by Lev AC Rosen
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Ashton opened the door to the carriage and hopped out, then looked back up at his sister. “And, Violet?”
“Yes?”
“Keep in mind also, that even if your plan succeeds, you’ll be revealing yourself at the end of the year, and then some of what I have just mentioned will apply again. Think it over during the carriage ride. If you choose not to get out when you reach Illyria’s gates, I will not think any less of you or your brilliance. It would be a shame to nurture your mind if in the end, it lost you your head.”
Violet swallowed and nodded, unable to say anything.
“Antony,” Ashton said to the coachman, “drive slowly.”
“Where to, sir?” Antony asked.
“My brilliant sister,” Ashton said with a pleased look, “wishes to visit Illyria, and perhaps drop off a letter there. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir,” Antony said.
“Thank you,” Violet said. “And it would mean ever so much to me if you didn’t mention this little side trip to Mrs. Wilks. It’s perfectly innocent, I promise, I just want to see if they’ll let me see the astronomy tower. I want to plan a surprise for when Father comes home, but Mrs. Wilks will think it ever so scandalous and begin to fret. Even if they don’t let me through the door, which they probably won’t,” Violet said.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in for some tea before going out again?” Ashton asked, looking up at his sister, who was still sitting in the carriage.
“No,” Violet said sternly, “I want to go see the college. It’s what I’m here for. I’m sure it won’t be long. You’ll still be here when I return, most likely.”
“Provided you don’t spend hours just gazing through the gates.”
“I shan’t promise anything,” Violet said, and closed the carriage door. She waved to her brother from the window.
* * *
ILLYRIA College was on the Thames, near Charing Bridge and just a little north of and across the river from the Houses of Parliament. It had been designed by Illyria himself, working with the American architect Le Baron Jenney, who devised the metal frame of the building, and with the engineer Elisha Otis, who built the mechanical lifts. The building itself was six stories high, with an astronomy dome and two large clock towers at the top. It was built directly on the river, with a huge waterwheel of Illyria’s design used to power most of the laboratories in the building, as well as the elevators, the water pumps, and much of the lighting. The book Violet had read, The Building of Illyria College, by Caleb Leeds, had dashed through all the interesting parts about how the building worked, focusing more on its history and how the Duke of Illyria and Le Baron Jenney had gotten on, as well as people who visited it and come out saying what a lovely building it was. He also spent a few chapters on the rumors of secret meetings of brilliant scientists at Illyria, rumors that Violet found ridiculous—why would scientists need to meet in secret, after all? Violet suspected that in fact Mr. Leeds had never actually been inside the building, but it was one of only a few texts on the college, and so she had read it cover to cover, several times.
She had passed by the college in the carriage a few times, since her father loved to drive along the Thames. She had often pushed herself against the window during such rides, straining to see the complexities of the tall, polished-stone building that rose up against the water, or make out the figures on the ornate clock towers. The clocks—designed by Aaron Lufkin Dennison—were supposedly marvelous things up close, with life-sized human and animal automata that moved and sang differently according to the hour. The simpler of the clocks told the time, but the other traced the paths of the celestial world, constellations and planets all ticking along at their own pace. And each constellation had been modeled into a complex automaton by the duke, so that each corresponded to a great thinker. Leo was Leonardo da Vinci, and Capricorn was John Snow. Violet didn’t know which ten other lucky minds had been chosen to adorn the heavens, but she wanted to go up to the clock towers and walk among them—a statue garden devoted to Reason and Sensibility.
Violet gazed out at London and swallowed. Her brother’s warning had not been lost on her. She was smart enough to know that her plan was risky in ways she could not forsee. But she also knew she had to try. To stay locked away in the basement, working alone on her inventions, seemed too small for her now. If she ended up in prison … or dead … she could at least know she tried, and that she had been a woman worthy of Illyria. She did not want to think about what else could happen to her if she were discovered by a group of men, and so she swallowed, dabbed her brow with a handkerchief, and stared intently at the water, imagining gears beneath it, turning each ripple and wave. Her hands shook despite her efforts to clasp them in her lap.
