“Lady Worthen, I presume.” He stopped from necessity, watching the case as the footmen carried it upstairs.
“May I present my son, Lord Worthen?”
“How do you do?” The case got farther away as he was forced into the niceties of polite society. He could observe the forms without much thought, which was fortunate in this case as the young man’s blond curls were so strikingly like Helena’s that he did not see how anyone could view the two of them and not see the relation. To be sure, the young Baron got his eyes from his mother, and his nose, but his brows and the general shape of his face were strikingly like his cousin’s. Weatherby glanced up the stairs, hoping she was all right. “Thank you for allowing me to examine your collection.”
“But of course.” Lady Worthen spoke for her son. “My late brother-in-law was devoted to the craft.
“They are monstrously clever.” Young Lord Worthen shifted his weight. “I wish we could keep them out.”
“But they are so fragile, Andrew. We should have no idea how to repair one, not like glamour.” She gestured around the vines with a smile.
“Your own work?” The case was halfway up the stairs, but if he had any hope of pretending that this was a regular visit then he had to play the part of the nobleman. God, he wished that George were here. He was ever so much better at this sort of thing.
“Indeed.” She preened and lifted her chin. “I think it would be difficult to create such a spectacle using automaton.”
“I should not make the attempt, no.” He glanced up the stairs once more. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should like to make certain the case is settled before—”
“Oh, my men will see to it. Come—” She came forward and captured his arm. “The other guests have arrived and my niece has been dying to see you again.”
Her niece? Weatherby's thoughts tripped over themselves and he could not arrange his words in any sort of order for his tongue. Her niece was currently upstairs in the mechanism case of an automaton. Unless Helena were not her niece, in which case he was a fool and helping a robber. Or no-- wait. He was being over-hasty as it was entirely possible for someone to have more than one niece. But then, too... She wished to see him "again" and he had not the faintest notion of who she was.
In a befuddlement, Weatherby let himself be led into the drawing room. A small collection of gentlemen and ladies glittered in the candlelit room.
George stood next to the fireplace, talking with a young lady. He touched her arm and nodded toward the door, smiling. She glanced over her shoulder and flushed. Weatherby had met her before be could not for the life of himself recall where.
His efforts to recall, or to settle his mind in any way, were interrupted by Lady Worthen, who nudged her son with an elbow. He stepped forward, clearing his throat though his voice still cracked upon the first word. "Friends, our guest of honour has arrived, the Duke of Blackledge."
As they arose, Weatherby shot a desperate glance to George. His friend was merely smirking behind his glass, which was hardly surprising as he had been trying to convince Weatherby to do some sort of exhibition for years. Still, if not for that, Weatherby would not have had the idea to try to arrange something at Lady Worthen's. And if not for George, he would have had no means of making the arrangements. For all that the Duke of Blackledge outranked the Honorable Mr. George Corke, the latter had more social capital than the former.
He managed to mumble something about being charmed to meet them all. He thought. It might have been more along the lines of wishing for a drink. He found himself still standing beside Lady Worthen and a cup of punch had somehow materialized in his hand.
Clearing his throat, Weatherby lifted his glass. "Thank you for hosting this evening. If we are not to disappoint your guests, I should really prepare the automaton."
"Of course, but first you must meet my niece." Again, she took him by the arm and steered him across the room toward (Thank God) George.
The young lady he was speaking with wore a green dress and had overlarge eyes -- no, she was merely staring at him. Where had he seen her before? She sank into a curtsy and his memory finally coughed up the where if not the who.
"You wore blue before," he blurted and then winced. "At my birthday. And chided me for having no balls."
George choked on his drink.
Miss Blu-- Miss Green Dress patted him on his back, as he coughed and sputtered. "Oh dear! Oh, dear, dear!"
Wiping is streaming eyes, George shook his head. "Quite all right. I was just surprised because I'm also always complaining that Lord Blackledge has no balls."
