The Gaslight Girl: A Decisive Devices Novella (Decisive Devices Steampunk Series Book 1)

by Hargrove Perth

  THE GASLIGHT GIRL

  A DECISIVE DEVICES NOVEL

  HARGROVE PERTH

  COPYRIGHT March 2017 The Gaslight Girl, A Decisive Devices Novel Hargrove Perth. All Rights Reserved. A steampunk variation of Cinderella.

  No portion of this work may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without the explicit written consent of the author and the author's publisher. This work contains people who have been used in a fictionalized setting for the purpose of historical reference. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is used strictly for the embellishment of the story to lend creditable influence to the fictionalized work. The copyright laws of 1988, namely the Berne Convention Copyright Laws of 1988, and the Digital Millennium Copy Right Act of 1998, enacted by Congress protect this work from piracy and any transmission, trade, or sale through means electronic, printed, shared, or otherwise is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

  Cover art Design by Dark Water Arts Designs. Published by Dark Desire Publishing.

  Dedication

  For my cousin, Heather McMurray Conrad, my family, and friends.

  With special thanks to Indie Editor Nancy for all her help and kindness and to Beth Sullivan.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Inheritance

  The broom handle came up between the boards, jabbing the young woman in the ribs and jarring her from sleep.

  “Get your lazy arse out of bed, you have work to do.”

  It was old man Seward, the butler to the Willoughby family, and he treated her no better than the rest of the lot.

  Halloran Frost sat forward, pulling the straw from her long red hair, peered through the split in the slats of the floor, and contemplated spitting in her stepmother’s eye the minute she saw her, but knew it would only end in a horrible beating.

  “Go away, you crotchety old bastard so I can dress,” she shouted and heard the door close.

  Her room, if it could be called such, was a four foot wide by eight foot long overhang above the summer kitchen behind the Willoughby Estate. Halloran stretched the stiffness from her bones as she sat forward and looked at the old straw stuffed mattress beneath her, complete with holes from where rats had chosen to chew through it.

  Holes in the tin roof allowed copious amounts of rain to come through during the rainy season, and when it was upon the land, Halloran slept curled up in the corner of the overhang in the only spot that did not leak. She could have fixed it, of course, but chose not to do so. Her stepmother treated her like a servant as it was, there was no need to let the horrible beast know she knew anything about metal working.

  Her father was long dead and cold in his grave; she often wondered if he knew when he married Ellen, thus naming her as a stepmother, that her life would be reduced to the same as a street beggar at his death. She knew the only reason they allowed her to live on the estate was because of the rules of her father’s will, and his money belonged to her, not to the Willoughby family as it was her mother’s inheritance. They did, however, have access to her trust until the age of twenty-three unless some tragedy befell Halloran, then the trust fell to Ellen and her gruesome daughters, Geneve, Lora, and Janessa.

  Halloran refused to use the last name of her father after her mother died after a lingering illness resulting from the stillborn death of Halloran’s brother. She took her mother’s last name of Frost – a prominent name in the circles of London. Now she wished she had not, as it only allowed her stepmother and sisters access to a world that should have solely been hers.

  Sir Jacob Willoughby was one of the wealthiest men in all of England and was responsible for gaslight coming to the homes of London. Halloran owned three quarters of his company and oversaw the books, as well as maintaining the lines- a task designated to her by her father in his estate, though he left a quarter of the business to Ellen-who felt the need to butt her nose in whenever possible.

  The Willoughby Frost Gas Company was Halloran’s only refuge against the life she was forced to endure.

  She pulled her shift over her head and tossed it in the corner with the other clothes needing laundered and took a clean, black lace shirt down from the hooks over her head, hooks that were meant to dry salt pork and sides of beef but had become her armoire instead. Rather than wear petticoats and a skirt as was traditional for ladies of the day, Halloran wore form-fitting leather gaspipes, men’s boots, and a black leather corset every day. It infuriated her stepmother, and that made it all the while worth every second of odd stares and comments.

  Once dressed, she donned her corset, fastened the large silver buckles and pulled the leather straps tight until her waist was a perfect twenty inches then slipped on her boots. The last item she donned was a shoulder holster with her Smith and Wesson.

  Halloran climbed down the wooden ladder leading to the main floor of the summer kitchen, picked up her wool cloak, and walked to the main house. She threw the door open, placed her hand on the kettle to see if the water was still hot, which it was not, so she picked up two biscuits and dropped them into her pocket before leaving.

  The walk to her father’s business was ten blocks, which she gladly did each day to further the distance between herself and her stepmother. She not only oversaw all monetary interests for the family but also the maintenance of the gaslights and the gaslines that ran throughout London.

  A mechanical horse skirted by her, steam pouring out its nostrils as its metal horseshoes clinked against the cobblestones. It drew her attention immediately due to its fine copper overlay on the exterior of the beast. The majority of the steamhorses were unimpressive brass that developed a green patina with time, a patina that reminded Halloran of moss or pond slime.

