“Calculations for this counterstate aetheric conductor I am devising. It is giving me some trouble. You know algebra?”
Imogene shook her head.
“No, of course not. No university for parlourmaids, I suppose.” The dimples took the sting out of it.
Imogene didn’t tell her that she’d no schooling whatsoever. She didn’t want to sink any further in the inventor’s regard.
Back at the shed, Madame Lefoux gave her the tea tray. “Tell Henry to send you along with my luncheon. Enough for two, please.”
Ah, thought Imogene, sadly, the mysterious husband must be joining her.
She returned to the house, feeling heavy, fantasizing about dimples. Stupid dimples.
* * *
The rest of the morning, Imogene went about her normal duties even more like a sleepwalker than before.
Henry dragged her aside mid-morning, quite cross. His hand around her arm was tight enough to bruise. “What have you done to our inventor?”
“Nothing, I swear. I only brought her the tea, as you instructed.” Although you didn’t warn me not to disturb her work. It occurred to Imogene then to resent Henry. Had he known what would happen? Was he being intentionally malicious?
The footman planted his feet and stared down his nose at her. He was tall, like all good footmen ought to be. The Woolsey Hive took care in choosing its male staff – their footmen all matched in height and hair color. “Well, Drone Lefoux just came by the kitchens, which she never does, to make certain you had delivered the message about her luncheon tray.”
Imogene shrugged. “Surely she only wished to ensure there was enough food for herself and her husband? It has naught to do with me.”
Henry’s frown deepened. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is no husband.”
Imogene felt a wave of relief crash through her body. Not that it signified. Not that she could hope that it meant Madame Lefoux was something like her. But she did hope. Because, God, those dimples and those eyes and that lean body and the waistcoat which Imogene would unbutton slowly and the tiny bit of white throat where the top button was open which would be soft under her lips and… STOP!
Henry was railing. “Are you trying to steal my duties? I service the lab, not the parlourmaid. This morning was meant to be an exception. I was desperate because Monty is out sick, and you were here. Now she comes by special to make sure it’s you again? What are you after? I knew you were a crafty bit of baggage.”
Imogene was hurt by such an unwarranted accusation. “I didn’t do anything!”
“So, why is she now showing you such particular attention? It can’t be interest. She’s never shown that kind of interest in any of us, male or female.”
Imogene felt heat suffuse her body. Joy. Possibility. And a reluctance to accept that it might mean anything, because what could someone so glorious see in her? She could do nothing more than hold her secret wanting close, away from Henry’s prying.
“Are you after her, girl? Couldn’t catch the hive’s eye, so now you’re going for the next level down? Sway those shapely hips about, blink those long lashes. I know the type. Here I thought you was setting your cap at me with those big dark eyes, but now…”
Imogene straightened. She knew how she was supposed to react to that; it was scripted into her head like a play she’d memorized but had yet to perform. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean! I’m a good girl. And I begin to suspect you’re making a disgusting suggestion. I’m sorry if you thought I was leading you on. I don’t know what the inventor is after. Perhaps she simply wants better company, if this is how you behave.”
“Why, you opportunistic little bitch!” Henry looked as though he might lunge at her.
Imogene narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t if I were you. We both know the vampires don’t hold with bruises administered by others. They don’t like pre-tenderized meat.”
Henry glared at her.
Imogene tried to mediate the situation. She couldn’t afford to have a first footman set against her. Why so angry? Was he jealous? Of her or of the inventor? Had he really guessed her nature? No, not possible. Henry was not so perceptive. Then again, she’d never had to hide her attraction as well as her nature; perhaps she was not so good at that. Perhaps arrogance wouldn’t be enough. I will have to be so careful. But I will not give up the opportunity to be around her. I can’t!
Imogene said, quietly, “I’ll simply explain to her that I’m not available further when I take out the luncheon tray.”
That seemed to mollify Henry, although Imogene felt all the worse for a sacrifice she hadn’t yet made.