The carriage stopped, and Violet stared out of the window at the gate of the college. Antony opened the door for her and helped her out. She paused to gather her bravery. The hot August sun beat down on her, and she felt that perhaps she should have listened to Mrs. Wilks and not worn the top hat. In fact, she would have preferred not to wear any hat, let alone her gloves or the small jacket or the dress. She would have much preferred one of her simple white dresses that she wore in the heat of her laboratory.
“I shouldn’t be long, Antony,” Violet said, and set her jaw. The gates to the grounds were slightly ajar, so she pulled them aside and let herself in. It was probably a bit undignified, she thought, going alone toward this great tower, but she didn’t care very much. No one of any importance was there to see her, as it was August, and besides, what would they say if they did? That she was taking in the gardens at a college? She could hear the steady, heavy sound of the waterwheel now, the half-groan of gears not sure they could handle the stress—but they could, Violet could tell by listening—and the sound of water, pouring over itself and splashing again into the river. It was a steady, comforting sound, and she matched her footsteps with it, feeling as though she belonged.
She came to the door and breathed in with awe. She was close enough to touch the building now, to admire the careful carving around the huge stone doorway: interlocking gears and springs mingled with flowers and stars, blending science and nature. She admired the building for a while before reaching out and laying her hand on it. The stone felt cool and strong through her glove, and she could even feel the building pulsing under her hand. She yearned to enter, but knew that would have to wait awhile longer. Women were forbidden within the building itself, and being discovered within would not reflect well on her—her brother’s—application. So, she balled her hand into a small fist, grabbed at the large door knocker shaped like a great hand holding out a gear, and knocked as loudly as she could. She could hear it reverberating through the halls, and then the sound of a bell ringing. It was probably a clever device built on the vibrations of the door knocker on the other side, Violet thought with excitement. After waiting what seemed like forever, she raised her fist to knock again, when she heard a voice behind her.
“I’m afraid everyone is out right now. The school is on break, so there’s very little staff, and the professors are away for the summer. Is there something you needed help with?”
Violet turned, raising her chin, as she assumed she was being addressed by a servant. But the man behind her did not seem to be a servant at all. Certainly, he wasn’t dressed like one, in a fine gray suit, golden tie, and a shirt of soft blue. He wasn’t styled like a servant either, with rich brown hair parted neatly on one side and swept back with oil. His eyes bespoke great intelligence and also, she half thought, gentleness.
“I am dropping off an application for my brother,” Violet said after she realized she had let the silence hang for too long. “He is applying to the college for next semester.”
The stranger held out a hand, and Violet reached into the purse to produce her application.
“I’m Ernest,” the man said. “I’m the headmaster here.”
“Oh,” said Violet, su
rprised, and extended her gloved hand for him to take. “I’m Violet Adams, Your Grace. I am a great admirer of your father and, of course, your fine institution.”
She bowed her head slightly. She had read of the current duke. He was said to be a great thinker and headmaster, but he had never published a paper or produced a single noted invention. Some said he was just not his father, and knew it, and so left off inventing altogether, while others said he was the sort who could never pull his thoughts together enough to finish a project. Some simply said he was the spoiled child of a brilliant man, without an original idea of his own, but looking at him, Violet thought that maybe there was a touch of his father in him, around the eyes and chin. His mouth, though thinner than his father’s, had the same half-soulful expression that she had seen in all the photographs and sketches of the late duke, but with less intensity. This duke, Ernest, was perhaps thirty, and tall, with a fair complexion and hazel eyes.
He bowed slightly over Violet’s hand, then smiled at her.
“It is always a pleasure to meet an admirer of my father,” he said softly.
