Alastair took one more puff from his cigarette to steady his racing heart before mashing it into the ashtray beside his bed. Slipping his hand into the gauntlet, he flinched as the needles plunged into the flesh of his hip. With one squeeze, current flooded his body, sending a shockwave that tensed every muscle against his will. He locked onto his reflection as his vision tunneled and the world died away. As the energy was pulled from his body, a film as thin as a spider web caressed his flesh and sent his heart sputtering. His adrenaline rushed as a black mist came into the jar, but when the ecstasy reached its peak, he released the trigger. His caliginous soul darted back into his body, and a shudder passed through him as he stood panting before his reflection. A smile crossed his lips even as he yanked the prongs from his flank. No one could get as close to death as he could. No one could feel the euphoria of their soul being teased from their bodies and returning with a flood of relief as every muscle finally relaxed. He would never be prey like them. In becoming Jack, he had mastered death, conquered it and dealt it with a deft hand. Blood trailed down his thigh, but as he wiped it and brought his wet fingers to his lips, he tasted the metallic brew of his body. Life and death were his to command.
***
Immanuel hesitated at the head of the autopsy table, taking a deep breath to stifle the guilt that climbed up his throat like bile. For the third time, he reread Dr. Hawthorne’s wiry handwriting. Henrietta Wren, age thirty. Found posed on her doorstep in Chelsea, discovered by her housekeeper around five in the morning. Time of death difficult to determine due to the cold weather, estimated to be between one and two that morning, in rigor mortis. Triad of three punctures on the left side of the neck an inch above the clavicle, minimal blood, peri-mortem, burns at the periphery of the wounds. Eight inch cut on the left thigh beginning two inches above the knee. Laceration is pre-mortem, considerable bleeding (presence of clotted blood across limb). Blood on right hand but no wound present. Livor mortis shows body remained in sitting position in doorway for considerable amount of time, coinciding with time of death. Cause of death unknown, possible cardiac disruption from electrical shock. Potential Spring-heeled Jack victim. No autopsy performed.
“Adam, you do not have to stay for this.” Putting the ledger aside, he met his companion’s gaze as he waited for him at the base of the cellar stairs. “I have seen a dead body before.”
“I know, but I want to make sure you are all right.”
A faint smile crossed his lips before he resolutely sighed and folded back the sheet covering Henrietta Wren. Her face even in death retained its natural beauty. With her blonde hair and fair skin, she reminded him of his sister Johanna, but when he reached her neck, he chased all visions of his younger sister away. Instinctively Immanuel reached for the bandage around his throat. Resting his fingers against her icy shoulder, he waited for the visions he knew would never come. Alastair had killed her. When he couldn’t kill him, he found someone he could. His fingers twitched as he covered his face and tried to tug the sheet over her, but his fingers refused to cooperate. A hand reached past him and carefully covered the deceased singer. Adam clasped Immanuel’s trembling arm as an aftershock of the electricity darted through his limbs, cramping his legs and shaking hands.
“Sit,” Adam commanded as he lowered him onto the step. Kneeling before him, he glanced toward the closed basement door before holding Immanuel’s hands. “There is nothing you could have done to stop him.”
“If— if I had died, he would not have looked for someone else,” he croaked. “She died because of me. In a few days we are going to be in Greenwich celebrating Christmas, but her family— her family will be planning her funeral. If only I could have done something.”
Immanuel’s eyes watered and his hands quavered in Adam’s grasp. If he didn’t act, his guilt would push him to tears again. Intertwining their fingers, Adam kissed his forehead and wrapped his arms around him. After a few minutes of reassurance, Adam hoisted the thin man to his feet and led him up to the kitchen. As they emerged from the morgue, a pair of dark brown owl eyes locked onto them. Emmeline opened her mouth to speak but faltered upon seeing Immanuel as pale as he was the night before when he was lying on the table bleeding.
“Who is it this time?” she asked softly as the men walked past her.
