The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella

by Kowal, Mary Robinette

  “Sorry—” His grip loosened not at all. His other hand released Helena’s shoulder and took hold of the mechanical arm. “This is delicate.”

  “So am I.”

  “I rather doubt that.” For a moment he met her gaze, and almost smiled.

  “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  She had only one card left to play and he was very handsome. Helena leaned forward, rising onto her toes, and kissed him. His lips were warm and soft. His mouth opened slightly, giving a honeyed hint of port.

  And the grip on her wrist loosened.

  Helena jerked free. She pulled on the mechanical arm, but his grip there remained fast. She let go and vaulted away from him, jumping to the top of the table. Bending her knees, Helena fixed her sights on the skylight. She flung herself upward to catch the lip of the window. Swinging like a pendulum, she flipped up and over the edge onto the roof.

  Below her, the Duke of Blackledge stared up, mouth still hanging open. His vivid blue eyes were wide with astonishment and his cheeks were flushed red. He looked rather like a boy who had received his first kiss, unlikely though that was.

  Helena brought her fingers to her lips and blew the duke a kiss. He blinked and the flush burned brighter. Was it possible that he had never been kissed?

  Not that it mattered. She pushed away from the skylight, and ran across the tiles to the rooftop path that would lead her across London towards the circus. She did not relish explaining to Mama Agnes why she didn’t have the tool she had come for.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Through the Skylight

  Weatherby stared at the skylight where the young woman had disappeared. He should sound the alarm. He should really sound the alarm. Without remembering how he got there, Weatherby found himself sitting in one of the leather chairs, still staring at the skylight. He held the mechanical arm in one hand.

  He had truly not expected his first kiss to occur under these circumstances.

  As the son of a Duke, he had been instructed in his duties and obligations. His father, God rest his soul, had impressed upon him that the young women in service in their household could not decline his advances. In other young men, this might have led to a cocksure sensibility. Weatherby, on the other hand, became very cautious lest he trespass without intent.

  Might he have accompanied George to one of the houses of ill-repute his friends frequented? Of course. Yet, if a maid in their household could not decline him, how could he trust to the affections of woman that he had paid.

  But she—she had kissed him. His lips still tingled from her soft, insistent touch. Truly, he should sound the alarm.

  And then her departure through the skylight, as if she were some creature made of air. Only he had touched her and knew her to be as solid as he was. His chest still felt the imprint of her hand and the surprising strength as she had pushed him back. What had she wanted with the arm? For there could be no mistaking the fact that she had come for that, and not by way of any of his friends.

  Weatherby lowered his gaze from the skylight to the mechanical arm. It was a deceptively simple affair, with most of the inner workings hidden behind brass doors and cushioned with a layer of dark kid leather. He had built it for his father, after the first of his strokes, to allow him to pick things up with his weakened arm.

  He slid the mechanical sleeve over his own arm, adjusting the leather straps that held it into place. Everything still seemed in good working order. The coiled springs and gears matched his movement and gave additional strength to his limb. Weatherby rotated his wrist to activate the extensor and the hand extended out, opening and closing in mimicry of his own movements. Another twist and it snapped back into place.

  Why had the girl wanted it? It had been difficult for his father to bend over, so the mechanical sleeve's extensor solved that. Clearly, the girl had not needed any such aid.

  Weatherby stood and walked to the library table that rested under the skylight. Were it not for the block of wood that still propped the window open he might have thought he dreamed the entire encounter. He clambered onto the table with nothing like the elegance the girl had displayed. Tilting his head back, he studied the skylight again.

  Good lord. How had she reached it? Weatherby measured the distance and jumped. His fingers did not even brush the edge of the frame.

  "How the devil...?" She was a good head shorter than he was. Gritting his teeth, Weatherby jumped again, this time twisting his wrist to extend the hand. It latched hold of the skylight frame and he was able to pull himself up to dangle from both arms.

  The door to his laboratory opened.

  "Pardon sir." Bartlett stood in the doorway, with Weatherby's mother just behind him. "Your mother was quite insistent."

  By which he meant that either she threatened to have him sacked or she threatened to faint, or both. Weatherby sighed and dropped back to the library table. "Good evening, Mother."

  "What is the meaning of this?" She did not come into his laboratory, and for that he was grateful to his father's memory. But she stood on the threshold and brandished her fan at him. "You are embarrassing me in front of Lady Jersey. What will people think? I ask you? What will people think when they find that the Duke of Blackledge is a madman, dangling from the ceiling in his pajamas!"

  Weatherby hopped down from the table. "I should not think it a concern."

  "Oh! Of course you would not. You never think the regard of our neighbors is ever a concern, and yet, I tell you it very much is." She gestured with her fan toward the door. "Right now. Right this very instant! Miss Penelope Penbroke is without a partner."

  Weatherby walked to his workbench, loosening the straps of the mechanical sleeve. "I am certain that there are other eligible young men who--"

  "But *you* promised to dance with her!"

  He paused, with a buckle half-undone and turned to his mother with his brows raised. "I did?"

  "Well... That is to say, I promised on your behalf because you are so provoking as to vanish. And really, Weatherby. Today of all days!"