* * *
“Oh, good, you’re back. Put that down, would you? I could use another set of hands.” The inventor was squatting behind her large engine-thing. Her eyes flashed one appreciative look up, before returning to her work. But it was unclear whether she was appreciating Imogene or the machine or the food tray.
Imogene put the tray down on top of the schematics and made her way carefully through the chaos.
“Would you pass me the driver coil, please?” Madame Lefoux was back in her leather apron and helmet. Her sleeves were rolled higher and tighter and Imogene noticed, in the flickering of the orange lighting, that her arms were quite muscled. I thought only peasant girls had muscles.
She cast about and spotted a tool that looked like two long curls of metal and passed that over. Madame Lefoux took it and instantly started using it. Which Imogene supposed meant it was the requested driver coil.
After a few long moments, the inventor passed it back. “The aether sensitivity tube, please.”
There was a glass vial full of some gas that, when Imogene picked it up and tilted it to the side, could possibly be grey in color.
She passed that over.
“Thank you, Miss Hale. You’re good at this. Have you worked in a laboratory before?”
“No, ma’am. Uh. No, Madame. Never even seen one before today.”
The inventor scooted herself out from behind her contraption and stood. A strange flicker of movement suggested she would like to reach out and touch Imogene. I must be mistaken.
“Well, you have a certain skill. And this is nothing. You should have seen my old contrivance chamber. A work of art.” Her face stuttered into a still sadness. “It was conscripted by a herd of bossy werewolves. Such a waste.” She pulled off her gloves. “Regardless, thank you for the assistance. That is stable enough for now. Did you bring food?”
“Yes, Madame, as ordered.”
“Enough for two?”
“Yes, Madame.” Imogene looked around for the possible guest.
“Then you shall join me.”
“Oh no, Madame.”
“Why not? You are hungry, no?”
“It wouldn’t be proper!” Imogene was shocked. To have been shown favor earlier that day with an arm and a short walk might be considered a mere whimsical informality from an eccentric genius. To sit down and eat a midday meal with the inventor made them equals.
Madame Lefoux walked briskly over to the desk. “Nonsense. No one need know.” She leaned her bony frame over and brushed a pile of wire shavings off a stool, drawing it up to the desk. “There you go. It is no proper dining table, but it will do.” It made for an intimate arrangement, crowded together by all the devices looming around them.
Lacking any other option, Imogene sat.
The food was good, and generous, slices of cold pork pie with pickled onion and green beans, followed by apple baked whole with spices. It was certainly better than Imogene’s regular midday fare. Not to say the staff ate poorly – they had full roast once a week! Vampires believed in keeping their servants well fed for the sake of everyone’s health, but meals rarely varied from the wholesome stew arena. Rumor was (now that Imogene knew to pay attention and keep her ears perked) that Madame Lefoux and the countess were not friendly. The inventor’s indenture was a punishment and she was exiled to the c
ountryside under sufferance. But this clearly did not extend to any kind of gastric mistreatment.
Perhaps, Imogene found herself wishing despite reality, someday we will be friendly enough for her to tell me what happened.
They talked easily of less private matters, the hissing hum of machinery in the background. Madame Lefoux explained, eyes sparkling with excitement, about her latest project. Imogene looked with equally bright eyes at the schematics and calculations. There was one for an airship in the mix! Unfortunately, Madame Lefoux explained, she wasn’t working on the dirigible itself, just a part for its engine. Imogene tried hard to understand, and she thought she asked the right questions, for Madame Lefoux only became more animated, her movements joyful and quick, speaking rapidly. Imogene even spotted an error on the slate of mathematics, although she hadn’t the courage to point it out.
It was wonderful. And Madame Lefoux was glorious. Imogene wondered if that passion spread elsewhere in the inventor’s life.
Imogene caught herself touching her hair, self-consciously. For the first time, she actually wanted to be found beautiful. And sometimes, those green eyes did linger.
