by SJ Davis
“That is enough for now, Josephine. I never should have exposed you to that analog machine. I should have kept it hidden from your young mind.” Mr. Rolls took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and adjusted his glasses. “Now, come along dear, pass me the jam and wash your hands. Bodhi, you’re certainly quiet today. Go wash up for breakfast also.”
Bodhi, orphaned in India, nodded at his foster father. His sharp features and dark suit gave the impression of a boy already a man. He smiled and turned to the grandfather clock as it struck the hour.
Mrs. Rolls shooed the children away to wash their hands. “No, you probably should not have shown it to her, dear. You should have kept it hidden.”
“Well, it did have some interesting functions,” he mumbled by way of defense. “But you are right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It only proves how addictive these machines are!”
The maid stood in the entry way to the dining room, “Sir, someone brought you a bouquet. Left it outside the gate and rang the bell.”
“Oh how lovely!” said Mrs. Rolls. “They must be from the Prime Minister’s office to welcome you back from India!”
“Odd though, the man ran off and left no message with the flowers.” The maid appeared confused and shrugged, “I yelled after him but the gentleman insisted you would know whom they were from. In quite a hurry, he was.”
“Strange, but how cheerfully exquisite!” Mrs. Rolls selected a crystal vase from her curio cabinet and turned to accept the arrangement.
Mr. Rolls ran to grab the flowers, suspecting something amiss, but the maid had already passed them to his wife. As she lifted the flowers into the vase, the room exploded in white light and wind. A cacophony of pops and screams pierced the landscape, leaving everything in shards and tatters.
Josephine and Bodhi stood together at the washbasin in the next room. The forced rush of air blew them into a wall of china. Bodhi felt his temple slam into the glass. He rolled over and saw Josephine lying in a crumpled heap, her body unnaturally twisted.
Bodhi pulled himself up and viewed the remains of the kitchen and dining room. Dust fell into his eyes as took in what was left of the first floor. On the north side, the top floor had collapsed into the ground. Random walls remained intact. Pictures fell, glass shattered, and papers blew. Shiny bits of metal fell to the ground. He ran to the foyer and knelt to finger the brass remains of the clock’s pendulum. He wiped the tears that stung his eyes and he spat out dust. The quietness in the air made the approaching footsteps sound like drum beats in his pounding ears. He turned to see Josephine walking towards him—blood caked along her forehead.
She stumbled, barefoot. Her hair was tangled around her head and matted. She looked like a girl caught between the living and the dead.
He reached to her and squeezed her hand as each looked at what was left. Fallen walls and broken furniture marred the celebratory colors of the fall garden. Cracked and splintered wood ripped the lilac blossoms and bricks tore the orange chrysanthemums. A charred melancholy had burnt itself into the curtains and lingered in the blackened rugs. Everything ended with the smell of burning paper and flesh.
Chapter Five
~ Tea in the Sahara ~
London, May 15th 1865
Bodhi lay on his back on the floor of the Prime Minister’s study, his head inside a grandfather clock. He tweaked the weights and cords with his hands and tried to force the clock back into working order. At his side, various sizes of gears and cogs tangled underneath his sleeves. His hands patted the floor, feeling by memory the correct replacement sizes.
“Usually, a gentleman stands when a lady enters the room.”The voice belonged to Caroline Ratcliffe.
Bodhi took his head out from inside the grandfather clock and looked up at her, perched on the Prime Minister’s desk. Still on his back, he rolled himself forward, closed his toolbox, and stood up.
“I didn’t hear you come in, Lady Caroline,” Bodhi said softly, dusting his hands off as he walked over to greet her. “It has been a long time.”
“Yes, ten years perhaps. I won’t agree to more than that,” said Caroline as she looked down at her distressed leather gloves. A brown corset anchored her white puff-sleeved blouse and she wore olive colored trousers. Her bronze boots barely grazed the floor.
“What a surprise to see you, and I am sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yes, I know Bodhi. You were too busy admiring the insides of this old pile of wood and brass. Evidently, you are still in love with clocks.” Caroline uncrossed her legs and hopped down from the desk. She tugged at her leather corset, smoothing it across the sides of her ribcage.
