Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  Afterward, he went to White’s to read the papers, take his luncheon, and catch up on any gossip in general circulation. He had to forgo his usual boxing rounds at Gentleman Jacksons due to his injury, and so he was cursed with pent-up energy.

  It rather irked him to discover a wager existed in White’s betting book that speculated as to whether Miss Rochon would follow in Miss Trowbridge’s footsteps and cry off her engagement to the Vicious Viscount; five people had already written in their bets, all in the affirmative.

  The solace of his favorite armchair at the club eluded him as well; his attention would not remain fixed on perusing the morning papers. He kept calling to mind the events of last night and his abominable, unpardonable loss of control in the carriage. His attraction to Miss Rochon was stronger than he had realized. How she looked in the light of the carriage lamp, how its shadows deepened her mystery—these images plagued his mind’s eye, not the orderly rows of print in the morning paper.

  She had also displayed more of that strangeness that had characterized their first encounter. She used words he did not know, and he an Oxford man. Her stubborn conviction that medicine here was not as advanced, as forward thinking, as it was in the infernal colonies? What nonsense. But most of all, how she phrased some of her pronouncements intrigued and puzzled him.

  If nothing else, the evening confirmed his suspicion she possessed a secret. What that secret entailed, he could not fathom. However, to his chagrin, he found he wanted to know.

  What was she hiding? Moreover, what were these letters Chandler told him of?

  And then the mad dash to his mother’s—

  The door swung open at the Somervilles’, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He locked down on thoughts of her, eschewing all emotions, and followed the butler. Shortly, he found himself sitting in a chair in the parlor. Miss Rochon fiddled with the items arrayed around her. Between her and Miss Byron, they managed to pull off his coat, and Miss Rochon rolled up his sleeve. The intimacy of the actions, even with Miss Byron’s presence, threatened his resolve again. His hands formed fists in his lap. He was a rational man; he was not an animal. He would resist looking at her graceful bare fingers as they touched his arm, his bare skin. That had nearly been his undoing last night.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, thank you for attending to me. It is much appreciated, though unnecessary. I must inform you, I require my injury to remain a secret and so if it is at all possible, will you wrap it as tight and flat as you are able?”

  Like yesterday, he watched her wash her hands.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. She freed his arm of the old bandage and he winced.

  Whoever heard of washing one’s hands for such a thing? And before touching the wound? He could see the sense, the necessity, in doing so afterward, if the hands were made messy...

  Surely it would be safe to restrict his gaze to her face. She scrutinized his scratch and her fingers gently probed the edges. “Good, no sign of infection.”

  She poured a measure of brandy and poised it over his cut. “Brace yourself, my lord.” She dribbled it over his wound.

  He looked away and gritted his teeth. Devil take it, but the pain pierced more than he remembered from last night. Moreover, such a waste of good brandy. Next, she poured another liquid on it, and he flinched. Damnation, was she trying to kill him by degrees? However, it did have the welcome benefit of dousing his ardor as well.

  The sting fading, he watched Miss Rochon fussing. Her manner during the whole bespoke a fear to let anyone else administer to it. It perplexed him, frankly. To be sure, wounds sometimes festered, but not much one could do to prevent it, except by judicious application of leeches. One was either lucky in that regard or not. Her fear appeared genuine, though. In the short span of their acquaintance, other than two incidents, he had not observed her to be prone to unfounded fretfulness.

  She patted the area dry and applied a new set of bandages. Miss Byron assisted, but not before Miss Rochon insisted she wash her hands. He leaned a fraction closer and surreptitiously inhaled a deep breath to catch her fresh, floral scent. A little closer...

  Looking up at him, Isabelle smiled fully. “There, that should do it. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Phineas had nothing to say—her smile dazzled him, his pain forgotten. Never before had he seen anyone with such perfectly straight teeth. Her smile left him breathless. He was lost.

  “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is my Silver Lady.” Charles Babbage swept his arm toward a mahogany table.

