Compulsion (Asylum for the Mechanically Insane Book 4)

by Sahara Kelly

  The lane wound through snow covered hedgerows; an open tunnel in places, a wide swath of snow in others. She thought about singing, remembered her family’s response when she’d attempted a Christmas carol a few years ago, and compromised with whistling a cheerful tune she’d picked up from some of the other servants while working at Harbury.

  Lost in her own delightful musical stroll, she jumped when she heard a voice call out her name.

  “Jones! Mary Jones…hold up girl.”

  Portia turned—and froze. It was one half of the team known to all in the laboratories as RobertandArthur, the two servants who took care of the various unpleasant messes caused by science or man. The man most often being Lord Harbury.

  Both of them scared the daylights out of Portia, resembling as they did a couple of bullyboys, rough and ready to fight with whatever was at hand.

  Rapidly assuming the persona of Jones the maid, Portia stopped and lowered her gaze respectfully. “Afternoon, sir.”

  “You don’t have to sir me, girl. But it’s good that you’re a polite one.” He closed the distance between them, his boots crunching harshly on the snow. “I’d have a word with you.”

  “Of course, s… Mr. Robert.” She bobbed a quick curtsey, a habit she’d easily adopted when working at Harbury.

  “You’re employed by that Mrs. Howell, now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Portia risked a look at him. He didn’t seem quite so menacing in the sunshine, but she remained cautious. “I’m her companion. I’m waiting for her to return from her walk. Thought she might come up this way from the village. It’s such a lovely day—“

  “Never mind that. I need you to pass along a message.”

  “A message? For Mrs. Howell?”

  “Yes. From up at the Hall.”

  “Ohhh. You’re meanin’ Harbury Hall, then, Mr. Robert?” It might have been a tad heavy handed, Portia reflected, but he seemed unaware of it.

  “Of course. Where else?”

  Where else indeed?

  “I’d be happy to pass it along, sir. But you could do it yerself if you’d a mind to. I can give you Mrs. Howell’s direction.”

  For a moment he looked a little uncomfortable—and even less menacing to Portia’s discerning gaze. Perhaps something had changed, or he was out of his element away from the Hall—she didn’t know. But whatever it was, it interested her.

  “No, that’s all right. You can pass it on. It’s from Lady Harbury herself.”

  “Oh my. Poor lady’s feelin’ better, I hope.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m simply passing on an invitation to Mrs. Howell from Lady Harbury.”

  “Goodness.” Portia blinked, her surprise unfeigned. This was quite unexpected. “That’s…well, goodness me.” She was genuinely at a loss for words.

  “Yes, um…Lady Harbury would like Mrs. Howell’s company for tea tomorrow afternoon if that’s convenient. You can bring her answer up to the house if you want. Malcolm will relay it.”

  “I will, sir.” She nodded, noting that Robert had obviously overcome his reluctance to be addressed in a formal manner. “I’m sure Mrs. Howell would be most honored to accept, but I’ll see what she says first.” She beamed at Robert.

  “Good. Make it soon, will you? Lady Harbury shouldn’t be kept waiting.” He turned away with a curt nod.

  “I will, sir.” Portia curtseyed again, watching him stride off back toward the Hall.

  What strange turn of events had brought this particular invitation their way, she couldn’t begin to guess, but her senses tingled at the prospect of getting back into Harbury Hall, especially the house itself.

  She strolled on, lost in her thoughts.

  The last time she’d seen Alwynne Harbury, the woman had been naked, battered, bleeding and in a state that still sickened Portia when she recalled it. It had been long ago enough that her bones had probably healed, but that word carved into her back would have scarred to a permanent reminder of what her husband thought of her.

  There was no doubt in Portia’s mind that Lord Harbury had brutalized his wife. There had been terrible and violent crimes committed that night, and most of the participants had not survived to tell the tales. But Alwynne Harbury had.

  No matter what other atrocities had been done to her, only one man would have had the vicious need to deform her back so savagely.

