by Tee Morris
Sussex blinked. What was Campbell on about?
“Loads of high falootin’ muckity-mucks just blithering and blathering away. My wife wants the children cultured and all, so I humour her. But this play—” Campbell nodded, tapping at its spine, “This play has a speech.”
Sussex felt himself torn between the sudden jovial notes of Mendelssohn playing on the gramophone and the colonial’s sudden appreciation—apparently a begrudging one at that—of one of William Shakespeare’s history plays. He had to focus on one thing. Focus, he told himself, on one thing.
Strangely enough, he chose the Australian.
“The Duke of Gloucester—gives this speech about ‘a kingdom for Richard’ and how he would make the world his. We colonials, you see, like a good ol’ story of adversity, you know?
“But then that toff Gloucester kept on about what he was going to do to get that crown, so you might be surprised to know I was first in line to get tickets for the next play about that bloke, Richard. Cost of the crown. That bastard stepped over a lot of graves to get what he wanted. It caught up with him. Bloody killed him, it did.”
Bruce tightened his grip on the rim of his hat and locked a dark gaze with Sussex. “I wanted my own little kingdom too, you know? Let a lot of loudmouths disappear, thinking one less voice asking for equality and all that would keep things as they should be . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked out of the study window. “I wonder now how many deaths were on account of that, Your Grace.”
Sussex took in a long, slow breath, but Campbell went on before he could speak. “I don’t doubt you could get my job back at the Ministry; but even if I were willing, no one trusts me there. Not anymore.” The Australian turned back around to him and put his bowler back on his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have failed you. I have failed the Ministry. So it’s back to Australia with me. Maybe there, I can find some peace.”
With a final nod, Campbell saw himself out—just as the “Wedding March” of Titania and Oberon commenced.
The trumpets seemed to herald the oncoming madness that now slipped around Sussex. Each breath hurt. I have failed, he heard Campbell say; but the colonial hadn’t been the only one. The echoing sentiment, I have failed, began to sound less and less like the Australian, and ring more with a tone of refinement.
Yes, whispered the other voice in his head, you have failed me, Peter.
When Sussex opened his eyes, he half expected the Maestro to be there, lurking in the gloom, his presence made known only by the single, malevolent eye of deepest red piercing through the shadows.
No, he wanted to scream, but his throat was too tight to allow for voice. I can’t have failed. I am the Privy Counsellor to Her Majesty Queen Victoria. I cannot fail.
Gaily the music played on, of the faeries gathering within the glade to celebrate the young lovers discovering one another, the reuniting of Faerie King and—
Sussex was a strong man. He knew that. He was now under the care of a progressive physician who believed in better health through purposeful exercise, and his own regimen of such activity produced amazing results.
However, Sussex also knew his own limits. He should not have been able to lift the gramophone, as he did. Nor should he have been able to lift it over his head, as he did. Nor should he have been able to hurl it across his study to smash against the bookcase, bringing down the complete works of Shakespeare and the other accompanying classics, as he did.
He landed on his knees, finally feeling the air rush into his body. He then vomited against the fine carpet; but even the putrid smell assailing his nostrils could not calm him from his fit.
His fit.
The temper.
He had to get a hold before—
“Peter!” cried a familiar voice.
It was Ivy.
He spit the remnants of bile from his mouth; and when he addressed his wife, his voice sounded hard and dry. “Have Fenning—” he wheezed. Then after a few coughs, he tried again. “Have Fenning bring the coach around. Take me to my—”
Sussex did not faint, but he did feel himself surrender to something. The cries were muffled. So far off. He could hear the word physician as the world underneath him moved.
No, it was he who was being moved. The world remained under his feet, but there was a person on either side of him, one short, another considerably taller; and through the strange haze of vision he could see the door.
A door that opened into darkness.
He should have been afraid as that was where his temper took him—into a darkness that would have consumed him completely had he not stood against it. This darkness, though, was far different. It felt painful, perhaps a bit . . . bumpy? And cold. A biting cold caressed his face as the darkness tossed him from side to side. The chill now made his way into his nostrils, down his throat, and into his stomach, or at least that was how it felt. He took another breath, and the fog surrounding him began to lift. How many times had he ridden in this carriage? Sussex had never noticed how firm the cushions in his coach were. Normally, he appreciated its solid, supportive feel, but at present it only made his body ache more. He needed something to drink. At the very least, to get the taste out of his mouth.
Another long, deep breath, and now London’s night came into a sharp focus. No fog tonight. That was nice. Also helpful, as he needed to know where the line was between the Empire and his own personal hell. When the fits took him on foggy days, that tended to make such distinctions difficult. Sussex gripped the handle over his head and pulled himself upright. His faculties were far better than when he felt the fit overcome him in his study, but he couldn’t order his driver to turn around and head home. He wouldn’t. Not when he was this close.
The carriage turned a corner, and when Sussex’s grip tightened, a ripple of agony worked through his arm and shoulder. He was exhausted, dizzy, but at least he could see the façade of his physician’s home. “Finally,” he sighed aloud as the horses slowed before the front door.
