Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  The silence that followed was awkward and shared by all present.

  Finally, Southworth cleared his throat. “Very well, ma’am. Amanda.”

  She lifted one corner of her mouth in a forced smile.

  “I’ll talk with the governor after dinner,” Mrs. LaFaye hastened.

  “Excellent.” Southworth held his arms behind his back and left.

  Coming up with a machine that would do every kind of stirring necessary in the well-run kitchen was more challenging than Amanda had expected in her fit of inspiration. Unlike the other things she’d created so far, it would require some basic AI to tell the little motor how the stirring apparatus should move. Thus, she dipped her toe hesitantly into the pool of AI creation and found the waters to her liking. In early December, she finished the machine just in time for Christmas preparations and presented it proudly.

  Lilly was making blueberry scones that day, a true test of the folding setting on the device. If it didn’t work, Byron was going to have some pastries that were a rather icky blue color for dessert. She held her breath as the maid plugged the stirring machine into the wall, inserted it into the dough, and turned it on a low setting.

  Mrs. LaFay watched, as did Ellie, Jane, and the two footmen, all of whom had snuck in to watch the demonstration.

  The metal arm of the apparatus began to gently lift and turn the dough.

  Everyone cheered and clapped, and Amanda let out a breath and relaxed her shoulders. Lilly giggled, and went on folding.

  “Congratulations,” Mrs. LaFaye nodded after Lilly turned off the machine and set it on the counter.

  “Thank you.” Amanda’s chest swelled with pride. It might not be high-functioning, and it might not be anything that could benefit a large business, but it was something. “How many do you think you can use?”

  As she turned to face the cook, the warmth in her chest seemed to grow until it choked her at the sight of Byron standing in the doorway, watching her.

  “I imagine we could make use of three of them,” Mrs. LaFaye answered obliviously. “What else can it do?”

  She barely heard the words. Byron held her gaze for half a second, then vanished down the hall.

  She blinked, heart pounding, wondering how long he’d been there.

  “Three?” she said at last, focusing again on the cook’s round, pleasant face. “Three… yes, I’ll work on it.”

  “Are you all right, Miss Amanda?” Ellie asked.

  Amanda shook her head. “I’m not feeling well. I think I might go and have a bath.”

  She found Mary sitting in the servants’ dining room and gripped her arms. “I think Byron saw me,” she whispered.

  Mary helped her creep up the back stairway and bathe and change. All the while her heart beat furiously in anticipation of the confrontation with her husband.

  Why had she not told him sooner what she was doing? Had her first lie just turned her into a blasted deceiver who lied for the fun of it? Why should he care? He had hired—married—her to invent things. Weren’t household labor-saving devices better than the nothing he thought she was creating?

  Dinner that night was silent. Byron ate without looking at her, without even relating his day to her or asking how her day had been. The two just ate in thick silence, and Amanda’s heart continued to pound.

  Finally when they were nearly finished with dessert, Byron laid down his fork and cleared his throat.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  She picked at her scone and said nothing.

  “Amanda…” He hesitated, then reached over and touched her hand. “I saw what you made.”

  She still said nothing. She felt the weight of her lies pressing down on her, like a flour sack on each shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

  She couldn’t meet those brown eyes. She couldn’t. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him. “I thought you wouldn’t care.”

  He kept his fingers on her hand. “What do you mean?”

  She shot a glance up at him, chest tightening. “You want something grand. You want something you can show to the factories, and the senate, and the Tyrellian Corporation, and sweep them off their feet so that you can change the world. You don’t want… dusters and sweepers and mixers…”

  “Wait…” He pulled his hand back. “Dusters? Sweepers?”

  She looked back down and said nothing.

  “Amanda,” he went on, “I hired you to create things because I saw something in you that I trusted. I saw a creativity in you, a way of looking at problems that was different than everyone else. I saw what you’d done with your father’s mill. I hired you because I thought that you could succeed where everyone else had failed, not because you thought bigger—but because you thought smaller.”

  Frowning, she peeked up at him again and found the brown eyes fixed on her.

  “Sometimes I think too enormously. I needed someone who could look at a problem and fix it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  The weight eased. Maybe—maybe the lie of the AI machines wasn’t the only reason he’d wanted her. Maybe—there was a grain of truth in what he’d thought of her after all.

  “But I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t tell me. To be honest… I was starting to worry after all these months when you hadn’t made anything new. I was starting to worry that you were—pardon the vulgarity—something of a one-trick pony.”

  She smiled slightly.

  “But. I can see I was right to take a chance on you. I think these devices of yours could be highly marketable. The mixer, for instance—couldn’t it be applied in a restaurant or a grocery? Will you tell me about your inventions, please?”

  And with those eyes on her, she forced the last persistent weight away, and began to tell him.