Nevertheless, Imogene spent most of the time looking for an opportunity to explain that they couldn’t do this again. Henry had forbidden it. She was willing to accept exile from this small corner of the hive world. Willing, because she was terrified by all the possibilities the inventor represented, and dangerously fascinated by the smudges and the dimples.
* * *
Madame Lefoux smelled of vanilla and machine oil.
Imogene couldn’t believe how charming the scent was. It was also adorable the way she forgot, until fully halfway through the meal, that she still wore her helmet.
The inventor laughed at herself and took it off, putting it aside. “Excuse my poor manners, I lose myself in work.”
Imogene shook her head and allowed a small smile.
The inventor’s eyes lit. “There! I knew it.”
Imogene lost the smile to nerves at once. “I’m sorry, Madame. I didn’t…”
“No, I like it. You are such a grave young lady.”
“No lady me, just a country lass.”
“I think perhaps a bit more than that. You have no flock of children clutching at your skirts. You have come here instead. There is something different about you. About your choices. No?”
Imogene was terrified by this suggestion. She didn’t want to be seen as anything out of the ordinary. “Ma needed the money, Madame. Not to be crass.”
The inventor waved her free hand in the air while she ate pork pie. “No fear there. The British conversational custom of subject avoidance makes little sense to me.”
“Pardon?”
“No need to apologize for mentioning money to a Frenchwoman.”
“You speak English better than I do.”
The dimples flashed. “I spent a deal of my childhood here. Well, back and forth, really. But we were talking about you.”
I’d rather not.
The inventor was intent. “There are other ways you could have helped your family. Marriage, for example – you are of the age.”
“Ma calls me long in the tooth.”
The inventor frowned. “You cannot be more than twenty?” And then, on a quiet note under her breath, “Far too young, really.”
For some reason, this gave Imogene pride in her age, where she’d felt shame in the past. “I’m nearer thirty.” Well, twenty-eight was nearer. “Why, how old are you?”
A quick movement of Madame Lefoux’s wrist met that, up over her face, to disguise some flicker of emotion. “Thirty-seven.”
Only nine years’ difference, thought Imogene smugly. Plenty of men are nine years older than their wives. Now, that was an odd thought. Is Madame Lefoux husband material? Ma would be so proud: at last my unmarried eldest looks to secure a gentleman’s affections. Well, yes, if all gentlemen were like Madame Lefoux, wouldn’t we all wish to secure them?
Imogene suppressed the mad need to giggle and said hurriedly, “A husband and children, I always felt, weren’t for me.”
“Indeed? And why is that?”
Imogene blushed and didn’t answer. Instead, emboldened, she asked, “Why not for you? Or is there a Mr Lefoux hiding somewhere in this mess of a lab?”
“Aha! There is pertness underneath your gravitas.” The inventor seemed more delighted by Imogene’s refusal to answer than offended by the impertinence. “Messy, is it? Feel the urge to clean, do you, my lovely parlourmaid? Well, you and your duster-wielding ilk are to stay out. I like my mess.”
Imogene began to enjoy herself. “Evidently.”
The dimples reappeared. “So, how came you to be working here, Miss Hale?”
“I believe the countess found me pretty.”
“I am sure she did.”
Imogene desperately wanted that gleam in the inventor’s green eyes to mean that she too thought Imogene pretty. Imogene didn’t care for anyone else’s good opinion.
“And she likes pretty things.” Imogene endeavored to explain and in so doing understand the vampire queen’s greed.
“That she does. But you?”
Imogene gave a tiny smile. “I like pretty things too.”
The inventor laughed, a rich, rolling sound.
It made Imogene shiver slightly. “You know what I mean, Madame. What else is there for a girl who won’t marry but to go into service?”
“Will not marry or cannot marry?”
Imogene didn’t understand the implication, so she didn’t answer, taking a bite of baked apple instead. It was an odd sensation, but as she ate, she began to feel awake at last. As if it were only here, in a profoundly messy shed-laboratory, that she had any sensation of being aware and alive. That until now she’d drifted, like one of Madame Lefoux’s airships. Here she felt grounded. Or at least tethered to Madame Lefoux’s version of reality. And I shall have to leave it because of Henry’s envy.
