The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set

by Kara Jorgensen

  Nadir pushed down on his walking stick to get to his feet, feeling the aching strain of his sore hip and ankle, and left the book open on the end table to dry. “I do have an ulterior motive for paying you a visit, Lady Dorset. I was hoping to see the inside of Brasshurst Hall.”

  “Is it to be the setting of your next novel?”

  “No, no, I grew up in Folkesbury. Leona and I spent many a summer collecting shells and fossils along the shore, and every time we returned home, we had to pass this house.” His eyes roamed over the carved wooden columns and the intricate lattice of the upper arcades. “It has been shut up for as long as I can remember, and we always longed to know what it was like inside. Leona thought it must be a grand palace, but I, being prone to morbid thoughts, assumed it was haunted.”

  “It’s definitely grand, but you should have seen it when we arrived.”

  As she spoke, Nadir’s gaze drifted to the dining room. Something moved in the shadows. He narrowed his eyes, watching the light break and shift as a low whine whistled from an unseen source. Was that breathing he heard? He stumbled back, grabbing the end table and dropping his stick as a ghastly face appeared in the doorway. His face and hair were white and his breath came as labored as if he had been drowned. Lady Dorset continued on, but he couldn’t hear with the colorless figure in black coming closer.

  “Lady Dorset, I beg your pardon,” the man panted, suddenly solid and very human. “I heard the doorbell but got lost. I am deeply sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused.”

  “It is quite all right, Patrick. When you catch your breath, would you please bring us some— Mr. Talbot, do you take tea or coffee?” she asked, pretending her guest wasn’t white as wax.

  “Coffee,” he replied in barely more than a whisper, but his voice was drowned out by his heart beating in his ears.

  Once the butler was out of sight, the countess’s face brightened as she broke into peals of laughter. So much for Nadir Talbot’s hauteur. “Morbid thoughts, indeed. You thought he was a ghost!”

  “The light in this place plays tricks on you. Surely Brasshurst must have a few ghosts.”

  She sat in the armchair across from the hearth and motioned for him to take a seat. “I don’t think so. At first I did, when the place was still covered in spider webs and dust, but now it seems so alive that I can’t imagine anything hiding in the shadows. Was it really shut up when you were a child?”

  “Oh, yes, it was utterly deserted not fifteen years ago and had been for some time. The orangery had grown wild with the gardens outside to match.” Nadir raked his fingers through his unfashionably long hair, whisking it from his forehead to behind his ear. “I was taking a walk last night and was surprised to find the house alight. For my entire life it has been shuttered. We would try to peer inside, but except for the greenhouse, all the windows were sealed off and even the glass dome was filthy. I hope you don’t mind me prying, Lady Dorset, but was there a reason your husband avoided Brasshurst?”

  “Actually, we didn’t know it existed. He was raised in London at their townhome, and his father never spoke of Brasshurst Hall. Why his father decided not to live here, I have no idea. Mr. Nash, the previous earl’s cousin, has been overseeing the property. I’m ashamed to say that it fell into such disrepair.”

  His ears perked at the name. “Are you well-acquainted with Mr. Nash?”

  “No, we have only met him once. Do you know him?”

  “Only by name. I have been meaning to call on him, but he doesn’t seem to live in the village.”

  “He doesn’t. He lives in the dower house down the road.”

  Nadir looked up as the spectral butler scurried down the hall with a tray. He poured them each a cup of thick Turkish coffee before disappearing into the shadows of the dining room. Taking a sip, heat flooded Nadir’s chest and throat. For the first time since stepping into the hall, calm washed over him. He breathed in the smooth, nutty bitterness and sighed. This was what he missed from home. When he looked up from his drink, the countess was smiling at him.

  “Have you fully recovered from your fright, Mr. Talbot?”

  “Yes, thank you.” His gaze traveled to the clock, but seeing its missing face, he pulled out his pocket watch and pretended to look at it. “I guess I should let you get back to your clock, Lady Dorset. I have taken up quite enough of your time.”