  The next day, she was interrupted by a knock on her workroom door while she sat at her desk, crafting another stirring machine. She looked up, expecting to see Mary with a call to luncheon or perhaps even just to talk. Instead, she saw Byron’s face peeking through the space between the door and the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as she started, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I finished early and thought you might like to take a walk.”

  The suggestion stirred the clouds that had finally begun to lay dormant in her heart. “A walk?” she reiterated.

  “To discuss the upcoming festivities,” he explained.

  So she went.

  But they didn’t discuss the upcoming ball. Instead, he was quiet for the greater part of the stroll—no rambling about AI or auditory contract law or the Tyrellian corporation. He just walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back.

  At last he spoke without looking at her. “Are you happy here?”

  It startled her. She stole a glance at his face, but his eyes were as unreadable as the Latin science book she’d opened earlier.

  “I think so,” she said.

  He didn’t reply to this at first, then he said, “I owe you an apology.”

  She looked at him again, less shyly this time. “For what?”

  “I didn’t realize—or I suppose, I didn’t think—what a position I was putting you in when I brought you here. I thought only of myself and my agenda. And for that, I am deeply sorry.”

  She hastened to assure him that no, she was grateful for the opportunity, but he went on before she could.

  “It grieves me that you felt you had to hide your creations from me. It makes me realize how—lonely things must have been.”

  “I’ve become friends with the servants,” she said, shushing the flapping wings in her stomach.

  “I know, and I’m glad of that, but…” Here he seemed to struggle. “I realize I’ve—left you without any honorable prospects for more intimate companionship. That is, I don’t mean…” here he actually blushed, “I don’t mean purely carnal, you understand, I just… I’ve put you in a bad situation, and I am deeply sorry.”

  She felt the urge to deny it, bu
t she was so very tired of lying. She felt the truth of it, felt it deeply.

  “You take very good care of me,” was all she could say. But the words made her heart ache.

  “I would like to take better care of you, though,” he protested. “I would like to… truly be a husband to you. You have done so much for me, and I would like to act rightly by you.”

  Her heart ached more still with the words, a reaction she hadn’t been expecting. She had done nothing at all for him. She should tell him the truth. She should.

  “What are you proposing?” she said at last.

  He looked down at his shoes, giving her the impression of an awkward little boy rather than an intelligent, capable leader.

  “You are my wife,” he said slowly. “I would like now to… win your heart.”

  What was there to say to this? Yes, all right. Do that. Though to be honest, you’ve already won it. How, I’m not at all certain. Because you’re certainly right about all you’ve just said about yourself.

  None of that would do, of course. So instead, she said, “What should I wear to the ball?”

  He smiled a little. “I think red might be your color.”

  She agreed.

  In the two weeks that remained before the ball, Byron took to coming home for luncheon every day and asking her to take a walk or ride with him. He always said he wanted to discuss the fast-approaching ball, but strangely, he hardly ever talked about it once they were out of the house. And he didn’t talk quite as much about AI or politics, either. He listened. Really listened. Listened while she talked of science and the mill and her father, and listened while she talked of her mother and the war. He took her shopping for the perfect red silk for her ball gown, then shipped it to the most expensive seamstress in New England. He walked her up to her room every evening and said goodnight before he retreated down the hall to his own room.

  And she would watch after him until he disappeared into the dark, and feel an odd sense of something missing.

  She saw less of the servants now, other than Mary, but they were so busy they wouldn’t have had any time to spend on her, regardless. There was rearranging to be done, cooking trials to be performed, special uniforms to be washed and pressed and mended, decorations to be put up. In the mornings, Amanda kept working on the other two stirring machines, but the rest of her time was taken up helping oversee things, or spending time with Byron.

  Since that one conversation—the one she held locked up inside her heart—he hadn’t said a word about winning her heart or being a true husband to her, but she had no reason to think he had forgotten. One afternoon, two days before the ball, he brought her flowers, handing them to her with again the shy demeanor of a schoolboy.

  “Thank you,” she smiled. And he smiled back.

  The big day finally arrived. Amanda had thought at first that she was supposed to be dressed and ready before the occasion started, to greet “her” guests as they arrived, but Mary explained that it would be customary for the lady of the house to make a grand entrance after everyone was already in the ballroom.

  Which made Amanda very nervous indeed.

  “I don’t know any of them,” she protested. “And I don’t know how to behave.”

  Mary laughed as she brushed through her mistress’s hair. “You know how to curtsy and say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you for coming,’ don’t you?”

  “Well yes…”

  “And you know how to dance, and how to eat without making a mess?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then you know how to behave.”

  Finally, Amanda was cinched and pulled and laced into her dress, bedecked with jewelry, and had her hair piled in a mess of curls and twists on top of her head. Mary stepped back to admire her handiwork, and the satisfied smile on her face was better than any mirror Amanda could have asked for.

  “You’re ready. Now breathe deep.”

