply. “Stop that! You aren’t getting out any time soon, miss. Not until we’re finished.”

  “Finished? Finished with what?”

&n
bsp; Silence and the tattoo of her heart in her ears met her answer.

  “Who are you? Why have you taken me?”

  Opening her mouth to scream again, she stopped when she heard footfalls retreating away from the tube. The faint clap of a door that rocked the plaster of her apartment confirmed he was gone. Emmeline moved the chair under the bathroom window, but neither feet nor steamer wheels blocked the sliver of sun in her dank alley view. The girl slowly slumped down in defeat, feeling particularly small and oddly helpless. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes but refused to cry and let her face grow red and inflamed. Much like her screaming, it would do nothing to help her escape.

  Her eyes trailed up to her reflection in the mirror. During the night, her hair had tumbled down with pins sticking out at all angles, but apart from being a little wrinkled from sleep, her green gown remained without anymore missing sequins or tears. She turned to leave the powder room when she glimpsed her twisted and crunched wings. In a panic, Emmeline tried to set them back in place, but they drooped as the gears of the mechanism ground together, reminding her of a swatted insect. With a sigh, she slipped them off and let them drop beside the soiled shoe on the bathroom floor.

  Stepping back into the hall, she carried her tray back to the bedroom. She sniffed at the plate, checking if it was poisoned but realized she didn’t know what poison smelled like. The dish smelled like cheap meat, so she daintily nibbled at her meager dinner. The sinewy meat refused to cut, and the waterlogged carrots oozed moisture with each fall of the knife. What disgusted her even more than putting her foot in the toilet was the cold, dishwater tea. She left the pot on the dresser and dug into the only passable morsel of food, the box of Huntley and Palmer biscuits, hoping to drown out the awful taste. If they were going to hold her captive, they could at least give her real food, she thought as she lay back on the bed and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling.

  Why would anyone take her only to ask if she was feeling well? Her mother was wealthy, so maybe they were holding her for ransom. Yes, that must be it, she told herself. As long as her mama paid them, she would be fine. As she ran her fingers through her hair and the remaining pins tinkled to the ground, a grin crossed her features. Maybe Lord Rose had stolen her to elope when her mother refused his proposal. How romantic. Just like Hades and Persephone. If that was true, she would only remain there a few hours more until the vicar could be called. She would have preferred a white dress but at least her Samhain costume was fine. Emmeline turned the tiny piece of metal over in her hand before scratching 1 November 1891 into the wall to mark the day of her engagement.

  She gathered the blanket around her arms as she checked the bedside table and discovered a hairbrush and toothbrush that looked newer than anything else in the room. In the drawer below were several candles and a box of matches. She quickly shut them and unlatched the wardrobe. A few dated, doleful dresses that smelled of mothballs hung on the bar but sitting on the shelves were a few extra pairs of stockings and another dusty blanket. Stooping down, Emmeline pulled open the drawers at the bottom. They were littered with stationary and half-empty bottles of ink that had been scattered and upturned by some invisible wind. As she scooped them up to tidy the pile, brightly colored books printed with painted damsels and highwaymen on their tattered covers appeared below. Emmeline abandoned the pile of papers in favor of the penny dreadfuls. Thumbing through the tales of robbers, rapscallions, and regal ladies, she headed back to her bed. For hours, she lay quietly on the mattress, transported from the empty space to castles on the misty moors. The tales of adventure and passion held her until the light from the electric bulb in the hall grew too weak to read anymore, and when it did, she lit a candle and contently continued. Until her mother or Lord Rose came to rescue her, there was nothing to do except read.

  ***

  The charcoal steamer stopped before the unkempt brick house as it did every day for the past month and a half. Though the neighbors heard strange noises every time he was there, they never dared to ask questions. He owned their houses and could turn them out at any moment if they tried to make trouble. Marching past the cloaked furniture and shutting the kitchen door behind him to block out the last rays of day, he descended the steps. He slipped past the locked door where the girl slept and continued until he reached the rough-hewn portal hidden within the cupboard under the stairs.

