A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  “One of our first objectives will be to register you as a voter.” She gathered her skirts and started up the ladder.

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Mr. Reeve’s lazy drawl followed her. “I am entirely in your hands.”

  He managed to imbue the innocent sentence with the lightest of innuendo so that she remembered the controlled strength of his handshake, the warmth and his pleasant aroma of bay rum.

  Most unsettling.

  She came on deck and breathed deeply of the cold, fresh air, aware that her lightly laced corset felt unusually confining.

  “All sorted?” Uncle Henry asked. There was a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  His gaze traveled over her shoulder to Mr. Reeve.

  “It should be an interesting experience,” that gentleman said.

  “Esme’s always interesting.”

  “Humph. When should we expect you home, Uncle?”

  “I thought as how I might walk up with you.”

  “Oh good.” She smiled in relief and satisfaction. Uncle Henry’s presence would neatly cement the idea that Mr. Reeve was his friend. It would add another layer of respectability to the enterprise.

  Respectability, Esme had long ago learned, was the very devil.

  She took her uncle’s arm and looked back at Mr. Reeve. “Let’s go.”

  Esme Smith was a bossy baggage, Jed decided. Not that he minded. Only weak men resented a strong-minded woman. He was accustomed to them: Grandma, Mom, his sister Charlotte, Aunt Meg. And walking behind Esme had definite benefits. He enjoyed the slight sway of her hips beneath their fashionable bustle and her ankles had been trim and attractive when she’d climbed the ladder.

  He tore his gaze from the mesmerizing bustle.

  The port of Fremantle was interesting, too, if not as innocently provocative. It was very much a working port with steam-powered cranes and rail lines for a small locomotive that ran up the long jetty. Horses waited patiently, hitched to carts, and boys ran here and there, pushing barrows. Porters moved between them all, loud, brusque and profane.

  Warehouses framed the scene: liquor, linens, soap and foodstuffs. The harbor master’s tower flew a storm of flags. They probably communicated a great deal, but Jed had never learned their language. At anchor were sailing boats and trawlers, coal hulks and lighters. Steamships and skimmer-boats bobbed beside them, showing the way of the future. Boatyards echoed with hammering and shouting.

  “It does get quieter when we’re away from the wharf,” Esme said over her shoulder.

  He nodded, quite happy simply to be on land, then skipped aside as a horse-drawn tram approached. It added another layer of clatter to the noise as well as color. For heaven alone knew what reason, someone had painted it orange and purple.

  Once past the warehouses, the town proper emerged. The buildings were mostly limestone. Clearly a local stone. It was light, nearly white in color, with the older buildings fading to a less appealing grey. A few buildings were built of brick, mostly pubs, of which there were one or more on every corner. Success was a thirsty business. Still older buildings showed the colony as it must have been before the goldrush transformed it—ramshackle wooden buildings, thrown up by poor men scrabbling for a living.

  But now, the High Street proclaimed its prosperity proudly. Clocks leaned over the street on wrought-iron arms from every third or fourth shop, their faces painted with a variety of maritime scenes. The footpaths on either side were wide and slightly raised, taking them above the street level where there was mud despite the paved road. The buildings were two story, with corrugated iron verandas to shelter pedestrians from the weather.

  Jed tugged his hat down firmly against the swirling gusts of wind. The coachman hat he wore was specially made to his directions. It resembled a cut-down top hat and he used the space in the crown to store lightweight valuables—designs and notes of credit.

  They passed apothecaries, barbers, drapers, tailors, booksellers, cobblers, saddlers, two bakeries, a dining room and a circulating library. Each plastered their walls and windows with enticing advertisements.

  Genuine beeswax candles.

  Finest phonographs.

  Toys!!!

  Have your photograph taken. Don’t let your loved ones forget you.

  Raw wooden poles strung telephone lines in straggly rows occasionally interspersed with gas lamp posts. Traffic lights controlled the busy roads. A telegraph office promised immediate service. Get the latest from the London Stock Exchange!