  Isabelle shuffled forward with the fifty or so other guests at Babbage’s home on Dorset Street. She bounced slightly on her toes. To see not only the precursor to the modern computer, but to meet the man himself? That would be an awesome memory to take back with her. She could also be standing next to Charles Dickens or Michael Faraday or Charles Darwin or John Herschel, for all she knew—would she recognize them animated and smiling from their dour, posed photographs? But wouldn’t Darwin be on his famous voyage? Ada had told her society considered this one of the most sought after entertainments during the Season, filled with leading members of the literary, artistic, and scientific community. Some potential guests wouldn’t have made their mark yet—if Dickens were here, he’d be known only as a political reporter. Isabelle pinched her arm.

  She craned her neck and peered between two women. Good Lord, one lady’s hat was filled with fruit. Wasn’t it heavy? Candlelight illuminated a mechanical figure, about a foot tall, enclosed in a glass case, its silver surface winking. It lurched into motion, and the crowd gasped. Isabelle leaned forward and smiled at the woman next to her. While Isabelle’s time had many wonders that would be considered more advanced, she’d never seen anything like this, and it wasn’t the main attraction. The silver automaton pirouetted, its flimsy, green crepe dress fluttering provocatively. Oh, wow, a dancer, with a little bird perched on her forefinger. While the Silver Lady executed intricate dance moves, each limb—even her fingers—moving independently, the bird flapped its wings, flicked its tail feathers, and opened its little beak.

  Isabelle smiled and sipped from her glass of Madeira. Easily a hundred guests jostled their way around this soiree, and she was part of the second group given the tour. Ada, having seen the demonstrations before, stayed in the parlor with Mrs. Somerville.

  “I rescued this fair lady from the sale at Weeks Museum only this year,” continued Babbage. “I show this to you not only as a marvel of man’s ingenuity, but as a lesson in the decline of Britain’s industrial spirit. This wonder, ladies and gentlemen, was created by that genius John Merlin at the end of the last century, and what advances in this sphere have we made since? I ask you, what if Mr. Merlin had been supported financially? Would we today have automata in place of butlers, serving us our drinks?” A chorus of chuckles came from the obliging crowd.

  “If you would be so good as to follow me into my drawing room, I shall show you what I have been laboring over this last decade. It is only a small-scale model. However, with proper funding it could be executed full-scale.”

  Goose bumps pimpled her skin. Babbage’s Difference Engine.

  She entered the room. There, on a walnut stand in the back, perched a bronze and steel contraption. He hadn’t been kidding about it being on a small scale: couldn’t be any larger than a couple of feet on each side, though it was slightly taller than wide. A crank handle graced the top.

  She worked her way down a row of upholstered chairs and took a seat. Excitement bubbled within, and she bounced a couple of times in her seat until Fruit Hat Lady glared at her. Oops.

  With a flourish, Babbage turned the crank and showed it incrementing by a factor of one, the little gears in three columns moving with each turn of the handle. Like a true showman, he extolled his machine’s virtues and asked three ladies in the front row to count the numbers aloud as they appeared. The guy next to her whispered loudly to his companion. “What is the wonder in that? I can do this myself.”


  The ladies continued counting. “Ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and two, one hundred and four...”

  Loud gasps echoed around the room. The Scoffer beside her started in his seat and said, “It can think!”

  Isabelle glanced around and frowned—why the astonishment? They believed it could think? He’d obviously programmed it ahead of time to do that once it reached one hundred. However, everyone else saw it as nothing short of a miracle. As Isabelle listened to his explanation, Babbage did make that allusion, likening how he programmed his machine before the start of his demonstration with how God set down nature at one time.

  “God is not a mechanic who tinkers with his creation, creating miracles of change in species as nature unfolds, but rather he is a divine programmer. He set Creation to run on its own, according to Natural Law.”

  Murmurs erupted around the room. One person hissed behind her. Clearly this was a radical view. Isabelle smiled—she remembered reading a theory that Darwin had attended these soirees and it had influenced his future work: The Origin of Species.