  Emmeline’s head was pressed against the pages of one of Jack Harkaway’s many adventures when the bolt on the cellar door slid open and the man inside whimpered at the sight of his captor. An agonizing scream from the depths of hell sent Emmeline from her paper pillow with a start. In a daze, she patted her mouth and realized she wasn’t the one screaming. His bestial cries were like nothing she had ever heard before. She had screamed and heard her mother and maid do the same at the sight of a mouse, but she had never heard a man scream. The voice was tinged with the unmistakable tremble of fear and the abandon of horrific pain. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end. A sharp thwack resonated from the boards below followed by another. She listened to the cries pierce the still air over and over until she thought her heart would pound out of her chest and into her throat. But it was not only fear that made her listen. Something in his wails thrilled her like a Gothic tale. Maybe she was dreaming. Could her imagination simply be running wild after reading too many of the penny dreadfuls her mother had forbade her to read?

  After what felt like an eternity of sitting on her mattress waiting for the cries of pain and bangs from below her feet to cease, the purgatorial room fell silent. Emmeline froze anew, feeling her own pulse race against the flesh of her neck as she anticipated the cry that never came. She jolted as the door in the cellar slammed shut and the sound of boots headed for the other end of the hallway. Her eyes widened in panic as she darted from the cot and into the wardrobe, shielding her face with the row of old dresses. The man’s heavy steps echoed past her chambers and continued upstairs where they disappeared out the front door. A chunk of plaster in the corner crashed to the floor as it slammed.

  All fell silent. Pushing open the wardrobe door, she stepped back into the room on trembling legs. Her breath and pulse refused to slow. This was not some romantic elopement or ransom. She was trapped. Her apartments were no longer a great tower or cell in the Bastille but a tomb she may never leave, and there was another who was brought by her captors to share her fate. Even if she never laid eyes on him, there had to be a common bond for them to be brought together. Would they do to her what they did to him if she didn’t do what they wanted? Getting down on her hands and knees, she pressed her cheek against the cool boards to be as close as possible to her fellow hostage. At first, the young woman couldn’t hear anything, but then a muffled moan followed by a sob echoed from the abyss. The man was weeping.

  ***

  The dumbwaiter rattled down the chute until it came to rest in the hallway. Emmeline carefully removed the new tray and replaced it with the dirty dishes from the night before with shaking hands. She was about to dart back to her room to escape him when the abrasive voice echoed down the pipe.

  “How do you feel?”

  Questions hung on her lips but fear hushed them as the screams echoed through her mind again. Maybe if she played their game, she would survive. “Fine.”

  Chapter Five:

  The Catacomb

  The dates tipped down and across the wall, haphazardly scratched daily into the plaster with the end of a hairpin. Emmeline was beginning to lose track of day and night as the days grew shorter and the weather darkened the sky with snow and torrential downpours, but the routine of the two men continued like clockwork. The man with the heavy tread came every morning before the sun disappeared above the adjacent building at noon to brutalize her unseen neighbor. Hours later when it was necessary to light her lamp to even see in her bedroom, the man with the clarion voice asked only one question, How are you feeling?

  Every time they arrived, she imagined what lay beyond the confines of her plast
er and wood cell. From what she remembered of her own home, she assumed the dumbwaiter in the hall led to the pantry above and would open up to a dining room or parlor, and from the creaks on the other side of her bedroom wall, she knew the stairs and door to her fellow captive lay nearby. What stood past the threshold of the front door or up the stairs to the upper floors she did not know. The men never seemed to go beyond the ground floor and no one had ever tried to enter her apartments.

  Emmeline sank her ears deeper into the folds of the pillow to drown out the groans and pleadings from below the floorboards. When she asked for more books and candles, they sent her an oil lamp and a stack of penny dreadfuls along with a few novels. Now, the Count of Monte Cristo served as her guide to escape. She read aloud to drown out the pitiable cries. If she didn’t, she would tremble at the sound of his wails and imagine every blow dealt to him. She flinched as something sharply hit flesh, but she clasped the pillow to her head before she could hear the resulting lamentation. Why do they treat me so well? she wondered as she let the book drop and held the pillow to her ears to block the attacker’s muffled jeers and half-heard insults. They treated him so differently. Her captors seemed to provide her with whatever she needed. She had asked politely for more to read and a sewing kit with which she could hem the sad dresses in the wardrobe, and she received them the next day without a word. For now, they were treating her like a princess held captive by a rival kingdom, but why weren’t they beating her as they did to him? More importantly, why hadn’t her mother come to rescue her? Maybe she was happy to be rid of her. Swallowing hard, she choked down her tears to keep the man below from hearing her.