  He pulled the sleeve off and restored it to its cubbyhole. As he withdrew his hands, he paused. The mystery woman's black kid glove still lay on the workbench. He picked it up, running his fingers over the soft leather. He must be imagining that warmth lingered in it.

  "Are you even listening to me?"

  "Hm?" Weatherby tucked the glove into the breast pocket of his evening coat and turned to his mother. "Of course, Mother. I shall go downstairs posthaste and dance with all the young Misses you have promised me to. Only do be a dear and tell me which you have picked out for me to wed."

  "Oh! Do not be vulgar."

  He gave her a smile and shrugged the banyan coat off. "There, see? I am still in my evening clothes. I have missed one dance and--"

  "And everyone noticed!"

  "Yes. Well." He ran his hands over the lapels of his coat to settle them, and felt the slight pressure of the glove in his breast pocket. He would wager that not a single young woman his mother presented him to would know what an escapement was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Domestic Bliss

  Helena let herself in through the window of her lodgings. Mama Agnes’s head was bent over a spangled costume she was mending. The single candle flame picked a silver hair out amid her dyed curls. Across the table, Papa Fred completed the illusion of domesticity in his flannel dressing grown, with a newspaper held to catch the light. On other nights, she would be sitting on the floor between her adoptive parents, doing a drawing or perhaps reading a novel of her own. They might have made the very picture of domestic bliss if Papa Fred were not an Indian. Or rather, his father had been.

  The stage was all illusions. Papa Fred had been born right here in East London and sounded it except when he was on stage. Then he sounded Italian. Mama Agnes died her hair black to make a matched set in their acrobatics routine, but her complexion was pure English roses and cream. And Helena? She dressed in a Roman Toga and pretended to be a st
atue come to life. No human could possibly twist into the shapes she could.

  Mama Agnes lifted her head from the costume she was mending and her pretty mouth twisted into a frown. “Didn’t get it?”

  “Let the girl settle.” Papa Fred reached across the table as if he had any chance of quieting her.

  Turning her back, Helena pulled the window shut, using the moment to hide her frustration. She had hoped to have a chance to break the news to them in her own manner. Sighing, Helena rested her hands on the sill. “The Duke left his party early.”

  “Aye. Well…” Papa Fred sighed, and folded his paper. “You can try again another night.”

  If only that were the case. She wouldn’t mind flirting with the Duke again and making him blush, but that was not going to happen. “He saw me.”

  “What?!” Mama Agnes’s chair scraped back on the bare wood floor of their shared room. “How could you have been so careless?”

  “Easy now, Aggie. That’s why we ask Helena to wear a mask.”

  Helena grinned sourly and leaned her head against the window. No need to worry them over that little detail. With another target, one who frequented the social scene, there might have been some worry. The Duke, however, was not known for going out. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it. It was all I could do to get out. But he’ll keep it locked now”

  “Yes. Well…” Papa Fred’s footsteps crossed the room to stand behind her. A moment later, his warm hands rested on her shoulders. “There now, my girl. We’ll find another way to break into Lady Worthen’s home and prove your birthright.”

  “Not to mention retrieve your fortune.”

  Helena whirled, stepping past Papa Fred to glare at Mama Agnes.. “I don’t give a fig for my fortune. I just want that— that woman out of our house. I want her to admit what she’s done. I want my real—” She choked off the sentence before she could complete it and hurt Papa Fred’s feelings. She wanted her real father.

  Her real father was alive, although in appallingly poor health, and it was for his sake that she had taken to thieving. Helena pressed her hands against her face, trying to govern her sensibilities. There was nothing to be gained by weeping and what was done, was done. The Duke had seen her. She wouldn’t be able to go back to his house to retrieve the mechanical arm. She lowered her hands and clenched them. “We need a new plan.”

  “If… if we can’t get the arm.” Papa Fred stopped and narrowed his eyes, gazing out the window. “Do you think someone else might be able to make one?”

  “Maybe— I don’t know. It…it looked complex and—”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a hard rap upon their door. “Master Frederico! I would speak with you.”

  Helena’s eyes widened in alarm. The Ringmaster — and she had missed a show tonight. Papa Fred silently held out his hands, palms up. Without hesitation, Helena slapped her hands into his and pressed into a leap. He spun and launched her to the bed in the corner.

  The moment he released her, Papa Fred walked to the door. Helena tucked into a ball, as she had been taught, and landed neatly in the center of the bed. She pulled the covers over her fully clothed body and turned her face to the wall.

  Papa Fred pulled the door open. “Sir?”

  The Ringmaster pushed his way into the room without so much as a buy your leave. “You’re not to change your act without consulting me.”

  “My apologies, it was a last minute necessity.” Papa Fred’s whole posture changed, his broad shoulders had rounded into submission and he bowed his head to the Ringmaster. “There was not time to let you know.”

  In truth, they had not let him know because if she had feigned illness, he would have insisted that she perform anyway.

  The Ringmaster shoved his hat back on his head. “What? Did she run off with one of the toffs that are always chasing after her?”