  “Hally!” a voice shouted from behind her but Halloran kept walking. She was not feeling especially amicable and was not interested in idle chitchat.

  “Frost,” he shouted, and Halloran stopped and turned around. There were only a handful of people who called her by her last name of Frost, mostly due to her milky white complexion against her stark red hair, and she trusted them with her life.

  Jonathan Pennywise ran to where Halloran had stopped and leaned over, his hands resting on his thighs as he breathed heavily. “Haven’t seen you in the Chapel as of late, where have you been?”

  Halloran pulled her long hair over her shoulder and braided it as she began walking again. “I do not have time to chum around, Jonathan, not now that Ellen is in charge of the household.”

  “She is nothing but a money digging strumpet. I will never understand why you do not kick her and the uglies out on their arses.”

  “My father would not have wanted it,” Halloran replied coldly as Jonathan quickened his stride to keep up with her long gait.

  “Pishposh, you are the heir.”

  “Not according to her and her uglies.”

  Jonathan laughed as Halloran stopped in front of her father’s building and pulled the key to the door from her corset, looking over her shoulder. She had a spot of trouble with ruffians looking for something they thought her father had of value so the Smith and Wesson was now a constant companion.

  “You’re still carrying that gun. I wish you would just let me and the boys look after you, Frost. Would it be so horrible to have us around?”

  Halloran had known Jonathan and the White Chapel Gang since she was a small girl. They had all attended the same preparatory school and all came from upstart families. Jonathan and his boys, as he called them, operated a theft ring that st
ole from the more wealthy and affluent society members in London and took care of the poor in White Chapel. It was a game to them, something to do as an affront to their wealth and community standing.

  She unlocked the door and pushed Jonathan inside then closed it behind them before reaching into her corset to pull out a second set of keys to the next door. Once inside, Halloran placed both hands on the large lever in the room and pulled it down, setting the gears into motion on the boiler to maintain the gasline pressure for the London lines.

  Jonathan had held a soft spot in her heart for many years, and it seemed with each year that passed, he only grew more fetching. She stared at him for a moment, noting his highly polished, black boots, and his formfitting grey suit that only accentuated his powerful, muscular chest and biceps. She blushed at his unkempt hair, how his curly black locks fell about his eyes and he was constantly brushing them away.

  Halloran juked backward when she touched his sideburns, looking into his steel blue eyes. “What is this?” she said laughing.

  “Sideburns, what do you think they are?”

  “Possibly dirt,” she said laughing even harder as she sat at her father’s mahogany desk. Her hands slid along the carved swirls on the edge before leaning backward in the overstuffed leather chair.

  “Funny, you are oh so hysterical Halloran Frost.”

  He sat across from her in a quiet stare down, neither of them saying a word until Jonathan broke the silence by bringing up his nonsensical theories about her father.

  “Have you given any thought at all to what I suggested last time we talked?”

  Her hand went to her mouth in frustration. “My father was not murdered.”

  “You should have the body exhumed and have one of my boys give him a thorough onceover.”

  “I suppose you think my mum should be exhumed too.”

  “There is no harm in it, Frost, and they would not desecrate them in any manner. If they were poisoned, it could change everything for you. What if Ellen was behind their deaths? Have you ever considered that?”

  Halloran leaned backward deeper into the chair and looked past Jonathan, out the window and into the street.

  “Look, your father was involved with Sir Edwards and his digs in Egypt. What if they found something extremely valuable, perhaps even mystical that could make a person rich beyond compare? What if that is what Ellen has been after all along? Sir Edwards died only a month before your father, and even you said he was extremely distressed over the death of his friend, that he told you to trust no one. Let us take a look. My father can arrange for it without Ellen knowing it ever happened. Besides, she never goes to the mausoleum to pay her respects so how could she discover it?”

  “Saturday,” she said in reluctance. “Make the arrangements for Saturday. Ellen and the girls are taking a holiday to the country on which I, of course, am not welcome.” Halloran stood and picked up the wick trimmer and her bag of tools to start her morning inspection of the gaslight lamps. “But I want to be there. Now get along. I have work to do.”

  Jonathan leapt out of his chair and gave her a peck on the cheek, which caused Halloran to flinch. Social contact was unnerving to her, something she just was not comfortable with after how she had been treated all these years.

  “One day, Halloran Frost, you will be my girl,” he said, tipping his bowler before leaving. “But I cannot wait forever,” she heard him yell from the street.

  Being part of the Pennywise family would not be horrible, in fact it would be bliss for Halloran, but with her father dead, there was no one who could arrange the marriage except Ellen, and she certainly would not do anything of the likes for her. For her daughters, yes, but never would she arrange a marriage for Halloran, and she knew it.