Bodhi smiled quickly, and then looked away. “Well, a man never forgets his first love. At any rate, clocks make sense to me. They are orderly, predictable. And if taken care of properly, they’ll last many lifetimes.”
“Finish up, Bodhi and we’ll have some tea in the drawing room.” Caroline appraised Bodhi. He had grown into a tall and slender man, but overly elongated, as if he didn’t take the time to eat properly.
“Still giving orders? I wonder what the Prime Minister will say. I doubt he will like his daughter taking tea with a commoner, especially a sub-continental Indian man who runs a simple clock shop.”
“There is nothing common about you, Bodhi. And nothing predictable about my father.”
“He still spoils you.” Bodhi rubbed his hands with a linen cloth, avoiding Caroline’s eyes.
“No, he is more concerned with the state of England than the state of Caroline.”
They walked together towards the drawing room. Bodhi had no desire to pry further into her relationship with her father. Familial ties were messier than the mechanical perfection of clockworks.
The high ceilinged room held the most fashionable furnishings in her house—everything stylized, draped, and bowed. The flowerpots, lamps, piano legs, and even the clock were swathed in fabric. The only item uncovered in the room was the mirror, which seemed nude in comparison.
Bodhi crossed the crowded room and tripped on the edge of the carpet. Balancing himself, he bumped into a large fern that became fastened to one of his coat buttons. As he extricated himself from the vegetation, he stepped back into a small table and upended books, photographs, and flowers. In one heroic effort to sit comfortably in the crowded room, he squeezed into a red cushioned chair with his tool bag placed neatly on his lap.
“Oh dear, Bodhi. It is the style to have a cozy drawing room, but perhaps mine is too cozy for you,” teased Caroline, as she righted the fallen items and took his bag.
“I apologize for my clumsiness. I may be too large for this room. Perhaps, if I am invited again, removing some items might be a good idea.”
“I won’t have anything removed, dear Bodhi, but I will insist the tables and objects be more solidly anchored.”
“And I will try to comport myself with more grace.” Bodhi pushed up the magnifying goggles from his forehead. His displaced black hair stood on end.
“Unfortunately, the latest trend in decorating is from the Aesthetic Movement. Have you heard of it?” asked Caroline.
“I tend to follow more scientific news.”
“It is l’art pour l’art, or art for art’s sake, oui?” Caroline tossed her loose hair back from her shoulders. “Life should be lived intensely, following beauty. Strangely, this appeals to me.” Her hands gently fingered a doily on a side table. “Art provides sensuous pleasure, rather than instruction and utility.”
“I don’t follow the latest fashions, Caroline. I simply fix clocks.”
“You are perhaps the opposite of this school of thought, Bodhi. Your philosophy is perhaps more functionality based?”
“I don’t believe function excludes beauty, Caroline. Nor do I know if it could be said that I have a philosophy on such matters. However, I do think it plausible for useful objects to have sensuality.”
“Indeed? I might agree.”
“I don’t think I could ever subsc
ribe to a cult of purposeless beauty. I think beauty should be lived in and have a function. Like my clocks.” Bodhi’s graceful olive hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a pocket watch. “Beautiful? Yes. And purposeful? Absolutely. Anything else would simply be a façade, a worthless ornament.”
“Do you find it overly ornamental in here? What about my wallpaper? It may quite be overly patterned, even by my standards.”
“It is overly poisonous.” He put away his watch and glanced at the walls. The chartreuse, lilac, and gray wallpaper highlighted the Japanese influence of the room. Yet the flowers, birds, gingko leaves, and peacocks decorated it in a dizzying pattern.
“Poisonous! I’ve never heard such a thing. Bodhi, your bluntness borders on rudeness,” said Caroline, leaning forward to swat his knee with her fan. Two dark blonde strands of hair fell on either side of her face.