  Was the accusation valid? Portia was nearly twenty but possessed the intellect and knowledge well in advance of her peers. Even Inspector Burke said she surprised him sometimes with the things she knew.

  Sex was one of them; a mostly forbidden topic to young girls, who were deemed too fragile to be exposed to the vile desires of men. Until they were married, at which point they were tossed into the marital bed without a clue of what lay ahead, other than the instructions to obey their husbands in all things, and give him an heir in short order.

  Portia was having none of that.

  Unbeknownst to her father, she’d read more than a few of his more sophisticated books. She knew what happened between men and women, and she’d read of the passions it could inspire.

  She’d also had some of her own passions awoken and inspired by Devon, whose touches inflamed all kinds of delightful and needy feelings in places that tingled when she thought of them.

  So the idea of a man being incited to take a knife and carve the word “whore” into his wife’s back—well it was, in some obscure and twisted way, understandable if done in the heat of fury or something.

  But why he hadn’t just killed her with that knife, Portia couldn’t begin to guess. And wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

  Which brought her thoughts back around to the invitation for Charlotte and what, if anything, it signified.

  On the positive side, this would gain Charlotte—and hopefully Portia herself—admittance into the upper levels of Harbury Hall. While they certainly couldn’t plan a foray into the desks and papers of the Harburys, they might be able to glean something of the current situation there.

  It had been so very quiet and controlled after that night of terror.

  The comments and news had filtered from servants in a manner which told the observant that only what the Harburys wanted the world to know was being passed along.

  This, in and of itself, was an accomplishment since the household staff, as was expected, usually knew everything. But not here. Not at Harbury Hall. Several had departed, believing that they’d be happier leaving the Hall and its unpleasantness behind them.

  The core cadre of servants remained, but they had been with Alwynne and Randall Harbury for many years and their loyalty apparently knew no bounds. Nary an unplanned comment fell from their lips and they were seldom seen in any of the local pubs or inns. Portia spent a moment or two wondering just how much they received in payment for their silence.

  Then she mentally shook herself. She was no longer a maid there, to be envious of someone with a larger sum in their wages.

  She realized she’d walked quite a way when she heard her name once more. “Portia? Portia, love. You’ll never believe it…”

  Buoyant, glowing with happiness, Charlotte hurried to her side, red curls escaping from her woolen hat. “I’m to be married, Portia. Can you imagine?”

  She almost danced from one foot to the other, a sprite of a woman with joy and energy far in excess of her peers.

  “Charlotte, my dear!” Portia hugged her enthusiastically. “Such amazing news. To whom?”

  “I swear, one of these days I’m putting you over my knee and teaching you humility, my girl.” Burke ambled up and flicked her cheek. “To whom, indeed.”

  She released Charlotte and turned to the Inspector. “I couldn’t be happier, dear James. You two were utterly made for each other.” She hugged him hard.

  “I think so too.” Charlotte looked smug.

  “Come on. Let’s go back to the cottage and you can tell me all the details, and I’ll tell you about something very interesting that happened to me a lit
tle while ago…”

  Portia led the way, brimming with excitement. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new and positive adventure.

  Wait until Devon hears about all this…

  Chapter Five

  “I am in your debt, Mrs. Howell.”

  Lady Harbury sat behind her elegant desk and gestured to the paperwork littering the surface. “I am eagerly anticipating the pleasures of arranging a Military Celebration for our Winter Ball, and honoring our fine fighting forces. But for the life of me I am lost when it comes to the inevitable smaller details.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Those are the little things that are my meat and potatoes, my Lady. I’m very honored you invited me to assist with this wonderful project.” She glanced at the notes she’d taken during the last hour. “I believe I can locate Air Marshal Cardingham. My late husband attended university with Lawrence Cardingham and I think they were brothers.” She confirmed her supposition with a slight nod.

  “Aha. So I was absolutely correct in requesting your help. What a fortuitous state of affairs.”