“Well, then you must nearly always be in a state of pleasure,” Violet responded, taking back her hand. It was inappropriate, she thought, to be in the company of a young gentleman without an escort. She glanced over the duke’s shoulder, out past the gate and at her carriage, to see that Antony was still there, and felt a little safer when she saw him leaning against the carriage, facing them.
The duke laughed at her joke and nodded. “Yes, I often meet admirers of my father,” he said, and looked down for a moment, “but seldom are they young ladies. You are dropping off your brother’s application, you said?”
“Yes,” Violet said, taking it out of her purse. “I told him I would do it, as he thought it might be bad luck to come here himself.”
“Well, I shall bring it inside for you, as I am afraid I cannot let you in. But if you’d like, I can give you a tour of the gardens,” he said, offering her his arm. Violet raised an eyebrow. A tour of the gardens would be lovely, and it would give her a chance to observe the building more closely, but she did not know this young duke, apart from his lack of reputation and various theories about him in scientific journals. While he may have had some of his father’s characteristics, he might be a brute in scientist’s clothing. But Violet was never one to shy away from something new, especially if it could give her some advantage, and certainly being kind to the duke would make him look favorably on her—her brother’s—application.
So she took his arm, and said, “That sounds quite nice, though not as nice as seeing the inside of the college.”
“You’re not the first lady to say so, but I’m afraid I can’t let you in. My father decreed that, like the King of Navarre, the students were to have no female companionship within.”
“And there are no exceptions?” Violet asked sweetly.
The duke smiled, but looked away. “Well, my apartments are in the building itself,” he said, “and my ward lives in my apartments, as does her governess. And sometimes my godmother, the Countess Lovelace—Lady Byron—comes to visit.”
Violet was shocked, but tried not to let it show. She was instantly jealous of his ward, whoever she was, and even jealous of the governess, for being able to walk the hallowed halls to which she so desperately sought entry. She could not envy the Countess Lovelace though. She was one of the greatest scientific minds of the century, and deserved to be there far more than Violet did. “I am a great admirer of Lady Byron’s,” Violet said. “It must be an honor to have her as a godmother.”
“Ah, yes. She and my father became close after he saved her life with an experimental surgery he pioneered. A few years later, I was born, and my parents thought Aunt Ada would be a good godmother.”
“To have grown up surrounded by such brilliant thinkers must have been wonderful.” The duke stared out at the river, then nodded slowly. They had walked to the edge of the gardens, where the river lapped against the walls of the college. The huge waterwheel turned, the water rushing over and under it. Violet stared at it awhile, studying its artful craftsmanship, the way each paddle bent at exactly the right angle, the way the wheel itself was low enough in the water to feel the full force of the river’s current.
“Do you like gardens?” the duke asked, “or did you just want to see the wheel up close?”
“I confess,” Violet said, “I had a keen interest in the wheel. I hoped that by seeing it, I could understand better how it works. But it seems to me that it’s just a waterwheel of brilliant design. I cannot see how it powers the whole building.”
The duke smiled at her, and Violet smiled back, feeling a little embarrassed.
“I did not mean I meant to take advantage of your kindness,” Violet said.
“I did not think that you had. And I will tell you how the waterwheel powers the building: with gears. Interlocking ones. Everywhere. The inside of the building is constantly clanking with the sound of gears, like living inside a giant mechanical contraption. Which I suppose it is.”
“Fascinating,” Violet said, still staring at the waterwheel.
“But let me show you some of the gardens,” the duke said. “I hope you have an interest in them?”
“My mother was the gardener, and while I appreciate the chemical extracts taken from flowers, I know only the most rudimentary horticulture.” Violet nodded as politely as she could. She did not like being thought of as the sort of young lady who was interested in nothing but flowers.
“But do you enjoy the way they look, and smell?”
“Well, yes,” Violet said, surprised at the question.
“Then that is all you need to enjoy them.”
Violet blinked at this, a bit thrown, but let the cheerful duke lead her around the gardens. He showed her hydrangeas, which looked to her like clockwork made of delicate petals. She said so, and the duke smiled broadly, showing a row of fine white teeth.