“It is a mere fact,” he said in seriousness. “I did not intend to offend you.” He glanced to the window. “The dyes in your wallpaper contain high levels of arsenic. Your drawing room is slowly poisoning you and many others of your class who decorate in this ornate style. This is why a ‘change of air’ is so beneficial to the invalids of your class. Symptoms of illness improve when by the sea, but when the poor saps return to these poisonous drawing rooms, they sicken again. Is this what ‘art for art’s sake’ is, Caroline? Decorative to the eye, but deadly to the body?”
“Bodhi, I am not truly interested in debating current decor.” Caroline waved her hands dismissively. “I do not occupy myself by making useless pincushions.” She removed a comb that held her hair up, placed the tortoiseshell in her mouth, and began readjusting her fallen curls. “And your opinion does not fall upon deaf ears.” She spoke in a muffled fashion, speaking around the comb in her mouth. “But as a nation, we have larger issues at hand.”
“You brought it up, Caroline,” said Bodhi, staring at her hands as they twisted, intrigued by her hairstyle.
“Yes, well now I am changing the subject to a different issue, aren’t I?”
“An issue pertaining to the upper class? Or to the rest of us?”
“To all of us.” Caroline walked the small length of the room. “No one is immune to our current state of affairs, and I am mightily shocked by the present condition of London. The pollution, the unemployment and political unrest, the slums and factory conditions, all of these things must be addressed,” she paused to touch her cameo brooch.
Bodhi nodded and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe some wayward gear grease from his fingers. “London has changed much since you left, Caroline. Surely your father kept you informed,” he said.
“My father has always viewed me as a pet. A silly girl, now a silly woman.”
“I am sure he has heard you opinions? Encouraged your discussions?”
“We have briefly spoken about how the Industrialists have exploited the masses. One certainly can’t blame the underclass for fighting back,” she continued. “But it is also true that our world needs scientific advancements and industry to improve society overall. We understand so much more of our world! We have breakthroughs in medical advances! All of these things are necessary and a right of Man!”
Bodhi was silent for a moment, wondering if this was the same shallow Caroline from his childhood.
“Those are my thoughts also, Lady Caroline. The key is for science to improve society, not just the pockets of a few powerful men. And not by breaking the backs of the common man.”
They sat quietly for a few moments and watched the fire sputter out.
The upstairs maid brought in the tea, setting warm strawberry scones and cream alongside the blue and white china, teapot and cups.
“Have you seen Josephine since your return?” asked Bodhi.
“Josephine never cared for me. You know that. I know she found me flighty and prone to silly outbursts.” Caroline straightened herself and peeled off her gloves. “How is she? Are you still close?”
“She is quite well. She tutors local children in French and Latin and keeps quite busy. We share a special bond of course, since her father brought me in to their household. It was the first stable time for me.”
“Indeed,” said Caroline. “I heard about the explosion and of Josephine losing her parents. It was a year or so after I left for boarding school. I was crushed for her and for you. Did anything come of the investigation?”
Bodhi flinched. Her blunt query shocked him.
He picked up the teacup and stared down into the floating tealeaves. “I do love the Old Willow china pattern, Caroline.”
“Does that mean my question is being disregarded?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” he stammered. “I really do not know.” He shrugged and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
“Do you take sugar, Bodhi?”
“No, thank you.” Bodhi sat for several moments of awkward silence—the subtle clinking of the teacups on their saucers punctuated the stillness.
Caroline leaned forward to unlace her boots. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I just need to loosen these a bit.”
“Not at all.”
“This room is getting a chill. Are you comfortable?” asked Caroline.
Bodhi nodded, but walked to the mantle and grabbed a poker and bellows. He jabbed the dimming flame until the fire fanned back to life. “We were sitting in the dining room eating breakfast while Mr. Rolls was reading the newspaper, complaining about rising prices and moaning about unemployment. It was all, up to that point, a most ordinary morning.”
“I’m sorry, Bodhi, I should never have pried. It was ill-mannered of me.”
“No, you should know, especially if you come across Josephine,” Bodhi said.
Caroline leaned forward, her chin in her hands.