  Babbage’s demonstration over, Isabelle wandered the rooms, searching for Ada and Mrs. Somerville. Dancers occupied one half of a room she entered, while in the other half, clusters of men stood debating topics, heads leaning close together. Clumps of pipe smoke topped each grouping like thought clouds. The sweet-smelling fragrance thickened the air and Isabelle coughed. This was the first event she’d attended where guests smoked. Hadn’t she recently read in her new etiquette book it was impolite to smoke around ladies?

  Women could be seen debating a point with a group of men, but it was rare. Energy and excitement permeated the air, thick and addictive like the tobacco smoke. Everyone in motion, even the elderly man in the corner, furiously scribbling notes. He looked up once and gave a conspiratorial wink.

  Isabelle spotted Ada and Mrs. Somerville holding court on a brocade settee, a plate of finger sandwiches, tarts, and fruit between them. Ada picked up the plate, giving Isabelle room to join them.

  “So, what did you think of Babbage’s machine, Miss Rochon?” Mrs. Somerville asked.

  “Truly remarkable. It is such an honor to be here and see it. I would love to be able to meet Mr. Babbage.”

  “Certainly, my dear. Ada, you know, was one of the few to immediately grasp its implications.” Mrs. Somerville smiled at Ada.

  Ada blushed and nodded her head toward a teenager talking to several men in the other corner. “See that young lady there? That is Georgiana Babbage, his daughter. And there is Michael Faraday. You missed him demonstrating his clever device that produces an electric current, Isabelle.”

  So Michael Faraday was here. And she was here—at the same friggin’ time as all these historical figures that dominated the fields of science. Ada was still talking, and Isabelle caught, “— however, you are in time to see the tableau some of the ladies are performing on that stage. I have heard it will be a recreation of Salviati’s painting of Michal watching David dance.”

  They were recreating a painting? How very cool. The ladies stepped onto the stage, hand-painted scenery framing them behind. Fascinating. Had she ever been at a better party? It made the cocktail parties of her time seem boring and unimaginative. This was a true salon, where creative minds met and forged ideas and theories. The closest equivalent were the tableaus at Mardi Gras balls, but those weren’t cocktail parties.

  What would Lord Montagu think of such a party? Had he been to them before? She wished he was due to appear, but she would see him later tonight at the Crosley ball.

  “Isabelle, may I present Mr. Mendley? Mr. Mendley, my cousin, Miss Rochon. Mr. Mendley is an aficionado of any new invention.”

  Isabelle’s eyes snapped back to her immediate surroundings. Before her, a stooped, older gentleman smiled. She stood and curtseyed, and he executed a bow that nearly toppled him.

  “Enchanted, Miss Rochon. I mumble-mumble indeed.”

  Isabelle darted a quick look to Ada, who signaled not to worry about what he said. Isabelle sat back down and the man kept up an animated one-way conversation with her, gesticulating with enthusiasm and mumbling most of his words. Ada leaned over and whispered, “He mumbles all the time, no one can understand him.”

  Isabelle kept a polite smile on her face and said ‘indeed’ and ‘quite’ from time to time. She did glean a ‘congratulations’ for her engagement to Lord Montagu.

  “Oh look, Mr. Babbage is heading this way,” Ada interjected.

  Mr. Mendley gave a start, bowed, and departed, saying he was in search of refreshments. Either that, or he wanted someone to tack on some fasteners to his couch; Isabelle couldn’t make out which.

  Mr. Babbage approached, and Isabelle stood with Mrs. Somerville and Ada. She clasped her hands in front, shifted them to hang limply at her side, transferred them to her back, and again to the front, her fingers twisting around each other. She bounced twice on her toes. She was about to meet the man himself. Ada introduced her and left with Mrs. Somerville to a neighboring room to get ices.

  “It’s so great to meet you, Mr. Babbage. Ada has told me so much about you.” It’s so great to meet you? Her excitement was making her speech lax.

  Mr. Babbage’s eyes lit from within. “Pleased to hear you say so. Miss Byron is an exceptional female. So quick to grasp, on first seeing my model, its power and application. Most do not, I fear. They are much more taken by the Silver Lady.”