  “As deep as I can in this corset,” Amanda said.

  Mary smiled. “Yes, as deep as you can.” She backed towards the door, opened it, and said, “Careful going down the stairs.”

  Then she stepped aside.

  Feeling like a china doll, Amanda began to glide as gracefully as she could out of her room and down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she breathed in deeply, not sure if the pain in her chest was from her corset or from the anticipation. Partly of greeting a room full of strangers, and partly the primary thought coursing through her mind.

  What will Byron think of me?

  She started down the stairs.

  The sounds of the party grew louder as she moved downwards, and soon she could see the lights and the many colors of ball gowns, and the fewer shades of gray suits.

  As she reached the last dozen steps, someone must have caught sight of her, and the room began to hush. She sought the sea of faces for one in particular and found it, near the foot of the stairs.

  Byron’s face was all she could have hoped for.

  He took her hand to help her down the last couple steps and whispered in her ear, “You look beautiful.”

  Then they danced.

  Ever after, Amanda could barely remember the evening. There was a constant stream of music from some unknown location, there were people greeting her and wishing her well this holiday season, there was dancing until she thought she would explode. There was fine food and drinks, and there were ladies who said she really must call on them sometime, and there were so very many fine dresses, but she barely saw them because the only dress that mattered was the one she saw reflected in her husband’s eyes, because it had brought her praise.

  All she remembered clearly was that when at last everyone had gone, the two of them escaped to the top of the stairs and sat, watching the servants cleaning quietly down below.

  “You were wonderful tonight,” he said at last.

  “Thank you,” she said, heart pounding beneath her corset.

  He touched her face, sending thrills over her body. “You really are beautiful.”

  She looked up at him and let herself be lost in the eyes.

  Then he kissed her.

  Her heart melted into the kiss, and she wrapped her arms around him. He reciprocated, pulling her body close to his until she felt sure that he must feel her heart beating through the wonderful dress, corset and all.

  He ended the kiss, and whispered in her ear. “Do you love me?”

  Her heart burst, and she whispered back, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Several hours passed before they slept.

  IX.

  Once Upon a Dream

  It was strange waking up with her husband’s arms around her. The morning found her torn between a state of joy and gut-twisting fear. Her husband loved her. The rush of emotion made her feel warm with happiness.

  She shifted, wondering if he was still asleep. He seemed to be.

  But trepidation warred with the feelings of delight. What if she were to become pregnant?

  In the heat of the moment she hadn’t considered this possibility, but now, in the morning light, the possibility weighed on her. She had no great desire for children, had never been one of those girls who longed for her own offspring. But she assumed that if she did have one, she would not be inclined to give it up. Worse still, if she had a child, and the little man appeared somehow and demanded it—Byron would have to know the truth.

  Upon which knowledge, he would no doubt despise her.

  She could always tell her husband she wanted to avoid having children. As far as she knew he had no special desire for them, and would no doubt defer to her wishes. He was always very considerate, even when she had been merely his employee. But what reason could she possibly give? Say she wanted to focus on her inventions, perhaps?

  Maybe she wouldn’t get pregnant. It had taken her mother five years, she knew, and while some of her friends who had married had borne children immediately, others had struggled to conceive.

  Or maybe she could just have one
child and give it up, then have more to take its place.

  She frowned. That was terrible. One child could not replace another She knew better.

  If he did find out, how could he force her to give up her child, anyway? How could he prove that she had agreed to such an outrageous proposal?

  She shivered.

  The motion woke her husband, and he moved beside her and stretched. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

  She turned to face him with a smile that was half forced and half shining from her heart. “Yes.”

  He kissed her, and she relaxed in his embrace.

  After all, she wasn’t pregnant yet. And maybe she never would be.

  Timing could be a funny thing. When her one year anniversary rolled around, Amanda was tremendously happy, and immensely enjoyed the party that her husband held in honor of their union. She and Byron were closer than she had ever dreamed, and she was creating, new things every month. The more she made, the more ideas she had. Byron even reported that the sheer practicality of her creations seemed to give the Tyrellian corporation pause in their efforts against him. After all, what was threatening in a machine to sew or to stir or to clean? And the unions were beginning to admit that such things could perhaps give people safer jobs rather than taking their jobs away.

  But in the pauses between one event and another, she felt a weight settle on her. Not a weight of certainty, but of fear.

  As the guests were moving from the library into the ballroom to dance, she pulled Janine into a corner and whispered, “I think I’m pregnant.”

  Janine blinked her luminescent blue eyes at her. “What is pregnant?”

  “It’s when you’re going to have a child. Have a baby.”

  “Oh,” Janine replied. Amanda wasn’t sure how much she’d picked up on this topic, but she nodded as if she understood. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Does Master Byron know?”

  Amanda’s gaze drifted to the ballroom, where her husband was talking and laughing with some other men around his age.