  Helena clenched her jaw. She swallowed her rage and spoke with a quavering voice. “I’m right here.”

  He snorted and rounded on the bed. She had seen bulldogs with better features than his, and certainly with better temperaments. “Now see here. You are to go on, regardless of your condition, unless I give you express permission not to perform.”

  “Sorry sir — I was… I was too embarrassed to ask leave.”

  “What nonsense is this!” He shook his finger at her. “Embarrassed because you knew you weren’t really ill.”

  “N-no sir.” Always the illusions. Now she would be the terrified and naive girl he thought her to be. “It was only just… women’s trouble”

  “Women’s trouble my great Aunt Fanny’s arse. The audience pays to see Helen of Troy and her Acolytes and by Jove, we will deliver.”

  Mama Agnes slapped her sewing down on the table. “For the love of all that is holy. Next time, do you want us to fling her around and spray your high paying clients with her blood? Cause you had better believe that no amount of rags stuffed into a woman’s cauliflower is going to hold up to an acrobatic routine. Is that what you want the papers to write about? See the Amazing Astley Circus’s Bloody Cunt!”

  Though not the way that Helena would have chosen to quiet the Ringmaster, it nevertheless worked remarkably well. Thank heavens for Mama Agnes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Glittering Splendor

  Helena knelt atop the roof of the Rothfuss home, which was attached to all of the houses on Grosvenor Street, thanks to the fashions of the day. Below, a line of carriages dropped off wealthy young gentlemen and ladies in all their glittering splendor. The family would be departing on a tour of the continent with their eldest son, and they were having quite the send-off. One of the fortunate side effects of which was that all the servants would be below-stairs working and so would the family, leaving the upper floors quite empty.

  Even more fortunate, the eldest Rothfuss had made a withdrawal from his bank to finance the trip. Since they planned to be away for some months, the sum was rather substantial. It was also significantly easier to manage than jewels, which needed to be disassembled before sale.

  Leaning a little farther over, Helena spied the bush that was directly below her target. The cornices of the building hung out far enough that she could not see the tiny recessed window she was aiming for. Wrapping her hands in the rope, Helena lowered herself slowly over the side of the building.

  The stone around the window had a deep recess, but not wide enough for a person to fit through. Not a normal person at any rate.

  Helena gripped the rope and raised her legs to wrap them in the rope. When she was certain she was secure, she released her hands and dangled upside down. She withdrew a thin length of wire from her sleeve.

  Below her, the carriages spun and glittered. Tightening her stomach, Helena raised her torso and reached for the window. She grasped the smooth stone ledge, grateful for the architectural details that gave her some purchase. Her stomach muscles burned as she held herself up. With quick, tight breaths, Helena concentrated on the window. There was no latch on the outside — why would there have been? There was, however, a thing gap.

  Helena worked the hooked end of the wire into that thin gap. She clenched her jaw, holding the pose as if an audience depended on it.

  When she had inserted it as far as she could, Helena let go, and hung upside down, gasping. She watched the carriages below as young men arrived in their tall hats and great coats. Young ladies wafted from the carriages in delicate muslin and silk.

  If not for the fire, she might have been among their number instead of suspended above them. Perhaps she and the Duke might have danced together. His tale-tell auburn hair was not amongst the gentlemen alighting from their carriages.

  Helena shook her head, flexing her fingers. There was no need to be thinking of him, when she had work to do.

  Tightening her stomach again, Helena raised herself and reached again for the window ledge. Bracing herself with one hand, with the other, she gripped he rod and twisted it so that its sharp hooked end bit into the wood.


  With a quick prayer, Helena pulled on the wire. The window opened.

  Thank heavens no one felt the need to lock a window that was so seemingly inaccessible. And small.

  She transferred her grip to the inside of the frame. Helena had fit into tighter spaces. It was only daunting because she was so far above the ground.

  Sliding one arm inside, Helena twisted and scraped to pass her shoulders through at the diagonal. Even so, it was snug fit.

  Nothing like so easy as the skylight at the Duke’s. She pulled her torso through, sighing with relief as the stone and sill supported her weight. What would the Duke be doing tonight? Surely not at a party like the one below. He had nearly fainted just from her presence.

  She smiled, remembering the bright red flush of his cheeks after she had kissed him. Really, she would not be at all surprised to learn that she was his first kiss — aside from the fact that he was a Duke. She slid the rest of the way into the room, and straightened up on the floor of the small closet.

  “Oh damn!” Helena spun to the window. The rope hung out of reach. She was supposed to have pulled it in with herself so she could escape by the same route. “Idiot.”

  She rested her hands on the windowsill and bent her head, cursing her stupidity. Mooning after a Duke who happened to have a pretty pair of calves. Think. She had to think. First thing, she needed to secure an escape route, before finding the strongbox of money. There was no point in having it if she was stuck in this closet.

  So, she turned from the window and examined the small room. While the wealthy might call this a closet, or a dressing room, it was almost half the size of their apartment. Surely somewhere, among the clothing, and dressers, there would be something that she could use. She pulled the candle from her pocket and struck a sulfur match to light it. Thank heavens the window was so high up that she did not need to worry about the light showing.