"There! See. We have ever so much in common." Miss Green Dress quit ministering to George and gave Weatherby another curtsy. "I told Aunt Sylvia that you wouldn't remember me at all, but I was ever so wrong. And to think! The Duke of Blackledge even remembers what I was wearing! From now on, I shall call it Lord Blackledge's Blue Ball gown."
Poor George had just taken another sip of his punch and now sprayed it out his nose.
"I'll fetch some... something." Weatherby set his cup on the mantel and bolted for the door. Was it cruel to use George as a distraction? Undoubtedly, yes, but if he left Helena alone upstairs any longer he would lose his mind.
In the entry hall, he spied a footman and approached him. “Can you take me to the vault? I should like to be certain my automaton has suffered no mishap.”
“Of course, my lord. If you will give me but a moment to fetch Mr. Abercrombie.”
“Mr…?”
“Our butler.”
“Ah.” Weatherby pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. Only he and Lady Worthen had the key to the vault, which is why they needed to go to such lengths to get Helena inside. And if she were out of the case, as she surely must be by now, then taking anyone with him would only expose her before she had an opportunity to find the papers she needed. “I should not like to disturb him when he must be occupied with all the company. I shall go up closer to the time.”
Straightening his cravat, Weatherby faced the drawing room again. He could survive a half hour of conversation.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Playful Pup
Helena scratched her nose with her big toe and waited for the footmen and the butler to depart. By comparison to the box she fit into for the circus, this was quite spacious, although somewhat awkwardly shaped. Weatherby had proposed removing all the mechanics, but she had been able to fit between them and the driving engine.
“Will we be able to watch, Mr. Abercrombie?”
“I should think not.” He sniffed. “The room will be quite crowded enough without the staff pestering her ladyship.”
“Why’ve they got to come in here?” the other footman asked.
“Because it is where her ladyship stored the automaton after the 5th Baron of Worthen’s death.” He sniffed again as they reached the doorway. “She would have simply sold the lot if the current Baron were not so fond of them..”
“Why is—” The door cut off his final question and left the room in complete darkness.
Helena counted to twenty and then pulled on the latch that Weatherby had installed inside the case since it had not originally been designed to have anyone inside it. The side of the mechanics housing fell open and she stretched her arm out into the room. By careful measures, she worked her way out of the case, unwinding her legs from the gears until she was able to wriggle out of the opening onto the cold, bare floor. She felt back inside the case for the lantern and matches that Weatherby had secured for her.
The match flared, illuminating the space around her, but Helena did not look up until she had the lantern safely lit. Shelves lined the walls behind them and on some, smaller of her father’s creations waited to be wound. But her attention was caught by the cluster of cloth draped pedestals that marched in two rows down the center of the vault.
She went to the nearest and set her hand on the cloth. How different would they be from her childhood memories? Helena slid the cloth of
f and then let it drop to the ground. “Oh… Papa.”
Beneath the cloth, a stag made of silver, with golden horns stood with his head raised, ears pointed forward. At his feet a stream of glass rods waited to trickle with the turn of a key. Flowers rendered with wire and hammered sheets of copper stood by the stream. The silver had tarnished to nearly black but the golden horns remained as vibrant as her memories.
The automatons used to stand in the gallery overlooking the courtyard. She and Papa would come into the gallery and try to wind them all. It was a race from one end of the long hall to the other, winding mechanisms as each wound down.
Helena wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. No time for that. She had a mission. Pulling out her supplies from the case, she tried to keep her mind on business. She carried the lantern down the rows of silent figures, unveiling The Skating Couple, The Mathematician, The Playful Pup, until she came to the Painting Lady.