  “Wait,” she called as he eased to his feet. “Would you like a quick tour before you go?”

  “Would Lord Dorset mind?”

  “Not at all. Maybe we will even find him along the way.”

  ***

  The house was bigger than he ever imagined. From the outside all those years ago, Brasshurst Hall seemed monumental, but he was a child then. With the hawthorn and yew trees growing unchecked and the vines obscuring the Gothic stone, it was impossible to tell how far it extended into the greenery. Comparing the size of the rooms to his flat in the city or Leona’s cottage, he tried to guess how many would fit inside Brasshurst. Many was the only answer he could form, yet what surprised him most was not the size but the amount of light. Most of the castles and manors he had visited were cold, drafty places where every room was lit with a fire to chase away the damp. Instead, Brasshurst radiated warmth and smelled faintly of the forest. Its layout resembled a cathedral, with a spine growing from the Gothic portal flanked by transepts on either side to allow a set of tall windows on at least one wall in every room.

  His hostess seemed as in awe of the place as he was. Upon entering each room, many of which she still did not know the name of, she pointed out what she admired most. In one of the drawing rooms it was the pianoforte, which Lady Dorset thought had been beautifully carved and gilded even if she could not play it. In another, it was a series of landscapes set in Folkesbury with maelstroms, rolling waves behind green coasts, and overgrown ruins. Nadir found that they hadn’t been done with any particular skill or by a great artist, but the countess was taken by the idea that perhaps one of her husband’s relations had painted them. Throughout the manor, the moldings and tapestried walls had been decorated with stylized jungles filled with parrots and long-armed monkeys. While the furniture was not opulent, it had a claw-footed strength that balanced the flighty birds woven into the tapestries.

  There was no question that Brasshurst was a unique house, but what held Nadir’s attention was the view. On the east side, he could see the grey waves and glimpses of the forest surrounding the property while nearly every room on the west side of the house faced out into the wilderness of the greenhouse. The tall Georgian French doors of the drawing room overlooked the garden where the creeping tendrils of ivy had broken through the top of the glass and edged along the crown molding. Lady Dorset stared out at the greenery beyond as Nadir settled into one of the old tapestried chairs to silence his sprained ankle.

  “What do you think of Brasshurst, Mr. Talbot? Is it as you imagined?”

  “It’s better. Bigger, too.”

  Her dark red brows furrowed as she watched him stretch and flex his leg. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little clumsiness on my part.” His eyes rose to the glass door. “Is it as beautiful as it looks?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  With a yawning crack, the doors opened, engulfing the drawing room in the cloying aroma of flowers. Easing onto his feet with his walking stick, he followed her into the mist. His eyes ran along the ribs and spine of the glass dome until they disappeared beneath the massive leaves of palms and yews and flowers of every color and size. Nadir walked down the stone path, careful to not aggravate his throbbing ankle by slipping on the mossy tiles.

  On either side of him shattered columns rose from the dirt. The smallest were consumed by the garden while the taller pieces served as a support for flowering vines seeking sunlight. Under the dome’s center sat a clearing decorated with mosaic tiles depicting squids, shellfish, and serpents. Somewhere nearby water gurgled, but from the middle of the floor,
he couldn’t see where. Lady Dorset stood waiting as he studied the plants lining the edge. Most were exotic flowers, others were common weeds, and some were simply ugly. Raising his eyes to the ceiling once more, he noticed that several windows in the manor’s upper stories were trapped beneath the glass bubble.

  “You should throw a party here.”

  “Here? Why would I do that?” she asked, returning to his side.

  “You said no one has seen the house, and if you had a party, you could invite all of Folkesbury to see what you have done with the place. With it being shut up for so long, everyone must be dying to know what it looks like inside. Why not satisfy their curiosity?”

  She nodded, frowning as she ran her eyes over the wayward plants. Her heart pounded in her throat. The thought was terrifying. Everyone in her home, judging her, her food, her house, her husband. There would be countless things to arrange, lists to be made, people to invite. Eilian would of course have to agree to it, and the servants would have to be trained. She didn’t think they had ever served during a party, except Patrick, and they were understaffed to begin with. They could barely have anyone over, let alone host a party while the house was still being put back together. On top of everything else, she wasn’t certain she could do pull it off. What if she failed?