  “Indeed.” Charlotte closed her notebook. “Well, I believe I should begin putting some lists together, my Lady.”

  “We must have tea. Such a task requires sustenance.” She looked over Charlotte’s shoulder to the far end of her suite and beckoned. “Girl. Come here.”

  Portia, who had watched the proceedings since she and Charlotte had arrived at Harbury Hall earlier that afternoon, hurried from her low stool near the door to join the ladies.

  “Ma’am?” She curtseyed.

  “Ring the bell for tea. Mrs. Howell and I need restoratives before we begin our great endeavor. And after it arrives, we shall enjoy some companionable time, so you may take yourself off to the kitchens until we summon you.”

  “Very good, m’Lady.” She followed instructions and tugged on the bell rope, knowing from her brief experiences within the Harbury kitchens that a tray would even now be on its way, filled with teapots and cups and saucers, not to mention an assortment of the delicacies expected at a proper ladies’ afternoon tea with guests.

  Within moments, she was proved correct and she found herself pouring for both ladies, ensuring they had everything they needed within reach. Charlotte glanced at her. “I believe we can manage from here. Thank you Mary.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Portia curtseyed and quietly left the room. She would be expected to stay close, and there were chairs positioned in the hall for just that purpose.

  She ignored them as she gently shut the door. It was likely that the exchange of tea and biscuits would last no more than the customary half hour, but that was thirty minutes that Portia had to herself and she was determined to take advantage of it.

  She walked down the hall toward the rear of the building.

  “What are you doing here, Jones?”

  The stern words made her jump and she turned to see Malcolm, the Harbury butler, frowning at her from a doorway.

  Thinking quickly, she curtseyed. “Mr. Malcolm, sir. Good afternoon to you. I was lookin’ for the lady’s withdrawing room. I’m Mrs. Howell’s companion now, and she’s takin’ tea with my Lady Harbury.”

  He huffed. “Down that corridor and take the stairs at the end. Turn right. Don’t you be making any messes either, girl.”

  “Oh no, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” She curtseyed again.

  “Well go on then. Don’t shilly shally.” He turned away, a gruff mumble sounding as he disappeared into the room.

  Portia drew in a breath and then decided that being cautious was her best bet at this time. She followed his instructions to the letter and found the small room set aside for personal use. It was clearly designed for senior household staff and visiting attendants, and she spared a moment to appreciate the small bunch of fresh flowers, the attractive pitcher and ewer and the small clean towels.

  Somebody still took care of the amenities in the Hall. It was a small thing, but Portia had learned that observing as many small things as possible sometimes filled in the bigger picture. A lesson from the Inspector.

  Leaving the withdrawing room, she cursed silently, wishing she were more familiar with the layout of the house itself. She would have loved to take a few quick turns and end up in Lord Harbury’s office. But that was not only unlikely but also risky, so she contented herself with walking slowly back up the stairs and along the passage, noting the number of rooms and peering inside when an open door offered the opportunity.

  One room toward the end intrigued her. There was music coming from it now, although it had been silent when she first passed. The door was ajar and the light of a fire flickered against dark green walls.

  She peered around it, realizing it was a fully equipped music room, with a fine pianoforte beneath the windows, and music stands beneath other instruments nested in cases along wide shelves.

  The music stopped. “Come in. I should enjoy an audience for a few moments.”

  The voice was smooth and with a slight accent, and Portia peered further around the door to see an elegant gentleman with a full beard and magnificent moustache holding a cello.

  “I mean it. Herkommen, come in.” He beckoned her with the hand holding the bow.

  She inched her way in and dropped a deep curtsey. “I’m sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to be a bother…”

  “Do you like music?” He gestured to a small chair near the pianoforte.

  She sat. “Oh yes, sir. ‘‘Tis lovely. Especially the way you play.” She nodded at the instrument between his knees. “Like a song from someplace magical.”

  He smiled, a gentle curve of his moustache accompanied by a crinkling of the skin around his eyes. Portia couldn’t help but smile back.