“There was a sucking feeling as we were slammed into a wall,” he continued, his jaw clenched as he rubbed his temples. Bodhi sucked in some air, “I spotted Josephine lying face down a few feet away from me.” He breathed out slowly. “She was covered in dust and debris.” His voice softened, “At least she was breathing.” Bodhi cleared his throat as his voice cracked. “At that point, I must have blacked out.”
“Where did you go? How were you both provided for?”
“There was not much left of Mr. Rolls’s textile business. His workers were disgruntled over money and threatening to leave. The factory was hopelessly out of date, inefficient, and no money was left over to invest properly in modern machinery. So, the attorneys negotiated the sale of the Rolls’s family business, more of a dismantling really. We were able to continue our education, but we lived on a dreadfully modest allowance.”
“To be alone so young, it’s unspeakable.”
“Last year, I inherited the money set aside for me, and I opened my own clock shop. So here I am. Fixing your father’s clock. A bit of a happy ending.”
Caroline gently followed, “Did you ever find the responsible party? Who on Earth dare bomb a private family residence? What could possibly have been a motive?”
“That’s a story for another day. Rumor and speculation, at best.” Bodhi’s face twisted and he shook his head.
“Of course a proper investigation was conducted?” asked Caroline.
“The investigation seemed thorough at the time, but I was young. My instincts now tell me the investigation remains incomplete. Unfortunately, one can’t dwell on such things, one must move on with life.”
“I am so sorry, such a horrid loss.” Caroline looked sideways into the fire; her blue eyes reflected the flames. “The culprit must be made to pay somehow.”
“Most odd,” he said as he counted the peacocks on the wallpaper in his head. “Several months ago, after my shop was established, I received a note.” Bodhi had intended to halt the story, but found himself oddly moved to continue. “Out of the blue, a brief line sent anonymously claimed the floral bouquet camouflaged an explosive device. The note went so far as to hint at the responsible party.”
“Who? What kind o
f hint?” asked Caroline, her interest piqued.
His dark eyes stared back at her. “Not a hint at all, I probably shouldn’t spread unfounded accusations but the note accused Professor Anson. The inventor! Hard to believe an academic and a man of science would want to harm the Rolls family.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. “Anson? Really?”
“Merely the contents of an anonymous note, Caroline,” Bodhi said dispassionately. “One can glean from it whatever one wants.”
“I suppose you hadn’t enough evidence to bring anyone into the courts at the time?”
“Nothing. There was nothing left to gather as evidence. Just two children left in a wake of destruction. This anonymous note sent years later would never even open an inquiry against such a powerful man. To be fair, he may be of no involvement. The note offered no proof.”
“It would be difficult to get at him in order to ascertain his guilt, with his constant guards and security.” Caroline ignored the possibility of Anson’s innocence and gazed at the man in front of her. Bodhi’s elegant fingers wrapped around the teacup as her father's clock began to chime on the hour. She remembered the stories of how Mr. Rolls had picked Bodhi up from a London port, an orphan working the Indian trade route. He had given the boy a home, her father had told her, reminding her to treat Bodhi with kindness. Bodhi’s childhood had seemed like an adventure to her.
“What are you implying, Caroline? Retribution? Indictment? On a man accused via an anonymous note?” Bodhi sat stunned. “Absolutely not, Anson is considered by many to be one the greatest minds of our time.”
Caroline ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Yes actually, I am implying such a thing. I believe the note exposed Anson’s guilt. No one would slander such a man without reasoning and evidence. The proper discovery of justice appeals to my nature, such a scathingly evil wrong should not go unpunished.”
“Whatever its name, I would never consent to lawless mayhem,” said Bodhi, unsure what Caroline was suggesting. “Even if he was guilty.”
“I am not suggesting criminal activity. London has had quite enough of that.” She pulled another small curved comb from her hair and set it on the table. She toyed with it, rocking it back and forth with her fingers. “However, I’ve recently become acquainted with three individuals who are very interested in Professor Anson. I will introduce you.