  Hadley smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear and swallowed hard. “I don’t know. We are not planning on being here long, and it would be a massive undertaking.”

  “You’re an intelligent woman; I’m certain you could figure it out. Picture this: the entire house is open to allow couples to stroll in and out of the garden to the parlors and drawing rooms. In the orangery, a band plays against that wall,” he motioned toward an ancient potting bench leaning against the house, “while your guests dance among the creatures and conks. Is there a pond?”

  “Yes, on the other side of the trees.”

  “You could have your gardener bring in lily pads or lotus plants or you could even float small candles on saucers. It would look like something from Monet.”

  His brown eyes brightened with visions of women in Worth gowns and men in tails twirling, absinthe flowing from a glass fountain held aloft by a silver faerie. What he could do with a house like this.

  “My parents throw parties in their vineyard all the time, and Folkesbury is a lot smaller than Alexandria; you could invite the entire town and still have room. As the lord and lady, you would win them over and secure your reputations here, for what that’s worth.”

  A knot coiled in Hadley’s chest. Or ruin them.

  Chapter Six

  Duty

  Pain bloomed in Eilian’s arm, radiating down the stump until it burned in his metal palm as if the muscle refused to relax. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his eyes and drew in a constrained breath. It had been months since his body reminded him of the flesh and bones that had been seared beyond salvation. The last time he could remember the phantom pain occurring was when he finished settling his father’s estate and he realized he was now the earl. Even in death, his father still managed to cause him grief. He had expected the pain to return on the day of their wedding, but any worries he had dissolved when he saw Hadley enter the church. She showed up without looking as if she wanted to run and that was all that mattered.

  Staring at his prosthetic hand, Eilian watched the titanium fingers uncurl to their full length before slowly retracting. With each exertion of his will on his prosthetic hand, the invisible muscles loosened. He groaned as he creaked back in the old desk chair and stared at the portrait hanging on the far wall. It differed from the painting hanging in the portrait hall. There his great-grandfather appeared stoic and ever the proper grey-haired nobleman. In this portrait, he was only a few years older than Eilian. Laurence Sorrell posed against a rocky outcropping spattered with moss and vines. His legs and back were tense and his jaw clenched as if he had been cornered against the cliff face. The artist had painted the sky brighter than Eilian thought possible in England, and resting in his hand was a sheathed saber. With his scarlet and gold officer’s uniform, he looked as if he stepped off the battlefield, removed his bicorn hat, and sat for the portrait. His hair stuck up in wayward brown curls and clung to his cheeks as if they were coated in sweat. The hand resting in his lap was adorned with the same ring that now rested in Eilian’s palm. Swallowing hard, Eilian turned the signet ring over in his hand and watched as the stylized family crest glinted in the sunlight. For months it had hung from his neck on a silver chain out of sight, only taken out to seal official documents.

  He couldn’t put it on. He didn’t deserve the ring or all that came with it.

  “How can I represent my family? A one-armed prodigal. How did you do it?” he asked the ill at ease young man hanging from the plaster. “I’m sure you were ready. I’m sure you were able to handle it. You probably didn’t think twice about it.”

  After all, Laurence Sorrell probably wasn’t the family pariah like Eilian. Being born first wasn’t Eilian’s choice, and if he had it within his power, Dylan would have been the earl while he would have simply been Mr. Sorrell. As the Earl of Dorset, his life would forever be tethered to the land by duty and blood. He was trapped on an island with the flood rising, snuffing out what was left of Eilian Sorrell. There was nothing he wanted more than to pretend to be Mr. Sorrell again. Mr. Sorrell could do as he pleased and be whoever he wanted. The Honorable Second Son Sorrell’s life was an afterthought, a spare in case the heir couldn’t wed and bed someone before he died. He sucked in his breath as a bolt of pain shot up his arm. Primogeniture was a farce and so was he.