“Ah, pardon. I am being intrusive.” And then on a mutter to herself, “Ta gueule, Genevieve.”
The inventor rubbed her own forehead with one finger, adding a new smudge. And then she blurted as though she couldn’t stop herself, “Would you come back again, bringing the tray? I like you better than Henry, and you were so useful earlier, with the tools and such, and…” She trailed off. For the first time, awkward. “I should like more of your help. Please.”
Imogene hung her head. The last thing she wished to do was disappoint this woman. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can get out of my other duties.”
The inventor nodded, consciously controlling herself, recovering her elegance, unperturbed by rejection.
Because she is above it? Or because she doesn’t care? Or because she is accustomed to it? Imogene watched those green eyes for clues. There were none.
“It’s only that I used to have Quesnel for help. Now I have no one to…” Madame Lefoux drifted off. The dimples vanished.
Imogene bit her lip. Frightened of the dark turn. Had he died, this Quesnel? “You lost him?” Her voice was soft with concern.
The inventor pressed a hand to Imogene’s upper arm. Imogene’s skin prickled at the touch, which was absurd. She ruthlessly squashed the sensation.
“Oh, nothing so grave. He is away at university. My son.”
Imogene blinked. “Your son!” Then there really had once been a Mr Lefoux.
The dimples returned and the inventor looked misty-eyed. “Scamp of a boy. Well, man, I suppose I should call him now he’s sixteen. Gone to L’École des Arts et Métiers. In Paris. Where else?” There was real pride in her voice.
Imogene had to assume that was some sort of university for brilliant inventor types. “Takes after his mother?”
“This mother, in any event.”
Which statement made no sense.
Sometimes I feel I understand her perfectly, and sometimes the words are English but she might a
s well be speaking her native tongue. Nevertheless, Imogene nodded. She did not want to be thought a dunce.
“Look at me rambling on and on. I must get back to the counterstate conductor.”
“And I must get back to work. Henry will be angry with me.”
“Ah. Is that the problem?” Madame Lefoux seemed to brighten.
Imogene only stood. This was all impossible. Everything she wanted was impossible.
“Tomorrow, then, you will bring me my tea? In the morning?”
Imogene shook her head. “I cannot.”
“Henry would not like it?”
Imogene said nothing, only brushed crumbs and soot off her pinafore and collected the tray.
“We must not upset Henry?” Madame Lefoux pressed.
“He is my superior,” Imogene tried to explain.
“I did not imagine Henry had such a fondness for me or his duties with respect to my good self. I thought visiting the laboratory was more a hardship for him.” The inventor’s eyes narrowed. “We shall see what we can do about it.”
Imogene was both thrilled and horrified by that statement.
CHAPTER THREE
In Which Equations Prove Fruitful and Multiply
The next morning, Henry shoved the tea tray at Imogene with a snarl. “You’re to deliver her meals from here on out. I don’t know how you weaseled your way in there, but you won’t last any longer than your predecessor.”
For good measure, he pinched Imogene’s bottom, hard. Her hands were full, so she couldn’t defend herself. She squeaked a protest.
Skoot, who was lurking about begging for scraps, hunched up and growled.
My stalwart protector.
Henry ignored the tiny dog. “It’s not like anyone is going to know. We’ve all noticed how the fangs won’t touch you. Not even Ambrose. And he touches everyone. I can bruise you as much as I please.”
Wonderful. Imogene began to plan how to avoid being alone with the first footman. Skoot clearly wasn’t enough protection. Poor silly thing. He’d taken quite a liking to Imogene, perhaps because she was the only one who gave him any affection. A pat here or there as she made her rounds, the occasional table scrap, and he was her devoted swain.
Romancing the Inventor: A Supernatural Society Novella Page 3