“Henrietta Wren.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes widening at the implication. “He is killing Spiritualists.”
ACT THREE:
“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”
-Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Plans for the Future
Emmeline pressed her nose against the window of the cab, watching the streets of London crawl by. For more than an hour she had been stuck in the cab with her aunt, uncle, and Immanuel, who had barely looked up from the copy of Dorian Gray he borrowed from Mr. Fenice since they left Wimpole Street. Self-consciously running her hand over the front of her red gown, she sighed. It was the same one she wore for the Christmas social and she hoped it would be fancy enough for a party at the house of an earl as she only had one evening gown. Who knew who would be there? Hopefully no one from the Spiritualist society or they would surely know how far she had fallen.
She had owned so many beautiful dresses and hats. Her mother always made sure nothing was overlooked when it came to her happiness. Her mother. The fire— that man— had taken her away and, with her, every tradition or comfort she had ever known, leaving her adrift in the world. It was times like this when they passed family after family walking together through the bustling streets where mothers tugged lingering babes from toyshop windows and older daughters walked side by side with their mothers in matching fur muffs and hats that she felt the sting of orphanhood. This time last year, they would have been decorating the tree with fancy ornaments from Paris and singing carols at the piano while the smell of goose and pie wafted up from the kitchen. Emmeline’s lip trembled. Would her mother truly be with her or had all that she had been taught as a Spiritualist been a lie?
“How should I address the Earl of Dorset?” she asked suddenly, ripping her mind away from all thoughts of her mother. “Will you introduce me, Aunt Eliza, since I have not yet come out?”
“Yes, Emmeline.” Eliza Hawthorne’s thin lips curled into an amused smile. “You needn’t worry too much about introductions or formalities, Lord Sorrell won’t. He is not accustomed to using his father’s title yet, so Lord Dorset or Lord Sorrell are both acceptable.”
With a nod, Emmeline recited his titles in her head, but her wide eyes lingered on Eliza’s holly-green gown. The day after Henrietta’s death her aunt’s stoic demeanor had melted into mirthful smiles and easy laughter. She had even hummed as she cleaned the breakfast dishes and brushed Emmeline’s hair with motherly care. Gone were the drab dresses of grey and black. There didn’t appear to be a cause for the change, and Emmeline couldn’t be sure if she liked it even if her aunt was more willing to entertain her wishes in this state. Luckily her uncle remained as sullen and stony as ever with his arms barred across his chest and his brows knit in a frown.
Falling back into idle thoughts of who would be at the earl’s home for Christmas Eve dinner, Emmeline smiled. Surely there would be plenty of women in beautiful gowns with elaborate coiffures, young men all in black and white who would whisk her onto the dance floor and ask to call upon her, girls her own age with whom she could gossip and giggle, and no Lord Rose to ignore her. As the steamer finally slowed to a stop, her heart sank.
The icy rain pattered down against the weather-beaten façade, fogging the windows tucked into the manor’s Gothic arches. On the muddied plain at the edge of Greenwich Park, their cab and the mottled brown house stood alone. There was no party. Her face darkened as she crossed her arms and closed her eyes against the sting of disappointment. Not only would she be spending Christmas without her mother, but every agonizing
moment would be dragged out by the tedium of spending another evening with her family and a nobleman who was probably as old and boring as his house.
A servant with spectacles and a full head of white hair darted from behind the great oaken door with an umbrella, but as he escorted the ladies inside, Miss Jardine realized he was only in his thirties despite his prematurely colorless hair. The manor’s mahogany-paneled foyer was bedecked with boughs of evergreens over the doorways and entangled around the banister, leaving a dusting of needles beneath them. Inhaling the earthy scent of pine, she unbuttoned her coat while watching her uncle and Immanuel carry in their luggage alongside the servant. Where are the other footmen? Emmeline wondered, listening for footsteps but none came. Could a nobleman with an estate really not have more than one servant? Then again, the one he had wasn’t even in livery. Once all the coats and hats had been hung up, the white-haired man led them toward the parlor. As they rounded the corner, a jovial voice rose and fell with the theatrics of storytelling but stopped when they entered.