  Fremantle was a town coming of age in the era of steam and technology and proud of its own modernity.

  Jed felt a surge of anticipation that wasn’t just because of the attractive woman striding ahead of him.

  “Henry! You’re back.” A stocky man in working clothes as disreputable as Captain Fellowes’s hailed them.

  Captain Fellowes disengaged his arm from his niece. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Miss Smith sighed. “We might as well walk on. Mr. Amberley is an inventor. He’ll want to discuss his latest automaton, and Uncle Henry is always interested.”

  “Do you disapprove of inventors?” Jed asked as he offered her his arm.

  The light clasp of her hand said she accepted from politeness and not necessity. She strode briskly, although the streets were now definitely on the upward incline.

  It felt good, after the weeks aboard the skimmer-boat, to stretch his muscles. The houses were becoming wider spaced and grander, though lines of washing and kitchen gardens still stretched between them. A few chickens pecked in the dirt. An evil-eyed goat chewed at the rope that tied it to a fencepost.

  “No, I don’t disapprove of inventors. Father’s an architect by training, although he took up gold prospecting—that’s what he’s doing now. He says town life doesn’t suit him and prospecting does. I think he’s still mourning Mother. Anyway, Father’s fascinated with design and Uncle Henry was an engineer before Father bought him his own skimmer-boat. I grew up listening to discussions of how things could be improved. Inventors perform a useful function in society. In a way, my political ambitions are part of that same spirit of advancement. We can’t simply sit still.”

  “I doubt you ever do.”

  She flashed a smile at him. “True.”

  A child ran past, hitting a fast rolling hoop with a stick to keep it spinning. A horse shied and its rider cursed. A passing matron took exception to the language. She snapped open her umbrella and the horse reared in earnest.

  “This way.” Esme tugged him down another street. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask newcomers their impression of our town, so I’ll ask instead how it feels to have solid land under your feet?”

  “With all respect to Captain Fellowes’s boat, it feels darned good.” He stamped a booted foot for emphasis.

  She laughed. “Across the road is Mrs. Hall’s boarding house. I took the liberty of booking a room for a friend of the family. Mrs. Hall hasn’t a sense of humor and she rations her words, but she keeps a clean house and cooks well.”

  “Thank you.”

  For once, she hesitated and he thought she’d caught the irony in his response. But no. She was considering her own plans.

  “I did think of accommodations in Perth. The capital is twelve miles upriver, but the ferry service is efficient or there’s the train, and this way you’ll be nearby for briefing.”

  “I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant on the Swan River Colony and its arrangements.”

  “Most newcomers are.” She forgave him. “They hear gold and not much else. But we weren’t always rich. The colony started in 1829 with the first settlers arriving under the governorship of Sir James Stirling. He led them to expect a southern Eden, but the soils are quite poor. The success of the native trees and grasses weren’t replicated with the seeds and plants brought out from England. For a few decades the colony struggled, to the point that settlers wrote to London requesting convicts.” Disapproval laced her voice.

&n
bsp; “You’ll have seen the Roundhouse on arriving, the octagonal limestone building on Arthurs Head? It was the colony’s first and smallest prison. But with the petition for convict labor, we built that monstrosity.” She waved her free hand to indicate a towering limestone wall a couple of streets over. “A terrible thing. Many of the transported convicts were little more than minor forgers or servants who’d stolen some household goods from their miserly masters. Fortunately, the transportation of convicts stopped in the ’sixties. We still have some former convicts, ticket of leave men, in the colony, but apart from the upper levels of society, everyone simply accepts who they are now.”

  “You sound quite the radical.”

  “Is that a polite way of asking if my family were convicts?”

  “No.” He blinked at the fierce unexpectedness of the question.

  “They weren’t.”