“I’d never thought of it that way, but you’re quite correct. Nature can be very mechanical, and all the more beautiful for it.”
“If I recall, the petals themselves grow in a sort of mathematical formula,” Violet said.
“I thought you said you knew only the most rudimentary horticulture.”
“Math isn’t horticulture.”
“I suppose that is true. Tell me, does knowing that the petals grow in a pattern dictated by mathematics make you appreciate them all the more?”
“Yes,” Violet answered simply.
“Why?”
“Because I can see that both Mother Nature and I have something in common: a love of numbers.” She laughed, and the duke laughed, too, in time with the sound of water rushing over the great wheel.
“You are a very clever girl. If your brother is anything like you, I’m sure he’ll make a fine student.”
“My brother and I are twins. Identical in nearly every way.”
“Excellent,” the duke said. “I look forward to meeting him. Now, let me show you the snapdragons.” The duke took her, arm in arm, around the garden. At times, Violet nearly forgot that she walked in the great shadow of Illyria and its forbidden halls. The duke seldom spoke of science, though when she brought it up, he responded intelligently. Instead he spoke of the color of the flowers and their stems. While Violet found this sweet, after he had shown her the snapdragons, the asters, and the nasturtium, she began to think that he spoke of the flowers’ beauty not because he didn’t know about the sciences, but because he felt the sciences were inappropriate to discuss with a woman.
“Have you studied much of the science of flowers, or only their loveliness?” she asked him when they came to the dahlias.
“To talk of how a flower grows seems to me a tedious subject when outside the classroom,” he said, his voice a little hurt sounding. “We are not scientists, you and I, nor are we gardeners.”
“I am a scientist,” Violet said, pulling her arm gently out of his.
“Yes,” he sa
id, “I mean, when we walk through the gardens, we are not scientists. We are merely enjoying the gardens.”
Violet pursed her lips. She felt she was being condescended to by a man whose most notable claim of intelligence was having a brilliant father, and she was tired of it. “Thank you, Your Grace, for this lovely tour,” she said, “but I’ve been here too long already. I hope you will accept my brother’s application. He is quite brilliant.”
“I hope that we accept him as well,” the duke said, his brow furrowed. “Let me walk you to your carriage.”
“That’s quite alright,” Violet said. “I know the way.” She turned quickly and left the confused duke standing alone with the dahlias, their huge pink starburst blooms drooping slightly out of pity for him. For the duke was quite taken with Violet. He admired her wit, and that she had not fawned over him simply for being a duke. He did not entertain any romantic notions, for he had only just met her, but he had enjoyed her company, and was sad that she had so suddenly abandoned him when he thought they had been enjoying sweet conversation and beautiful flowers. He rubbed the spot on his wrist where her hand had lain moments ago, looked down at the sagging dahlias, and nodded slowly, thanking them for their understanding.
Violet, did not feel particularly understood as she left the garden and got into her carriage, which had grown stuffy in the heat. The duke, and the unexpected encounter with him, had taken her quite by surprise. She thought she had maintained her dignity, but when they stopped over the hydrangeas and their careful, mathematically arranged petals, she realized that perhaps the duke was just entertaining himself. A woman with an interest in the sciences, she imagined him thinking. How unique; how amusing. I shall show her the flowers and see what she says, as it is summer, and I am quite bored.
Violet sighed. Perhaps he did not think that. But she could think of no other reason for his showing her the gardens, and for his clever talk, or his open smiles. She had had a few male friends in her time but none had made her feel quite like the duke had. Being inexperienced in romantic feeling, Violet had assumed what she was feeling was his disdain. She leaned into the carriage seat and took off her top hat. Stray wisps of her dark hair clung to her wet brow, and she pulled them away, annoyed. She didn’t hate the duke, she knew, but she rather wanted to. It was then and there that she decided that it wasn’t just to Illyria-the-school that she would show her uncanny brilliance, but also Illyria-the-duke.
