The Tea Machine

by Gill McKnight

  “Excuse me, but yes and no? I asked if I’d travelled backwards in time, and you said, yes and no?”

  “We have. Remember I was with you. I went back to rescue…well, forward to rescue you. But somehow it went wrong, and you ended up here in my timeline. The proper one.” She watched Sangfroid carefully as she delivered this latest bit of nonsense. “I knew you shouldn’t have dragged me into that pod thingy, but you never listen.” And as usual, no matter how nonsensical her speech, there was a reprimand in it somewhere.

  Sangfroid looked around the room again. “I think you’ll find my…timeline…is the proper one.” She had problems with the word timeline. It was alien, farcical. “I was born on moon base Alpha Zeta IV. This place…this…” She waved a hand at their surroundings. “I don’t understand any of this. Time travel is purely theoretical. It cannot be practiced, ergo it doesn’t exist. Yet you’re telling me that you, someone who burns fossil fuels, can do it? That you can do what the entire Imperial Science Consortium can’t? I don’t think so, lady.”

  “What do you think, then? How do you explain away your current surroundings?” Her colour was rising, and her eyes flashed. “Theory is the hypothesis of general principles backed by hard evidence that eventually leads to practice. Hubert has successfully exhibited this through the fact that you are here. Perhaps the Imperial Science Consortium needs to talk to Hubert if it wishes to catch up?”

  Sangfroid snorted and flung herself onto the couch. It creaked alarmingly.

  “And show some care for my Chesterfield! It was Mother’s and not designed for brutish behaviour,” Millicent scolded.

  Sangfroid glowered at her, then squirmed uncomfortably on the stupid couch. She really was a giant here; everything was so…so… She looked over to where Millicent sat prim and proper on her own little wingback chair. Everything here was so bleeding delicate.

  “Look, either I’m dead and in Hel—the place beginning with H, or you’re a hallucination, and I’ve been captured by the enemy. Which is the same as being in the H place.”

  “Well, those things did happen, so I suppose you are right. But I’m right, too. We are a hundred years apart but in two different timelines. And yours is terribly out of step, even for an alternative one.”

  “I was captured?” She sat bolt upright. The Chesterfield gave another loud crack.

  “Mostly…you were killed more than captured. But both things happened.” Millicent frowned at the noises emanating from her settee.

  “Millicent. You’d better explain what’s going on. This isn’t a game. I can’t afford to play along with something I don’t understand.”

  “That’s true.” She sighed. “And I always intended to tell you. But it’s a long, complex story, and you can’t interrupt.”

  “I won’t interrupt.” Sangfroid eagerly grabbed at this breakthrough. She thought she’d never get any sensible information from the Aberlys. This was her big chance.

  “You will interrupt. You always do. You’re most annoying,” Millicent said. “I’ll tell you everything. Well, almost everything. As much as I know. And then you will see how you ended up here. But you have to be patient and let me tell it in my own way.” The more she spoke, the more her distress showed. “Or else none of it will make any sense.”

  Sangfroid nodded in agreement and sat back and waited, watching as Millicent took a calming breath and began. The fire glow caught the chestnut hues of her hair and threw her rounded cheeks into soft shadow. Her caramel eyes blazed, and her lips were full and pink. Sangfroid fixated on them as she spoke, following every curve, pout, and twitch, for Millicent was an animated talker. Her hands were never still; they fluttered here and there, cutting the air as she described this and explained that. And as she spoke, something Sangfroid had secretly suspected all evening came to full awareness. She loved her.

  It was not a breathtaking revelation; it was more a factual, deep-seated knowledge. She was certain Millicent wasn’t aware of the feelings she had for her, and Sangfroid was at peace with that. It was her secret. It belonged to her alone, and she softly wrapped her secret around her like a warm old cloak. And once she realized she loved her, she realized she had for some time. Yet, they had only just met? How had that happened?

  “It all began last Wednesday. Hubert’s birthday was several weeks away, you see.” Millicent’s hand drifted towards her needlepoint. “So I decided to embroider him an Ogopogo cushion cover for his present—”

  “What’s an Ogopogo?” Sangfroid interrupted.