Someone had taken care of the figures, at least as far as dusting them. The porcelain figure’s skin was warmed by the lantern and her silver ink pot gleamed in the light. Helena tipped the cover back and poured the ink she had brought with her. From the small satchel she pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on the Painting Lady’s easel. Kneeling, she set the lantern on the ground next to her and opened the base of the mechanism. Inside the door, were five slots for punched tin discs. The sixth was inside, ready to guide the Painting Lady’s quill. She pulled it out and held it close to the lantern. Swans, swimming.
Nodding, she pulled out the other discs one by one, setting aside The Tower of London and Toby until she found Mother and Child. Biting the inside of her lip, she placed the disc in its place, shut the door, and stood. Please let the mechanism work. She wound the crank in the side of the case, turning until she felt the mainspring tighten. Please. She released the key and gears within the Painting Lady began to turn.
Helena knit her hands together and watched as her childhood sprang to life. The Painting Lady turned her head to look at the ink pot and leaned forward to dip her quill. She wiped it on the edge of the pot, and with smooth precision laid a line down on the paper. Her gears were louder than Helena had recalled, but that was hardly surprising considering how long she had been sitting. Or had her aunt brought guests in to look at the oddities?
Toby had been Helena’s favorite as a child. It had been a drawing of a puppy playing with a ball and she had asked her father to have the Painting Lady draw it over and over. This, though… This was the key to her inheritance. She hoped.
The door to the vault opened.
Helena dropped to her knees, spinning to hide behind the pillar of the Painting Lady. She snatched the lantern, snuffing it as she pulled it behind the pillar.
Weatherby’s voice outside did nothing to obscure the sound of the Painting Lady at work.“I must insist on doing my preparations without observation.”
“But we are so curious.” Her aunt’s voice sent chattering teeth up and down Helena’s spine. “My dear late husband’s brother was such an eccent— What is that sound?”
“It is likely the mechanism on— Oh my God. The Silver Stag. I’ve— I’ve seen illustrations and read about it but…my God it is beautiful.”
From the sounds, other people had followed Weatherby besides her aunt. The murmurs of delight unwrapped a memory of a party when she was very small. She had shown her cousin The Playful Pup and he had spent the entire night watching it.
“Why are all the cloths on the floor? Abercrombie! What is the meaning of this?”
“My lady… I am not certain.”
“Mother! Look. One of them is moving.” A young man laughed with delight, his footsteps coming closer. Helena felt the pedestal, looking for a way into the mechanism. They were going to find her. If she knew more than a child’s worth of glamour, perhaps Helena could have hidden herself, but as it was she had only a shadow to hide in.
“Lord Worthen.” Weatherby jogged after him. “Be careful. Sometimes these old clockworks can start up when jarred.”
And suddenly, Weatherby was standing by the pedestal, his legs and tailcoat offering slightly more shielding for her. He had worn breeches with stockings that revealed beautifully shaped calves.
“Mother! Come see. I remember this. It used to draw the cleverest dog but… I say. Who is that?”
He must have seen her. Helena drew breath to speak, but Weatherby put his hand on her head and pushed down, stopping her. He asked, “Is it a self portrait?”
“I think… I think so. The figure looks remarkably like my aunt Miriam.”
Sharp footsteps sounded and then Helena’s aunt said, “This figure was to be left alone” She stepped around Weatherby, reaching for the cloth on the floor and saw Helena . “You.”
She had hoped for more time for the Painting Lady to finish, but the figure was still going through its motions. She needed to buy time for it to finish. Helena rose to her feet. “Hello, Aunt Paulina.”
“Abercrombie! Remove this thief, at once.”
“Yes, my lady.” He reached for her, but his hand closed on empty air as Helena bent backwards.
Helena continued the backwards bend into a walkover. When she straightened, the butler was staring at her with a rather stupid expression. The vault had become quite crowded. In addition to Weatherby, Aunt Paulina and cousin Andrew, other guests had followed them. This was not what she and Weatherby had planned, but there was no stopping now.
She faced the assembled crowd. “I am Helena Worthen, daughter of James, Lord Worthen who made these automaton.”
