Love and Other Machines

by Alix James

  Love and Other Machines

  A Pride and Prejudice Regency Novella

  Alix James

  Illustrated by

  RL Sather

  Copyright © 2019 by Alix James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To the mad and wondrous woman who put me up to this. You know who you are.

  Bless you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  It was not my fault.

  Not entirely, anyway. The explosion might have been, and perhaps I might share the blame for the flooding, but not the fire… that was all his doing—Mr. Darcy. The proudest, most conceited, most maddeningly self-assured and quite possibly the most frustratingly right man in all of England. And he was my partner.

  It all started with Jane. It would mortify her if she knew I said that, but it is true. Jane is always proper, never causing so much as a raised eyebrow or a sniff of condescension from anyone, save Mr. Bingley’s sisters. I do not count them.

  My favorite sister had achieved our mother's dearest wish and got herself betrothed. Mr. Bingley, the new tenant of the neighboring estate and an exceedingly genial man, had tumbled head over ears for her the moment they met. I could see it from the beginning—they fit, like cogs in a wheel. It was such a promising attachment from the start that in my own head, I began calling her “Jane Bingley” within a fortnight of their first meeting.

  It made sense. He was handsome and affable and conveniently well-off; she was handsome and modest and unfortunately impoverished. What remained to be answered in such a serendipitous pairing?

  His sisters were violently displeased, and they made certain to inform me of it whenever they got the chance. At first, I amused myself by agreeing with them that Mr. Bingley and Jane could never suit, and Miss Bingley almost started to like me for it. However, I could never keep a sober face for long, and she at last saw through my ruse and declared me pernicious, deceitful, ill-favored, and… well, I forgot the rest. Her final threat was to invoke the name of Mr. Bingley’s absent friend, Mr. Darcy, and announce that he would call Mr. Bingley off “this sham of an entanglement.”

  I had not, at that time, met Mr. Darcy, and merely shrugged it off as Miss Bingley’s irrational denial of the inevitable. Had I been acquainted with the gentleman’s temperament or the weight of his persuasive abilities, I might have been more nervous. However, with little to concern me, I looked forward to the day when Jane could truly take the name I had been calling her in secret for the past two months.

  As it happened, Mr. Bingley was not merely a nouveau gentleman, but also something of an elevated tradesman. His father had made a fortune selling buttons to the army, enough so that his daughters could boast dowries to make my mother swoon and Mr. Bingley could afford to purchase an estate that would make five of my father’s inheritance. Any average man would have cut his involvement in the industry and departed for the gentle countryside, never to show his face in Birmingham again, but Mr. Bingley was rather… odd, as my aunt Philips once described him. He kept close ties to his factory and was not ashamed of his background in trade.

  Consequently, he and my uncle Gardiner became fast friends. It was this happenstance which thrust me into the ill-conceived decision that might well have ended my life—or, at least, my life as I knew it.

  Uncle Gardiner had got his start as an apprentice to a carriage maker, and then somehow found his way into the ironworks and crafting machine parts, such as gears and spindles, and later large machining tools. He was too clever to be left at the smelting pot, and so his employer elevated him to a mechanical designer, but to be truthful, he was terrible with drawings and even worse with his figures. He was far better at talking to buyers and solving problems with machines that were already built—a family trait, we found. By the time he was five-and-thirty, he had done so well in sales that he moved to London and began purchasing more and more interest in his company until he owned it outright. And, as luck would have it, he had sold Mr. Bingley some equipment that was now malfunctioning.

  Mama had taken Jane to London to purchase her trousseau, and she insisted that I come along as well—to keep me out of mischief, she claimed, but my sort of mischief was, sadly, the more readily found when my uncle was near to abet my questionable interests.

  On only the second day of our visit, Mama twisted her ankle quite badly on the step, requiring her to put it up in a most un-ladylike fashion and remain in her room. It could not be helped. Jane needed her wedding clothes, and Mama could not abide for Jane not to take advantage of the very best warehouses when they were just down the street. Jane and I went out with our aunt every day until poor Jane was pink in the face at the thought of another night rail or mob cap.

  Mr. Bingley himself met us on our return one afternoon. He was just coming out of our uncle’s study, and he glowed quite as much as Jane when they greeted one another. They instantly fell to silly lover’s chatter, talking about the weather and the day’s events and such inconsequences as would make any other two acquaintances think their conversation partner the dullest in the world.

  “My dear Miss Bennet,” he said at length, “I have been very much longing to have you and your family to my townhouse some evening for dinner. What do you say?”

  “Oh! My mother would be delighted, Mr. Bingley, but she cannot stir at present. Perhaps in a few days she might be well enough.”

  My uncle came just behind. “I am afraid there is no point in making such plans, Jane. Mr. Bingley and I are bound for Birmingham tomorrow to look over some issues with his lathes and punches.”

  Mr. Bingley’s face fell. “Goodness, I had already forgot. I certainly hope we shall not be long—not more than a week, perhaps two. You will not have gone back to Longbourn by then, will you?”