  “A lovely compliment, Fraulein.” He drew the bow across the strings eliciting a smooth chord. “I am flattered that my humble attempts encourage even the least amongst us to think extraordinary thoughts.”

  His accent was a little stronger as he spoke, and Portia recognized a Germanic edge; her father had entertained a party of Germans several years before and she’d been fascinated by some of their words. His invitation to enter had sounded familiar. Herkommen. She had heard it many times over that summer…come here.

  Aware that she was in the presence of the mysterious German Baron, she carefully perched on the edge of a chair and straightened her cap, lowering her gaze in a typical gesture of maid to master.

  “What is your name?” He continued to play, almost absently, letting a sweet melody fill the room.

  She felt herself adrift on the music and the sound of his voice. “My name?” She glanced up at him and found his dark gaze fixed solidly on her face. It brought her out of her haze with a snap. “Jones, sir. Mary Jones. I’m here with Mrs. Howell as her companion.”

  “Ah. The lady who is to assist our gracious Lady Alwynne in organizing this event for the military, yes?”

  He bent his head and let his hands produce a lilting and buoyant arpeggio, full of life and energy. “It will be a special evening for so many, I understand.”

  Once again, Portia found herself lost in the combination of his soothing voice and his haunting music. She did not recognize anything he’d played thus far, but everything she’d heard was melodious and appealing. Almost as if it had been composed just for her.

  “And you, Mary Jones. What will you be doing? Will you manage to enjoy a waltz with some handsome young airman?”

  The bow danced over the strings in three-four time, making Portia think of waltzes, silk gowns and the swirl of colors in a brilliant ballroom.

  “I-I don’t know…” She held her breath as the music rose and fell, her mind unable to focus, her thoughts adrift. “Perhaps, although I don’t know how to waltz. I prefer a quadrille.” She smiled as she remembered the exasperation of her dancing master as he attempted to teach both her and her sister Miranda the correct way to waltz. Miranda had understood immediately. To the practical Portia, the free-flowing movements were less easily mastered. She li
ked a little more structure, even when dancing.

  “You smile. A good memory, I hope.”

  On a small gasp, she recalled where she was. “Oh goodness, sir. I beg your pardon. My lady will be needing me.” She eased from the chair and started to move to the door. “Thank you ever so much for the lovely music. ‘Twas really nice.”

  She scurried from the room, her heart thundering. What the devil had happened in there? She’d sat and dreamed as if there was nothing more important to do than reminisce about her sister.

  Well, Miranda was gone. She’d lost her and knew deep inside that she’d never see her again. Miranda’s disappearance had begun the vast adventure that now comprised Portia’s world. It was a time of danger and unexpected terrors and certainly not a time for daydreaming.

  There was something about that German and his music. Her skin chilled as she realized how close she had been to leaning back in that chair and closing her eyes, luxuriating in the sound of a well-played cello. Not the sort of behavior for a lady’s companion.

  Meanwhile, in the room she had just left, Baron von Landau stared into the fire and wondered what kind of companion preferred the quadrille to the waltz. And then tried to remember if he’d ever met a servant who could manage either of them.

  There was something about that girl…

  *~~*~~*

  Inspector Burke watched Portia’s face as she related the episode over dinner that evening. They had gathered at Applewood Cottage, where Charlotte and Portia spent much of their time when they weren’t at Burke’s small residence. Charlotte had prepared a simple repast that they were all enjoying, as Portia told her tale.

  “It was strange.” She pondered her green beans.

  “In what way?” Devon, seated beside her at the small dining room table, turned his head as he asked the question.

  She paused then shook her head slightly. “I wish I could say. He didn’t stare at me or make any gestures or anything. And yet when he played those soft chords and spoke to me about nothing in particular, it was as if I was suddenly calm. As if the world was a glowing place and I was part of it, relaxed and at ease with everything.” She glanced across the table. “I believe he may have some sort of skill at mesmerizing people.”