When the servant opened the carriage door, Sussex’s hand grabbed for the man’s arm as he pulled himself free of his seat. You are the head of the Privy Council, he chided himself silently. You represent Her Majesty. Get yourself together, man! He gave the lapels of his vest a slow tug, and fought to keep his steps strong and solid as he entered the doctor’s home.
The young physician appeared in the hallway tightening a sash around an impressive smoking jacket. However, on seeing the Duke, his brow knotted with concern.
“Doctor . . .” Sussex managed.
The physician looked him over once and shook his head, “I need you to calm yourself, Your Grace, and come with me.” As he escorted Sussex into the familiar library, the doctor called out over his shoulder, “Wadsworth, have Eucinda fetch me a bowl of water with rags. The water should be warm. Not hot, mind you. Warm.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler nodded as they lowered Sussex onto the plush settee.
A modest fire was burning gaily in the doctor’s tiny hearth, and Sussex found the flame’s dance oddly hypnotic. He was about to try and sit up when his young physician immediately propped his feet back onto the settee’s one arm, keeping the Duke’s feet elevated above the level of his head.
“Did your doctor tell you to sit up?” he chided. “I don’t recall giving you those orders.”
“The temper,” he panted softly, again and again. His eyes screwed shut. “The temper came over me again . . .”
“Breathe, my friend. Breathe,” the doctor replied, placing a hand gently on Sussex’s chest. “Conjure the images. As I taught you.”
Sussex nodded and attempted to settle into the pillow underneath his head. He recalled the Van Gogh-Brunel exhibition he had taken in two summers ago. With a flair for the dramatic which the engineer prided himself in indulging, Henry Marc Brunel had purchased several original Van Goghs, cut out specific shapes from the one-of-a-kinds, and created dioramas with mechanical movement. He had called it automa-art, while artists far
and wide called it an effrontery to Van Gogh and his legacy. As for Sussex’s own opinion, it was quite the contrary. He dared not share this with anyone. Not even Ivy. Such a common thing, this automa-art; but in secret, he found it charming. So, he committed this one work—Starry Night with Rolling Clouds and Rising Moon—to memory, with its clockwork melody of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” softly tinkling in the background.
He would not let this temper of his bring all he had achieved to ruin.
“Peter,” came the voice of his physician, his friend, “don’t dwell. You must relax before we can talk about it. Find your solitude, and grant yourself the moment’s peace.”
Without protest, Sussex focused on the various shades of yellow rotating against one another, emulating star-shine, while Beethoven’s sonata played.
“Excellent, Peter.” His praise also lifted his spirits. “Now after I count to ten, I want you to slowly open your eyes, and then bring yourself up to a sitting position. You may be dizzy at first, but this will pass. Remember to breathe deeply. One . . . two . . . three . . . now begin to remove the sound from your solitude. Look upon it in silence.”
The Moonlight Sonata diminished. Softer. Softer. He wasn’t ready to leave this place.
He should have bought the piece. Society and artists alike be damned.
“Four . . . five . . . six . . . remove any colours you might see,” the doctor said gently. “Don’t worry. This place will be waiting for you whenever you wish to return.”
Yellows faded into white while the blue grew darker and darker, until finally the night was black. So it went with the various hues, their colours seeming to melt like snow under sunlight. Soon it would be a flat, barren vista before him.
“Seven . . . eight . . . dim the lights, Peter. Just for a moment. And then, see the world again. Properly.”
It was time to return. He knew that. The diorama slipped into darkness, inky black tendrils slipping around and between any open space. Soon, there would only be darkness.
“Nine . . . ten.”
Sussex slowly opened his eyes. His friend’s gaze was not judgemental or even condescending, but warm and assuring, much like the tiny, confident fire burning in the hearth.
“Welcome back, Peter,” the doctor said, extending a snifter to him.
As Sussex pulled himself up, the room felt as if it listed sharply for a moment; but it was only for a moment. He paused, waited for the room to become level once more, and then resumed his ascent.
“Good to be back,” Sussex sighed, taking the snifter. He had to get rid of this foul taste on his tongue.
“This must have been a bad one.”
“I couldn’t stop it.” He took a drink and gave start. The amber liquid scorched its way down his throat, but oddly enough it did remove the chill. Still, hardly what he expected. “What kind of brandy is this?”
“It’s unlike any brandy you’ll find,” the doctor said with a small chuckle. “It’s scotch.”
Sussex sneered. “Ah, yes, I forgot you were a scotch drinker.”
“A taste for a more refined palette.”
The Duke rolled his eyes at that. “Bugger off.”
“Such language from the private secretary of Her Majesty.” The young man clicked his tongue as he crossed over to the small collection of decanters. As he poured himself a drink, he continued with, “What will the higher minds of Her Majesty’s Council think?”
“You’re my physician,” Sussex growled. “I’m allowed.”
“Perhaps.” The doctor pushed his hair back. Sussex marvelled at how young his friend appeared. It defied logic that he was a mere lad of twenty-two years and yet brilliant in his practice beyond such years. “So, as your physician, why don’t you tell me about tonight?”
Sussex bowed his head. He was uncertain if it was the scotch or the fit that was making his head fuzzy. “I—” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to kill a man tonight.”