  “I do not know.” Jane glanced at me with a helpless shrug. “It depends upon how well Mama recovers.”

  “Dear me! Then I shall not see you until nearly the day of our wedding.” The poor man nearly pouted, but in such a good-natured way, I could not help but wish he might not be disappointed.

  “I may be able to suggest a solution to our dilemma,” my uncle offered. He, too, sent me a sly look, then grinned like a Cheshire cat as he thought over his words before uttering them. “Yes, I believe it will do nicely. Mrs. Gardiner and Mrs. Bennet may remain here in London, but if Jane and Lizzy would like to accompany us to Birmingham, I would be proud to escort them. I am certain we could find suitable rooms in the inn for the ladies and their maid. What do you think?”

  Mr. Bingley brightened at once and reached for Jane’s hand. “My dear, it is a perfect idea! I had hoped you might be inclined to come north with me after we are wed, to see my factory and so on. Would you come?”

  Thus, we were all bound for Birmingham the following morning.

  2

  The moment I set eyes upon him, I knew I had a problem. A broad-shouldered, unhappy, and accursedly clever one.

  Mr. Bingley had told us much of his good friend, Mr. Darcy
, for that gentleman had been supposed to join him at Netherfield in October. An unfortunate situation—Mr. Bingley never clarified what that situation was—had prevented the gentleman’s coming to Hertfordshire, but Birmingham was a deal nearer to Mr. Darcy’s estate in Derbyshire. Mr. Bingley claimed his friend only met us there out of his own goodwill and desire to be helpful, but I suspected that the gentleman’s primary concern was to approve, or disapprove, of Jane.

  We were taking our morning tea at the inn with my uncle when the gentleman arrived, darkening the doorway with his impressive height and then the room with his equally impressive scowl. Mr. Bingley had his back turned at first, but I noted the gentleman because… well, because any woman with two eyes and half a wit could not do otherwise. His gaze fell directly on our party—flitting between all of us until they settled with finality on me.

  Mr. Bingley jumped from his chair when he discovered his friend’s arrival. “Darcy! I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you have come. Miss Bennet, may I present to you my friend? Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Darcy, this is Miss Jane Bennet of Longbourn, and these are her sister Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her uncle Mr. Edward Gardiner.”

  Mr. Darcy appraised Jane in some surprise. I expect he had thought I was Mr. Bingley’s betrothed, and the more open, friendly manner he adopted when he greeted Jane irritated me more than I liked to confess. He was respectful yet reserved with my uncle and hardly spoke a word to me. I decided to return the favor.

  “I asked Darcy to come—” Mr. Bingley was explaining to Uncle Gardiner—“because you will seldom find a cleverer fellow. He was a true Classic at University, but his real interest was Mathematical and Engineering pursuits. Why, only last year, he was invited to give a guest lecture at Cambridge on the many advancements by the Arkwright style mills—you know, there is that famous mill in Wirksworth, not far from Matlock, and Darcy has studied it extensively.”

  I sat up straighter. Truly? A gentleman interested in mechanical pursuits? This, I had to hear.

  “As an academic exercise only,” Mr. Darcy was careful to remind his friend.

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Bingley agreed. “But I find your advice to be invaluable, nonetheless.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Darcy,” Uncle Gardiner said, “I trust between all of us, we will soon discover the problem and put Mr. Bingley’s lathes and punches to rights.”

  “Oh, it is not just those,” Mr. Bingley sighed. “I had word when we arrived last evening that the shaker machine is not operating smoothly. We use it to shake the dust and debris from the finished buttons, and it has been shaking a deal more than it is designed to do. Oh! Do forgive me, my dear,” he apologized to Jane. “I know our business can be of no interest to you. Shall you find it very dull to pass the day here while we determine the problem?”

  “Mr. Bingley, if you do not mind,” my uncle interrupted, “I was hoping to satisfy my niece’s curiosity by permitting her a tour.”

  Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy both turned their eyes to Jane—one in near exultation, the other in clear dismay. “But of course, my dear Miss Bennet! I had not thought of it, but how very fitting that you should see my family’s factory just once. Now that I think of it, I cannot think of anything that would please me more than for you to know where I come from.”

  I hesitantly lifted my hand. “I beg your pardon, but it is I who wished to see the factory.”

  Mr. Bingley’s face lost some of its enthusiasm, but the most marked change came over Mr. Darcy. His countenance bore a poorly concealed pique that I could only presume was visceral disapproval. “Bingley,” objected he, “are you certain it is a suitable environment for the ladies?”

  “Why…” He frowned and looked thoughtful. “Why, to be sure, they will be safe enough, while we escort them. It is not thought of as seemly for a lady. In fact, I would never expect a lady to tour a factory at all, unless she has some particular reason.”

  “Is curiosity not a compelling enough reason?” This I asked not of Mr. Bingley, but of Mr. Darcy, who was still looking askance at me.

  “Certainly not,” he answered flatly. “But I shall leave that decision to your guardian.”