  Halloran stepped into the street and made her way down Carnaby Street, pausing at the stone lintel before checking the gaslight lamp until she reached the bank on the corner. She stopped, looked in the windows at the old men in their identical black suits, who appeared as though they had been there just as long as the bank had – nearly two hundred years. The wood of their desks were blackened from years of hands resting upon them, the oil sinking into the surface, and protecting the fortunes of nobles… all but hers.

  Tiny tracks clung to the ceiling where a small engine with a lettercart carried banknotes and valuables to an enormous vault in the rear. Her fingers traced the key hanging on the chain around her neck, wondering if today was the day she would be brave enough to step inside, announce she needed access to her father’s lockbox, and would discover the truth.

  As Halloran stared at the cream marble floor of the bank, and the drones counting the sums of the day, she decided today would not be the day. Perhaps on Saturday after the exhumation, and then she could bring the boys with her for protection.

  She turned toward the gaslight lamp behind her, and pulled the expanding ladder from her bag, giving it a toss to unfold, climbed the contraption, opened the small glass door, and trimmed the wick. Such were the actions of her life now and possibly forever.

  Chapter two

  A Life Chained

  Halloran heard the cock crow long before the sun rose as it sat atop the fence at the end of lane. She sat forward, and just as she did each morning, she pulled the straw from her hair.

  It was Friday morning, the one day of the week she allowed herself a day of rest, if it could be called such. Instead of having the day to herself, Halloran would spend the day cleaning the home that was once hers, polishing the silver, and washing the laundry. Fridays were the one day she did not don her customary black clothing. She instead wore a worn white blouse that had long lost its luster and a black skirt.

  After dressing, she carefully lifted the loose board under her mattress and slid her clothing inside, a hidden yet small area to protect all that she had of any worth or that meant anything to her. She paused to kiss her index finger before placing it on the tin photograph of her mother, a photograph she barely pried from the clutches of her stepmother who was determined to destroy it.

  “How could you have fallen in love with such a hideous strumpet, papa?” she whispered before replacing the board and descending the ladder to the first floor of the summer kitchen.

  Halloran walked to the coop and collected the morning eggs, ruffling the feathers of the chickens as she pushed them aside. She then walked through the flower garden to the back door of the estate and slipped inside.

  “You are late,” Ellen said with a scowl on her face as Halloran entered. “The Balantine Ball is tonight and your sister’s dresses need altering.”

  Halloran didn’t say a word as she walked past her stepmother and placed the eggs in the copper wire basket on the counter behind her.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Do you want the laundry washed or not?”

  Ellen lifted her hand to strike Halloran, but she found her wrist seized in her stepdaughter’s tight grasp. “I told you before, Ellen, that you would never hit me again. I am not adverse to breaking those beautiful fingers you prize so much for playing the harpsicord. I suggest you don’t forget it.”

  Her stepmother sneered at her as Halloran released her hold. “Where are the dresses and do they need pressed as well?”

  Halloran despised this part of her life perhaps more than anything else they could have done to her. She had grown accustomed to living in the summer kitchen despite the fact her old room sat at the top of the staircase inside the Willoughby Mansion, a room once decorated by the loving hand of her mother. Halloran had not slept in the house since the afternoon following her father’s funeral. Her stepmother took little time in stripping all the items belonging to Halloran from the bedchamber once hers and putting it out in the rain like common rubbish. She was fortunate to claim the few items that she did, and though they were few, those items meant the world to Halloran Frost.

  She walked to the sewing room of the house to take survey of what needed altered, knowing no matter how gorgeous the
gowns, they could not improve the ugliness that her step sisters possessed as none of them could be described as homely for they were anything but, in fact, they were all rather fetching. However, they had ugliness in their hearts, which in turn made them extremely unattractive. The dinner parties, the galas, the endless streams of possible suitors all ended with the same result, three step sisters sitting home alone without a bridegroom in tow and no prospects available. Word spread quickly about the three women and how they had treated Halloran, which in the circles her mother once traveled made an enormous impact.

  Geneve was the only one of her sisters waiting for her which gave Halloran a small amount of relief as she was at least tolerable on most days. Yet today her opinion changed the moment Geneve opened her mouth.

  She stood admiring the peach evening gown with matching dyed shoes, holding the dress to herself as she stood before the mirror. “It is such a shame you will never find a husband, Halloran Frost, but given how little time you place on your appearance, it is no wonder.”

  “And it is such a shame you will never have one either with that mouth of yours, why I would assume most men would rather find themselves a suitable wife in the sewers of White Chapel than have to listen to the dribble that rolls off your tongue.” Halloran smiled and picked up her scissors, quickly clipping the air with them. “Men do not like women who say what they think in high society, Geneve, they are to be seen and admired like a flower without a brain. If that is the type of gentleman you hope to capture, you would be wise to learn how to be silent.”

  Geneve glared at Halloran yet said nothing. She needed her dress altered.

  “Put the dress on so I can get this over with quickly. Your mother wants the floors waxed before nightfall, and despite what you might believe, I do have a social life outside of catering to you and your sisters.”