“James, Eliza, welcome!” the earl cried as he broke away from his audience at the hearth and moved towards his guests.
Emmeline froze in the doorway. This was the Earl of Dorset? The man she expected to be old and dull was only in his late-twenties with a bright, open face and pleasing features even if they were not to her taste. He was too hardy for her, too rugged with his square jaw and unaffected gait. Instead of a tailcoat, he wore a charcoal suit and violet waistcoat, yet what held her attention was the titanium hand peeking out from the end of his right sleeve.
“I am so sorry we are late, Eilian, but the traffic was horrendous,” Eliza replied as she stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “Allow me to introduce my niece, Emmeline Jardine.”
When he took her hand in his to bring it to his lips, she gave him a solemn curtsy, but the moment a wide smile lit up his face, she couldn’t help but do the same. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jardine.”
“And this,” her aunt called, ushering the young man forward, “is Immanuel Winter, James’s temporary assistant and my father’s protégé.”
Grasping the nobleman’s hand, Immanuel’s eyes flickered with recognition as he took in Eilian Sorrell’s features, yet he couldn’t place him. He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes traveled over his shoulder to the balding head that popped up from the sofa between Adam and Hadley. Immanuel’s eyes brightened the moment Elijah Martin drew near. As the older gentleman reached out to shake his student’s hand, Immanuel crushed him to his chest but quickly released him with reddened cheeks. Oh, how he missed his favorite professor.
“Mr. Winter, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Professor Martin’s gaze darted over the dent in his student’s eye socket and the scar that marred and soldered his once pristine features together like a strip of lead. The thin boy from Oxford had been reduced to little more than a skeleton with the bones in his hands and cheeks jutting from his ashen flesh. Despite the changes and evident trauma, he seemed happier than he had ever been there. “Seeing you in the flesh has finally put my mind at ease. When James told me you were safe, I took the liberty of writing to your parents to say you were no longer missing. I was also just telling Adam and Hadley that I spoke to the dean and the head of the science department, and because of your high academic standing, they are willing to allow you to complete your degree on time as long as you make up your missed work with me after hours. That is, if you are willing to come back after the holidays are over.”
Immanuel’s eyes trailed to Adam, afraid of the hurt that would be etched into his face, but instead, his lips curled into sympathetic grin. “I would love to.”
“Before I forget,” Eilian interjected as he wrapped his prosthetic arm around the small of Hadley’s back, “Miss Jardine, this is Professor Martin, Eliza’s father, and this is my fiancée, Hadley Fenice.”
Emmeline gave her a demure smile as she took in the red-headed woman’s simple bun and dark blue dress, which was closer to a man’s suit than to an evening gown. To be sure, she was pretty, but there was no way she was a noblewoman. The earl’s grey gaze softened with the same reverence she had seen when Mr. Fenice looked at her housemate every time he laid eyes on his future wife. Another marriage for love. Sighing, she listened half-heartedly as Hadley Fenice explained that she had heard a lot about her from Eliza and hoped to see more of her now that she was living in town, but her mind was elsewhere. How was her mother able to marry Archibald Jardine if she did not love him? Her mother had strategically selected a husband to ensure her place in society, but could she do the same when all she wanted was for someone to gaze at her like she was the only person in the world? The plaintive thoughts began to take over, dampening her back and tightening her chest, when the white-haired butler appeared once again.
“Dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Patrick. I hope you all do not mind, but I deviated from the traditional Christmas fare. My mother is spending Christmas with my sister-in-law’s family, and I wanted to do Christmas my way,” Eilian explained as he led the group into the dining room with his prosthesis interlocked into the crook of Hadley’s arm. “After dinner, we can have someone play the piano or play party games. Oh! I bought Christmas crackers as well. I have never thrown a party before and have no idea what I am doing, but I am hoping you will enjoy yourselves.”