  “It wouldn’t matter to me if they were,” he said seriously. “I don’t believe the biblical wisdom of visiting the sins of the father on the child.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I apologize. The colony has recently become decidedly status conscious. It irks me. Father might have found a fortune in gold, but our family is proudly ordinary. I have little patience for the social maneuverings and pinpricks many women of the upper class delight in—and since I started my Women’s Advancement League, the pinpricks have increased. I should ignore them…”

  “But some of them sting?”

  “Yes.” She released his arm, but only to open a gate set in a stone and wrought-iron fence. The garden within was green and handsome even if in winter the rosebushes had lost their leaves and the water fountain in the center had ceased flowing. The empty basin showed a mosaic in the Roman fashion. Benches were scattered among winter-naked saplings and a sharply mechanical sundial. Tattered remnants of tinsel hung from an eight-foot pine tree, violets flourishing among its fallen needles and in the shade of a south-facing wall.

  A mid-sized dog scampered up to greet Miss Smith, then sniff warily at his boots.

  “Kelly, friend,” she said and the dog stepped back a pace and sat, its brown eyes and pointed ears alert.

  “I’ve not seen a dog like this one before.” He held his hand out for a sniff, and having passed inspection, scratched between the mutt’s reddish-brown ears. The short fur was soft.

  “He’s a kelpie, an Australian sheep dog. Dingoes are the native dogs, like dusty small wolves. People crossed them with English working dogs to get a tough, loyal breed. A kelpie will follow its owner anywhere.” A fact the dog proved by trotting back to Miss Smith and falling into step at her heel.

  The house matched the expansive but new garden.

  It was double story, not counting a high-pitched roof that undoubtedly held substantial attic space. The local limestone was used again, brightly white, with red bricks and green painted gutter work. On both levels deep verandas wrapped the house. It was a statement of magnificent self-confidence, and yet, neither fashionable nor extreme. It simply sat at the top of the hill and commanded the town.

  Miss Smith had undoubtedly inherited her air of command from the man who’d built this house.

  But for all the grandeur of the mansion, she brought them in the kitchen entrance.

  A black and white tomcat lay curled on a braided rug in front of a modern range. It opened its eyes and blinked once in welcome, ignoring the dog.

  “Miss Esme!” The scandalized reproach came from a plump middle-aged woman in a spotless white apron. The navy cuffs of her sleeves were folded back and her hands covered in flour.

  “It’s all right, Maud. Mr. Reeve has seen a kitchen before. He’s a friend of Uncle Henry’s and he’s going to help me with my Women’s Advancement League. He’s here for tea. Uncle Henry should be along, too, but Mr. Amberley caught him.”

  “That man.” Maud sniffed.

  Miss Smith turned to Jed. “Mr. Reeve, please meet Mrs. Washburn, housekeeper, cook and presiding genius of the house.”

  Maud looked doubtfully at her floury hands, shrugged and nodded a greeting. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He smiled. “Kitchens are among my favorite places and this one smells particularly good.” There was a hint of spice, like Christmas minced pies, in the air.

  “We’ll be in the library, Maud, if Lucy could bring through a tray, please?”

  “Aye. My tea cakes will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “With Uncle Henry’s impeccable timing, he’ll probably arrive as they come out of the oven. This way, Mr. Reeve.”

  He and Kelly followed her, the dog’s nails clicking on the polished floorboards and then silenced as they crossed a tiled hallway and entered a large room with expensive Persian carpets scattered about. Deep shelves lined three walls filled with leather-bound encyclopedias, brightly jacketed fiction and stacks of cheaply printed journals, with many empty spaces for future additions to the esoteric collection that rubbed shoulders with the books. There were shells, ivory carvings, geological specimens, brass instruments, a globe of the world and astrolabe, even a violin. Intricate puzzles carved of wood or fashioned in metal made his fingers twitch to investigate how they came apart and fitted back together. A solid side table held a phonograph which looked to have two trumpets. A diving suit stood in the corner like an improbable suit of armour, flanked by a waist-high bronze elephant with its trunk raised.

  It was a working library, the home of people insatiably curious. On the walls, between shelves, were excellent reproductions of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches, slightly enlarged.