“Was this a professional acquaintance, or personal?”
He looked up from his drink. How much could he tell? “Both.”
The doctor scoffed and shook his head. “Peter, I’m sure you meet a good amount of peo—”
“No, I mean, I wanted to kill a man. I saw myself picking up the figurine. I could taste his blood on my lips. And when he left . . .” He should not have been able to do what he did, but that didn’t change what had happened. By morning, Fenning would have made certain any and all evidence of the incident were gone. “I destroyed my gramophone.”
“An interesting transference there.”
The humour went without acknowledgement. “I threw it across the room.”
“I see.” Setting aside the drink cradled in his hands, Sussex’s physician lowered himself to one knee and checked each eye carefully. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Not well.”
The doctor’s youthful face hardened, and Sussex swore he watched it age ten years in that instant. “I need to know, so do not play elusive with me—have you been feeling a build towards tonight?”
Sussex swallowed hard. There had been the night the Maestro left him the summons. Then the evening in that madman’s company. “Yes,” he admitted. “I think it has been. A slow build, but a build nonetheless.”
“I was afraid of that,” his doctor said with a sigh.
“What do you mean?”
“You may be developing a tolerance to your medication.” The doctor stood up and turned back to the hearth, his own eyes staring into its flames. “I’m wondering if suppressing that temperament of yours is something akin to a dam, and once that dam begins to fail . . .”
“No, it can’t fail,” Sussex implored. “I can’t fail. Not when I have come this far . . .”
“No,” his friend said. “No you cannot, Peter. With everything we have accomplished together, I am not going to see you fall. Not now.” He polished off the drink and then went to his desk. From a smaller selection of books held by two small bookends, he pulled out a volume and flipped through its pages. He stopped, nodded, and then proceeded a few more pages. “The good news is your dosage is still within safe limits. There’s always a risk involved when changing a routine, of course, but I believe this is one worth taking.”
“Are you certain?” Sussex asked. He took another breath and said, “I know your treatments have been incredible. I sleep quite peacefully, a welcome change to be sure; but . . .”
“Yes, Peter?”
“But usually I can remember dreams. Or at least I am aware of dreaming. Since taking your prescription—”
“I did warn you that this could be a side effect to the treatment.”
Sussex nodded. “You did. You did.” He took another deep drink of the scotch. His options were few. Actually, they were all of one. “Are you certain the risks are worth taking?”
His friend closed the book with a soft snap. “I’m a physician, Peter. I have your best interests at heart.”
Sussex nodded. Yes, this would make things right. “Thank you, Henry. Thank you so much.”
He was so very lucky to have a doctor he could trust implicitly. Not everyone was so fortunate.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Where Our Dashing Archivist Finally Gets in the Last Word with Our Colonial Pepperpot
Wellington gazed up the height of his analytical engine. It was more than just a tower of modern technology, but his own personal triumph. Even those arrogant schlockworkers in Research & Design could not fathom how he did it, nor could they replicate it. Not without his plans. Of course, Axelrod and Blackwell could have tried to dismantle it, deduced how he had solved the computation delay, managed the timing of the cogs, and kept in flawless order the various commands that did everything from play Mozart to file away artifacts from the field to make a fine pot of Assam. He wondered if it was coming down here and having to deal with him directly, that held those clankertons at bay.
He placed a hand on the outer pipes, feeling their slight warmth—again,
another mystery he had solved in keeping the analytical engine at a precise temperature—and gave a long, hollow sigh. Should anything befall him over in the Americas, there would only be the redoubtable Miss Shillingworth to protect the engine.
Reaching down to the ring of keys, he slipped the smallest of them into a keyhole, releasing six latches with a single turn. The compact keyboard and tiny monitor slid free of the main housing, and with a slight groan he hefted the contraption onto his desk. While lacking a bit in the power of its mother engine, it would serve them well in the Americas. Perhaps as well as it had served him in interfacing with the ETS in order to track his reluctant partner on that fateful summer day.
He glanced back at where the keyboard and monitor had been hiding in plain view, and the gap did not appear as anything extraordinary. He grinned at his little touch of detail in that, and how his design was the reason this secondary keyboard had remained his little secret. Even with Eliza staring at him from the other side of the desk, Wellington didn’t worry about tipping his hand about this portable analytical engine of his. She might have noticed that the keyboard and monitor collapsed neatly not only in its hiding place, but onto itself, reducing the array to a mere twenty pounds.
Eliza might have observed quite a few details about what he was packing for their journey across the Atlantic, if she hadn’t been staring at him so intently.
“Eliza,” Wellington sighed, “shouldn’t you be arming yourself with the assistance of Axelrod and Blackwell? Or is this how you usually prepare for a mission abroad—by staring at your partner?”
“All. This. Time.”
Ah, this conversation—the one he had been dreading since their free fall. Here it was.
Wellington placed the key in a different hole and gave it three quick turns. There was a hiss and several pearlescent puffs as four palm-sized objects resembling perfectly smooth bricks slid free of the engine. Inside the case on his desk, he lowered a protective panel over the secured interface, and slid two of the four bricks into indentations that fit them perfectly.