***
Immanuel swallowed down a belch as he followed Adam down the hall to the drawing room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten or talked so much, and while he had never tried Indian food, he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the lamb curry and baingan bharta even if they weren’t quite authentic according to the young earl. From across the table, he watched Emmeline pick at her food with a sneer, but once the desserts were brought out, traditional English pies and puddings along with fried Indian confections, suddenly she regained her appetite. When they reached the end of the passageway, Hadley gently took her brother and his companion by the arms and drew them close.
“I have a surprise for you two later,” she whispered, her eyes flashing playfully before she rejoined the rest of the party without any further explanation.
The taller man looked to Adam for a clue as to what his sister had in mind, but he simply shrugged and stopped in his tracks, causing Immanuel to walk into him. Standing beside the roaring hearth was a Christmas tree that stretched toward the ceiling at ten feet. The wide pine boughs were wrapped in silk ribbon, shimmering tinsel, lit tapers, and strings of popcorn, and hanging above the fireplace was a wreath bedecked in equally gaudy trappings. On the opposite wall beneath a tapestry of knights fighting beasts of thread and filigree was a squat piano, whose lid was lined with a neat row of a dozen brightly papered Christmas crackers.
“Eilian, the house looks splendid!” Eliza Hawthorne cried as she ran her eyes across the tree and trimmings while her husband planted himself on the sofa beside his father-in-law. “You have outdone yourself.”
“Thank you. I have blisters on my hand from chopping and dragging the tree. You should have seen Patrick’s face when I lugged it inside. There were needles everywhere, and I am pretty sure I still have some stuck in me that I have yet to find.”
Emmeline’s eyes widened a little more each time her gaze moved from the Earl of Dorset to the yards of branches along every doorway. “You did this yourself?”
“Yes.” A wide grin spread across his cheeks. “I was a little overzealous in my decorating and ended up staying awake until dawn to ensure it would be ready before everyone arrived. Hopefully, I won’t nod off.”
The earl’s future wife stood beside him as Patrick carried in a tea tray and placed it on the end table. Hadley swept an invisible strand of hair behind her ear and smoothed her dress before calling the crowd to attention by clearing her throat. “I wanted you all to be the first to know that we have decided on April second for our wedding date.”
“Have you chosen a honeymoon destination yet?” came Pro
fessor Martin’s gravelly reply between gentle tinks of the spoon against his teacup.
“We plan to go to Dorset first to see Brasshurst Hall and maybe Egypt. There are no definite plans for a honeymoon since both of us are fairly content to be on English soil for a while.”
“Well,” Eilian Sorrell called as he clapped his hands together, “now that the official announcements are out of the way, is anyone up for a game of charades? But let’s open our Christmas crackers first. Charades is always better with hats and masks.”
While the Christmas crackers were passed around, Eliza watched Emmeline’s face fall as she stared into the roaring hearth. Beneath her impassive shell, which was nearly identical to James who sat in morose silence at her elbow the entire night, she knew Emmeline was hurting. It was the first holiday she would have to endure without her mother, and no amount of lighthearted distraction would dull that loss. There was no way to bring Madeline Jardine back, but there was a chance she could at least allow her to enjoy Christmas Eve by giving her something to look forward to.
“Before we start, I was hoping Emmeline could open her present from me. I know Christmas Day is still a few hours away, but I cannot wait to give it to her any longer.”
From under the tree, Eliza Hawthorne pulled out a long, flat box wrapped in shiny purple paper and placed it on her niece’s lap. Emmeline’s owl-like eyes traveled between her aunt’s soft smile and the box as she slid her nail into the paper and pulled it away. Shaking off the lid, she let it drop as a gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes welled with tears at the sight of a white debutante dress. Running her hand over the lace and beaded bodice, it dawned on her that she would be coming out this season. Her aunt had kept her promise, and it was everything she had ever imagined. Maybe it would be her first step toward a wedding dress.
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 47