  “You promised!”

  “Sorry. Carry on.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Last Wednesday, London 1862

  Millicent set aside The Illustrated Cryptozoologist and lifted her needlepoint. She held the sewing hoop inches from her nose and squinted at the fine stitching on her Ogopogo. There was no doubt about it. According to the periodical, she had placed the dorsal fin too far forward. With a sigh, she began to unpick the stitches. It was most disheartening. She’d spent the better part of the morning adding the fin, and now it seemed to be in the wrong place! The Ogopogo may be a supposedly extinct sea serpent, but that was no excuse for sloppy workmanship. If she kept losing concentration, she’d never have the cushion cover finished in time for Hubert’s birthday, which would be a great pity as he loved cryptids.

  “Millicent? Millicent. Don’t be so tiresome. Come here at once.”

  The cry came from the hallway. Even if she hadn’t recognized the strident voice, it could only be Sophia. Only she would call to the mistress of the house as if she were a servant girl.

  Though I suppose I’m only the mistress until Sophia marries Hubert. Lord knows how I’ll be called then. Millicent was not as enthusiastic about her brother’s forthcoming nuptials to Miss Sophia Trenchant-Myre as she ought to be. For someone who had little to add to any intelligent conversation, Sophia could be incredibly vociferous.

  Millicent set aside her needlepoint and rose to answer the summons, knowing from past experience Sophia was disinclined to go away once her mind was set. She would bellow like a bull all morning until someone saw to her requirements. She was a tiresome visitor at the best of times, but when she had a thought in her head, she could be utterly atrocious.

  “You called, Sophia?” she said calmly on entering the hallway. Sophia stood at the bottom step staring anxiously up the curved stairwell. She seemed bewildered to see Millicent emerge from farther down the hall.

  “Oh? I thought I saw you on the staircase. You ran away from me,” she said.

  “How ridiculous. I did not run away from you. I was in my study as I always am at this hour.” Millicent was mildly disapproving. Sophia should know the workings of the house by now. She had been affianced to Hubert for over four years, yet paid very little attention to anything to do with his household that was not immediate to her own needs. The hands of the Baroque grandfather clock inched closer to the eleventh hour, indicating a particularly important household ritual was almost upon them, and yet Sophia stood on, totally heedless of the time. It was as if the Aberly morning schedule was beyond her comprehension or interest.

  Every morning, without fail, Millicent and Hubert breakfasted from exactly six thirty to seven o’clock. They then went their separate ways. Hubert to his laboratory, which was actually two rooms made one by the removal of the doors dividing the library from their father’s old smoking room. Millicent retired to a much smaller room at the rear of the house with a pleasing view of the gardens. This had previously been the morning room because of the light it received early in the day. On Papa’s passing, Millicent took this room for her own use. She was an intelligent woman who enjoyed her own company. Her only requirement was to have a defined space for private reflection and personal study. This room was her haven.

  Every morning, excepting Sundays, Millicent took along a tray of tea and scones to Hubert at eleven o’clock on the dot. The se
rvants were not allowed to enter his laboratory under any circumstances, so it befell Millicent to deliver the tea tray. She would serve morning tea, and they would relax for a short time to discuss their current projects or any items of interest in the newspapers and circulars delivered earlier that morning. It was a pleasant break; one they both looked forward to.

  Behind Sophia’s shoulder, the grandfather clock showed eight minutes to eleven. From the direction of the kitchen Millicent could hear the rattle of china as Cook assembled the morning tray. She wished Sophia would hurry up and explain her unexpected visit and be on her way before elevenses began proper.

  “Whatever is it, Sophia?” she asked. She smoothed her skirts to hide her agitation. There was no point in being short tempered with one’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. There would be plenty of time for that later when they had to share the same roof.

  “I have organized for two dozen eggs to be delivered. Can you have Cook boil the lot, and perhaps Edna can dye them some pretty colours. Pinks and blues, though I’d prefer a primrose yellow.”

  “Excuse me. Coloured eggs? But why?”