  Up close, Mr. Babbage looked more haggard than he had appeared from a distance. He caught sight of his daughter and his face softened.

  Too nervous to think of any other conversational gambit, Isabelle asked, “How is work progressing on your Difference Engine?”

  “Too slow, too slow.”

  Ada and Mrs. Somerville returned and joined in the conversation.

  Mr. Babbage was explaining his current troubles with his engineer, when the hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck ruffled. She casually turned her head, as if searching for a friend, or a footman to hail, and spotted the person who had just given her the willies—Sir Raphael, the man at Lady Huxton’s party whom Lord Montagu disliked, stood in a corner and stared straight at her, boldly assessing. Isabelle schooled herself not to flinch or register surprise and let her eyes continue to roam the room.

  “Lord, Ada, I still can’t get used to all the rules. I constantly feel as if I’m being tested,” Isabelle said. They were at Lady Crosley’s ball later that evening, enjoying lemonade and watching the dancers at this less crowded, and more exclusive, event. They were near a corner, partially shielded by a potted palm.

  Ada craned her head around, then leaned in to whisper, “Anymore developments with your silver case?”

  “Sadly, no.” They discussed her need to find it and strategies to explore, even going so far as to speculate how it worked and whether the fact that it was silver had anything to do with it.

  At a pause in the conversation, Ada again glanced around, then fixed her with eager eyes. “Tell me, what is it like to travel back in time and see London? Has it changed greatly?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Quite a lot, actually. There will be a terrible war, and large sections of London will be destroyed by—by―” Isabelle paused and amended what she’d been about to say, “—by flying machines that drop explosives on the city every night for over two months.”

  Ada stared at her, apparently fascinated and horrified by turns. She seemed to struggle with what question to ask next: presumably, what the terrible war was, or about the flying machines, or what got destroyed.

  She eventually got to all three questions, but flying machines came first.

  “What manner of flying machine? Is it run by steam?”

  Isabelle hesitated—how much to tell her?

  Ada, however, jumped in with, “I know, you cannot tell me, but this is so fascinating. I tried to create one when an adolescent—a flying horse powered by steam. I was quite passionate about it, had correspondents send me bird skeletons so
I could measure wing span to body mass. I established my laboratory in a barn. However, Mother eventually put an end to my experiments.”

  Isabelle shook her head. What little she’d seen and learned of Ada’s mother, Isabelle could not like. She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it—one of Ada’s admirers approached.

  He bowed before them. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked, addressing Ada.

  Off they went, leaving her alone. A rustle from the other side of the potted palm startled her. She stepped over, but if someone had been there, they were now part of the milling crowd.

  Isabelle walked the perimeter until she found a chair. Though she’d been taking lessons from Ada on the steps and figures of the different dances, she didn’t feel confident enough to accept any gentleman’s offer.

  Plus, she had so not wanted to go out tonight. Her life had been non-stop lately: errands for Mrs. Somerville, meeting Lord Montagu’s family, a rout last night, and Lord Montagu’s injury. And now a ball? She’d been tempted to beg off, but Lord Montagu had marked it as an important one to attend. She’d resisted the selfish urge, and he’d fetched her earlier for Lady Crosley’s ball. But now where was he? If he didn’t return soon, she might just go look for him.

  She fidgeted in her chair. The man was irresistible. That arm kiss. Just thinking about it made her stomach clench. Too bad they’d been interrupted, as she was sure he’d been about to kiss her, and she’d bet her left pinkie toe he was a damn good kisser. And she’d give her right one to know if she was correct. However, he’d given no signals earlier that day that he was interested. She kept telling herself this was for the best: she couldn’t risk her heart to him—it’d be too painful when she had to leave.

  Thankfully, he’d let her attend his wound. So far, it looked healthy, but she couldn’t rule out the risk of tetanus. That worried her. All she could do was keep disinfecting it and watching him closely.

  Where was Lord Montagu?