  The dog headed automatically for a blanket folded near the fireplace. It lay down and watched its mistress’s movements.

  “Have a seat,” she invited.

  But she didn’t sit herself and Jed’s mother had drummed some manners into her boys.

  He crossed instead to the fireplace and its welcome warmth. The wood smoke smelled unlike anything he’d encountered before. It held a faint trace of menthol, very comforting with the storm drawing in and darkening the winter sky. It was little things like alien smoke that reminded a man that he was in a strange land. Literally on the other side of the world.

  Miss Smith gathered up some papers from a lady’s writing desk and put them aside. “I left in somewhat of a hurry when Francis reported Uncle Henry’s boat had been sighted.” She left the desk and sank into a leather armchair. “Do sit down.”

  He chose a chair the pair to hers and stretched out his legs to the fire.

  “Now, Miss Smith, tell me about my new job.”

  Chapter Three

  Esme contemplated the fire for a moment, idly scratching Kelly’s ears. If she wasn’t careful, her eyes had a tendency to stray from the flames of the cheerfully crackling jarrah wood to the relaxed yet elegant figure of Mr. Jedediah Reeve. Her skin-prickling awareness of him was new and strange. Other men visited and never had this effect.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. Whenever she saw Mr. Nicholas Bambury the Third, the skin over the nape of her neck crawled. But that was an unpleasant sensation, whereas Mr. Reeve—

  He caught her looking and smiled as if they were long-standing friends, comfortable to sit together. He gave no indications of impatience that she appeared to have forgotten his question.

  In fact, she was contemplating it. How did one tell a man such as Mr. Reeve—and my, wasn’t that a square and stubborn jaw. One quite overlooked it, masked as it was by his easy smile. Hmm, how did one tell him that his job was simply to be her puppet?

  She folded her hands in her lap. Beside the chair, Kelly lay down, head between paws.

  “Swan River is a typical British colony, which is to say relatively free, but burdened with a lot of outdated notions. Queen Victoria came to the throne a couple of years after we were founded, and as you know, she’s just celebrated her Diamond Jubilee. But what is quite an achievement for a monarch, is a mere handful of years for a human settlement.”

  “The American West has a
similar youth.”

  “Then you’ll understand the mix of energy and insecurity. We have wealth, Mr. Reeve, but we’re not sure of our own identity. The question is acute because the Eastern colonies, led by the cities of Sydney and Melbourne, are pushing for the creation of a single Australian nation.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d favor such independence.”

  “I do. As colonies, we are always ripe for exploitation. I’ve read of the wealth Britain drained from India, leaving millions in poverty. We have a significant Indian population here, people intent on building better lives for themselves and their families. The racism they face is one of the issues that infuriates me. We might be a young colony, but we’re riddled with idiotic nonsense from what some idiots refer to as ‘Mother Britain.’ Indians are second-class citizens. Women aren’t citizens at all. Nor are the Aboriginal people of this country. Phooey. I do not want Swan River to join a nation that is intent on perpetuating these terrible injustices and boot-licking Britain, which has done nothing for us, nothing but exploit our mining and farming resources.”

  She inhaled, energised by the passion with which she fought for everyone’s rights. “Mr. Reeve, I am a secessionist. I believe Swan River should form its own nation. We have the land and the wealth and our population is growing in leaps and bounds. We have the never-to-be-repeated opportunity to create a nation of justice for all. That is what I want you to argue for me in the men’s clubs and government rooms where I, by virtue of being a woman, am currently barred.”

  “In other words, in pursuit of your political ambitions, I am to be the monkey to your organ grinder.”

  “That is hardly the way I’d phrase it.”

  “Perhaps you prefer puppet?”

  The accuracy of his comment brought color to her cheeks. “I indicated the nature of the job onboard the skimmer-boat—and you accepted.”

  “I did. But now I wonder that you couldn’t find a man in the colony to fill the role. Surely there must be some among them that share your views.”