  “It’s for Easter. I want to send a basket of boiled eggs to the orphanage.”

  “To constipate the orphans?”

  “Really, Millicent. You’re such a curmudgeon. It’s called charity, and it’s all the rage. All the most modish ladies are doing it.” Sophia tut-tutted as if Millicent were being deliberately dense. “Why, the Partridge sisters are sending Easter posies to the lepers.”

  “We have lepers? In London?”

  “Well, somewhere out in Hampshire.” Sophia waved a hand vaguely in the direction she assumed Hampshire to be. “Or maybe its amputees? Yes, amputees. Anyway, they’re getting flowers, and the orphans are getting coloured eggs. It will all be so merry.”

  “Hardly. Those children live in the poorhouse, Sophia. It is only called an orphanage because they have been forcibly removed from their parents. They troop down to the workhouse each morning to begin a fourteen-hour shift at the looms. It would be more charitable to challenge what is really no more than child slavery than to send them coloured eggs.” Millicent warmed to her subject, hoping Sophia’s new charitable interests might be channelled towards a greater purpose. “I am attending a meeting at the Creswell reading rooms this evening. The primary agenda is child exploitation and strategizing social action to protest against it. Why not come with me?” Millicent was most eager now. Finally, here was an interest she and Sophia could bond over. At last they had something in common.

  Sophia snapped closed the pearl buttons on her gloves and wriggled her fingers to settle the calfskin comfortably around them. The rattle of china came closer from along the hallway. Edna was approaching with the eleven o’clock tea tray. Millicent wondered if she should invite Sophia join her and Hubert for tea so they could talk more about possible social action, but decided not to. Hubert would have a spasm if Sophia appeared in his laboratory.

  “Remember, pink, yellow, and blue,” Sophia said. “I’m attending church with the Partridge sisters this Sunday, so I’ll need them by then.” She hefted her parasol onto her shoulder and left in a flurry of philanthropy. Millicent bristled. Her offer of a social conscience had been brushed aside. She should have known better.

  “Two dozen eggs for 140 children. How will they decide who gets the protein?” Millicent called after her, but the door closed sharply on her question.

  “I have the master’s tea tray, Miss Millicent.” Edna appeared before her and wobbled into an unnecessary and ungainly curtsey. The tray tipped precariously, and the china rattled alarmingly. Millicent grabbed the tray from Edna’s panicked grasp.

  “Thank you, Edna. Remember our rule? No curtsies while you are holding things. Now, Miss Sophia has organized a delivery of eggs. Ask Cook to boil them, please.”

  “Yes, Miss. I’ll tell her.”

  “And could you dye the shells, Edna.”

  “Dye the shells, Miss?” Edna looked as agitated as she was mystified. “How? I mean what colour, Miss?” She sounded very unhappy with the task.

  “Drop them in a bucket of beetroot water. Red will do splendidly.”

  Edna wandered back to the kitchen looking as perplexed as ever. With a sigh, Millicent headed for Hubert’s laboratory, tea tray in hand. She tapped at his door with the toe of her shoe on the last chime of eleven o’clock. All was well. The morning ritual, with all its continuity, had been rescued.

  “Come,” Hubert called cheerfully. Millicent used her elbow to tip the handle and pushed the door open with her hip. It swung wide to reveal Hubert’s sanctuary, a sober, high-ceilinged room. Under Hubert’s tenancy, the bookshelves burgeoned with scientific apparatus, intricate engineering models, and all sorts of wonderful gewgaws. These shared the mahogany shelving alongside large leather tomes and bound periodicals. The floor, and nearly every other available flat surface, was haphazard with piles of books and academic papers, and strewn around the lot, lay a variety of mechanical curiosities Hubert was either building or pulling apart. While it was a large and extremely interesting room, Millicent much preferred the snug simplicity of her own little hideaway.

  In the winter months, her study was warm and welcoming with its flickering fire and cosy proportions. The huge windows in Hubert’s laboratory let in a dreadful draft in the wintertime, and in direct contrast, the same large windows allowed the sun’s full glare during the summer months. On some summer days, it was so blindingly hot that Hubert had to close the drapes to stop from being cooked. Outside the birds sang, roses bloomed, and throngs of cheerful Londoners jostled along the sunny streets of their capital, while poor Hubert sat perspiring in the gloom.