  My uncle appeared somewhat uneasy. I knew very well why he had arranged matters as he did, but equally clear was his desire to avoid any unpleasantness with the gentlemen. I relieved him of his dilemma by smiling sweetly at Mr. Bingley.

  “Sir, if you are certain of our safety, my sister and I would count it a memorable experience to see with our own eyes what your father built.”

  His brow cleared. “Then that settles it. I shall call for the carriage.”

  3

  Mr. Darcy was one of those fellows a person would simply love to see taken down a rung or two. Every word from his mouth was self-assured, premeditated, and clearly thought by him to be unassailable. And, unfortunately, he was always correct.

  Always.

  I confess, never had I heard a better-educated man. I grew fascinated by his discussion with my uncle as they talked of pressure calibrations, power ratios, stroke depth… it was all a touch thrilling. And it was true that Mr. Darcy’s manner was not precisely boastful, but only because he had no cause to boast. My uncle was already gazing at the man like he was a sparkling new tool, and I was finding it difficult not to do the same.

  I had other distractions to aid me, however, because Mr. Bingley’s factory was truly a marvel. The building itself was not tremendous—merely a two-story, square-shaped brick edifice with a handful of windows. It was all painted white, and one chimney belched out coal smoke while another exhausted steam. Inside, the main floor housed two different manufacturing rooms, with almost two dozen people laboring at punches, presses, a shaker and several lathes. A spinning network of leather belts throughout brought power from the steam engine, housed in its own room at the rear of the building.

  But the beauty—ah! The true majesty of the factory was its machines. Presses drilled precise holes in buttons, lathes created even surfaces, punches produced round shapes from shell and bone. In another room, a stamp received hot metal sheets directly from an oven and pressed them into elaborate designs. I felt my pulse skipping at the thrill of all that precision.

  Mr. Bingley introduced us to the overseer, a Mr. Phipps, who looked somewhat less than delighted to have his workday interrupted merely to offer us a tour. He obliged his employer, however, and took us round the perimeter of the rooms. Jane could not hide her awe, and Mr. Bingley seemed to grow six inches as he put her hand on his elbow. Uncle Gardiner was no stranger to factory works, and Mr. Darcy also appeared to take in his surroundings with a familiar eye. That he held himself aloof from the clatter and the grime only served to deepen the impression of one who felt himself to be in command of the situation. He looked dutifully to my comfort and safety, as a gentleman might be expected to do, but the constant glances he sent my way clearly described what he thought of my presence.

  “This one here is the worst,” Mr. Phipps told Mr. Bingley as we approached one of the lathes. “Do you see? It seems to jump, and the resulting buttons are uneven.”

  We watched as a youth of about fifteen applied his tool to a tiny, punched shell button and sent a cloud of fine dust particles into the air. Jane coughed and Mr. Bingley produced a handkerchief for her to cover her mouth. I was not in need of such gentlemanly provision, which was a good thing, because my uncle did not seem to notice this bit of gallantry.

  He was already scratching his chin and leaning close to the lathe. “Gears do not appear to be stripped,” he muttered. “Saddle is firmly seated, post is well-anchored, tool seems to be sharp…”

  Mr. Darcy stirred and cleared his throat. I sensed him leaning close to Uncle Gardiner, similarly engrossed in the doings before us, but he kept flicking his eyes toward me. I ignored him, or I tried to, but he was one of those persons whose voice was louder even when he kept silent than when he spoke. I could see that he expected my uncle to coddle me and was uneasy that t
he thing was not being done. Yet, he was equally unwilling to take the duty upon himself, lest he be supposed to be expressing an interest in me.

  I turned my chin up to face him and smiled the most condescending smile I was capable of—which, I confess, was not very much so. He straightened and looked me full in the face.

  “Miss Elizabeth are you comfortable?” he asked, his voice raised over the din of humming machines.

  “Not at all, Mr. Darcy, for I never am comfortable when I am being watched.”

  He blinked, opened his mouth, and then looked forward again with his jaw muscle twitching. Smiling in triumph, I placed my hand on my uncle’s arm and peered at the troublesome lathe. I could see nothing terribly amiss, and neither, apparently, did my uncle. He glanced at me once with a lifted brow, but I only shook my head.

  It was the same with the shaker and the press. They appeared to be in perfect condition, but it was as if everything was jerkier than it ought to be. The stamped copper buttons would occasionally turn out off-center or squashed altogether, and the press frequently broke the delicate bone and shell buttons.

  “Do you see?” Mr. Phipps asked when we had all gone back out of doors. “We are operating at a loss this month from all the additional labor hours and materials spent in reclaiming the ruined buttons.”

  “Indeed, thank you, Phipps,” Mr. Bingley said. “We will look in again after Mr. Gardiner has had a chance to consult his schematics.”

  “Yes…” My uncle was stroking his chin again and cocking a sideways look at me. “Mr. Bingley, I thank you for permitting the ladies to tour your factory. I believe I will see them back to the inn for our luncheon and return to discuss the problem a bit more with you. Shall you be accompanying us? Mr. Darcy?”