  Eilian looked around the tiny office. It was barely more than a closet hidden behind a panel in the parlor with space enough for a desk, a narrow shelf of ledgers, and an old brass telescope folded in the corner. He had pulled a ledger down to see what the others before him had done, but the numbers and acronyms never made sense. His eyes jumped between lines, blurring and muddling the figures no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he groaned. How could he be the earl when he couldn’t even figure out the household accounts or do what Hadley had asked? All she wanted was for him to check for cracked plaster or broken clocks, yet he found himself hiding in a closet and interrogating a painting. Ever since they arrived at Brasshurst, Hadley had bustled from task to task. She was constantly cleaning, mending, or socializing, while he was left unable to act. He felt utterly useless.

  ***

  Patrick Sinclair stood in the doorway of the private study watching his master. Even with his back to him, he could see by the sag of his shoulders and the dip of his head that something was amiss. He had hoped that a trip to the country would lift Lord Sorrell’s spirits. Since arriving back in England after his father’s death, he had vacillated between elation and sorrow, just as he had after the amputation. Losing his arm had made him aware of his mortality, but the loss of his father cemented it. With mortality came fear, and with fear came misery. Eilian’s contagious grin and youthful exuberance were nowhere to be found. He stared ahead, flicking the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Sir?” Patrick called softly from the doorway. “Sir, are you all right?”

  Eilian shook his head and rubbed the muscle of his sore arm. “What am I doing here, Pat? I’m not ready for any of this.”

  “You knew it would happen someday.”

  “I know, but I thought I would be older,” he stifled a bitter laugh, “or dead before that happened.”

  The butler furrowed his brow. “Don’t say things like that, sir.”

  “But it’s true. I never thought it would actually happen. Did you really think I would survive malaria or the crash?”

  “I did.”

  “Of course you did.” His grip tightened on his arm as he rode out a wave of pain. “Pat, I just don’t know what I am supposed to do.”

  “Have you spoken to Lady Dorset about it?”

  “Do you mean Hadley or my mother?”

  He
pushed his spectacles up his narrow nose and cleared his throat. “Your wife.”

  “I don’t want to upset her. She’s already worrying about being a lady. I can’t have her worry about being an earl, too.”

  “Her ladyship was looking for you in the portrait hall. Shall I tell her you will be joining her shortly?”

  “Yes, thank you, Pat,” he whispered as he slipped the ring and its chain into his collar, out of sight.

  “Sir, is there anything I can do to help you?”

  His lips curled into a stiff smile. “Switch places with me. I always considered you to be my older brother.”

  “If I could, I would.” Taking a step into the drawing room, Patrick stopped and turned to face his master again. “Please speak to her, sir. She can help you more than I ever could.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, the butler hurried down the hallway and into the passages behind the walls created decades ago for servants to go about unseen. He had told his master that Lady Dorset was in the portrait hall to buy a few minutes alone with her. If Eilian got to her first, he would brush everything off with a blithe grin. If Patrick could be fooled into thinking Eilian was fine when he had cholera, then she would most certainly be fooled. In Greenwich, it was infinitely easier to keep an eye on his master. The house and staff were small enough that he could be butler, valet, and driver; but Brasshurst’s size alone made it impossible to stick close by. He had shadowed Eilian since they were boys and he was a footman in his parents’ house. As a servant, Patrick had been trained to recognize what would be needed before anyone asked, and from a young age, it was apparent that Eilian Sorrell needed help the most.

  Bustling behind the wall, he passed the thrumming engine that powered the orangery and the stairs leading to the catacombs beneath it. Every few feet, light broke through narrow slits cut into the walls, casting strange shadows in the dank hall. At the end of the tunnel, Patrick pushed open the paneling and arrived outside the dining room. He brushed the dust from his elbows and shoulders and waited out of sight until his heart slowed. Catching his breath, he rounded the corner to find Lady Dorset replacing the last of the gears in the grandfather clock.