  Not that anything as distasteful as jostling occurred on the sun-filled pavements of Christie Mews. The mews was one of the more desirable addresses near Green Park, Westminster, and the nearest that any cheerful Londoner got to jostling along it was to deliver goods to a trade entrance. Truth be told, this exclusivity affected Millicent and her brother very little. As long as they were left in peace to follow their intellectual pursuits, neither felt compelled, nor inclined, to bow to the social dictates of their class. They were known to be rich, which was a good thing, but also eccentric, which was not. Their behaviour and interests were too irregular to be of good taste, so therefore they were often socially shunned by their peers and mostly left alone, which suited them very well indeed.

  Papa had made his fortune importing diamonds. Number five Christie Mews bore testament to his business acumen. Arthur John Aberly’s investment portfolio had left a sizable trust fund for his children. He had left his son and daughter well provided for, and this enabled each to live their lives unencumbered by such trivialities as earning a living or marrying for advancement. And that also suited Millicent and Hubert very well indeed.

  Millicent set the tray on a small side table and frowned disapprovingly at her brother’s rear end. Hubert was enveloped waist deep in his latest passion. His legs dangled out of a huge, blocky machine built from brass and wood. His torso was buried in what Millicent could only imagine to be the engine compartment, though it had little resemblance to any that she had seen before. There was no funnel or furnace, and if it had any cogs and pistons, they were well hidden. Rather, it looked like an enormous snow sleigh with multiple heavy-duty levers and a curious vertical disc, almost a tall as she was, balanced at the rear. It was a ridiculous ensemble and looked suspiciously like a pile of badly abused furniture. Millicent had noticed the disappearance of several household items recently, and her suspicions were now confirmed. Hubert and his new contrivance were behind it.

  With dismay, she noticed Papa’s smoking chair positioned in the centre of the ugly contraption, its ornate mahogany legs sawed off to make it fit. Millicent was most vexed. The chair had been a genuine Georgian piece, and their father had been very fond of the red velvet cushioning.

  “Hubert, k
indly re-surface and join me for tea,” she called. With a grunt and the clunk of a carelessly dropped spanner, Hubert extracted himself.

  “By Jove, I could do with a scone right now,” he said and wiped his hands on an oil-stained handkerchief. “Engineering sharpens the appetite. Any cherry?”

  “Hubert, I strongly object to you mutilating the furniture. Is that the occasional table from the drawing room?” She nodded towards the wooden disc propped on the rear of his machine. “I’ve noticed it’s gone missing.” She glared in steady accusation all while pouring tea without spilling a drop. Hubert had the grace to look guilty. He hid his sheepish grin behind the rim of his teacup.

  “I promise to put it back once I get the replacement copper disc made. This is just a prototype.” He nodded at his machine and bit into his cherry scone with relish. “It’s all about precision. I need to calibrate the measurements before I send the templates off to the engineers.”

  “A prototype what?” Millicent asked. She had watched the apparatus being slowly assembled over the last few weeks and had asked this question frequently, never once receiving a satisfactory answer. She didn’t expect one now.

  “I told you before. It’s an automated heuristic simulator,” Hubert mumbled with a full mouth, his greedy gaze already fixed on a second scone.

  “I am certain that you didn’t tell me any such thing.” Millicent sipped her Lapsang Souchong thoughtfully, then said, “You mean it’s a sort of timepiece, like a clock.” She cast a dubious glance at the machine crowding the centre of the room. She’d thought the Baroque grandfather clock in the hall, over-sized and showy. It looked positively demure compared to this…this conversation piece. Its brassy curlicues gleamed in the light streaming through the windows. The sun was beginning its midday arc across the rooftops to the front of the house, and already the room was becoming uncomfortably hot. “If it is a clock, it is uglier than the Baroque. And I’ll tell you here and now, there is no room for it in the vestibule,” she said.