Aunt Paulina sniffed and snapped her fingers at her butler. “She is a shyster. My niece died tragically in a fire.”
“I am quite alive.”
“Take this opportunist out of here.”
The butler closed on her, but Weatherby stepped between them. “I cannot help but note that Miss Worthen has more than a passing resemblance to the Painting Lady.”
“An interesting coincidence, to be certain, but blonde curls do not make one a Worthen.”
“No one would argue that. There’s a circus performer with blonde curls, but no one would mistake her for Miss Worthen.” Weatherby’s friend, Mr. Corke — that clever man — stood beside the painting lady, with his head bent in a frown. “However looking like a portrait is decidedly more compelling.”
On the easel, the Painting Lady had continued to draw a mother and child. Even rendered in black and white, the abundance of curls seemed to glow. Helena’s mother had worn her hair like a halo.
“That could be anyone.”
The Painting Lady dipped her pen once more and then beneath the drawing wrote, “Helena and Miriam.”
Mr. Corke cocked his head and looked from the drawing to Helena and back again. “You are… Miriam?”
“Helena. Miriam was my mother.”
“You are the spitting image of her.”
Her aunt snatched the cloth off the ground. “This is a travesty. Clearly she has altered the thing in order to make a claim on my household.”
“No.” Weatherby’s voice was cold and his hands flexed at his side. “I assure you, that is not possible.”
Cousin Andrew shook his head. “Come now, if you were my cousin Helena — and I’ll grant that there is a resemblance — then why wait so long to come forward?”
“I came when I was ten and asked for help. I had a drawing from the painting lady and she burned it as I was watching. She sent me to a poor house.” Helena turned to her cousin and spread her hands out in entreaty. “I know I promised not to tell but… Do you still have the Wind-up Dog’s bone?”
His jaw dropped. “I… Yes. In fact.” He ran his hand through his hair and turned to his mother. “I had wondered why there were no portraits of my uncle’s family anywhere in the house, though I remember them from when I was a child.”
“She… This is…” Aunt Paulina sputtered and then put her hand to her head and fainted. Or, rather pretended to faint. She slumped dow
n toward the butler, but he stepped back and let her hit the floor. She moaned.
Helena turned her back on her aunt so she didn’t walk over and kick the woman.
Weatherby cleared his throat. “George?”
His friend started. “Oh! Yes. Yes, he’s downstairs in my carriage.”
“Who?” Cousin Andrew raised his brows rather comically. “Someone else back from the grave?”
“In fact…” Weatherby gave a little smile. “Your uncle, Lord Worthen.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Melted Wax
Weatherby followed Helena as she ran down the stairs. Her cousin was close on her heels and seeing their blonde curls from behind, there was no doubt that they were related. Beads of sweat coated his back and he could barely catch his breath.
George appeared at his elbow. "Are you all right?"
"I hardly know. Why do you ask?"
"Because I have never seen you so pale."
"It is just that I am about to meet Lord Worthen. The Lord Worthen. I'm not sure if I'm more nervous that the man is Helena's father or that he is a brilliant automaton creator."
They turned the last round of stairs into the awful rose filled foyer. Helena’s foster mother, Mrs. Mohabir, directed the footmen and Mr. Mohabir, who were just carrying a wheeled chair up the stairs to the front door. Bundled in a blanket, sat an old and horribly burned man. Weatherby stopped, in shock. She had told him, but he had not realized the extent of the injuries. His face was like melted wax, one eye gone entirely, and the other a haze of white.
Mr. Mohabir took charge of the chair and wheeled it into the center of the chamber, just as Helena reached the foot of the stairs. At the chair, she dropped to her knees and embraced her father. His arms lifted out of the blanket and wrapped around her.
"Helena?" He bent and kissed her head. "I am grateful for the surprise, but you must tell me where we are."
"Home." Her voice was choked. "We're at home."
The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella Page 8
