Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Does Mr. Fiske own those as well?" Bartleby asked from the back.

  "Most of them, yes. Directly or indirectly. And their suppliers."

  He sunk a little lower in the back seat and took a quick nip from his flask. "Sounds self-sufficient."

  "I am to understand that it is quite the economical arrangement, sir."

  James spoke again, sounding like an excited schoolboy. "Will we be seeing Mr. Fiske's research facilities?"

  There was a pause before the footman responded. "I am not one to say, sir. My task is simply to bring you to the estate for the garden party and wedding."

  "Perhaps we can visit it later, James, after this wedding business has been attended to."

  The footman glanced back at his passenger, his lips drawn into a taut line.

  Alton gave him a wink and raised his flask. "But the standing toast that pleased the most, was 'The wind that blows, the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor!'"

  The ride continued in silence for a short time.

  "So.. where is everything?" James asked.

  "Everything, sir?"

  "The foundry? The machinist shops? The telegraphy tower? All I see are houses and shops."

  "Mr. Fiske's business concerns and facilities are on the town's exterior, sir, while the estate is in its centre."

  "Oh."

  "You needn't sound so disappointed, James," Alton said. "I'm sure we'll get around to seeing it sooner or later."

  ***

  The Fiske estate sat atop the hill that its town had been named for, surrounded by a verdant lawn and a tall stone fence. The house itself was an expansive combination of old and new construction, plaster and wood meeting the steel and glass of the solarium. Servants and workmen busied themselves on the lawn arranging chairs and tables under pavilion tents for the pre-ceremony social.

  Lucian Fiske met his soon-to-be son-in-law in the parlour. The white marble of its floors matched both the mantle over its fireplace, and contrasted well with the dark suit that the older gentleman was wearing. His face was pale and drawn, but he smiled as he greeted the bridegroom.

  "Alton. It's a pleasure to see you again."

  Alton was humming as he swept up and grasped the man's hand. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fiske, all mine. Have you met my partner, Mr. Wainwright?"

  "Aldora may have mentioned him," Fiske said, nodding to the large and broad shouldered man standing in the doorway. "You're in business with Alton?"

  James stepped forward almost hesitantly, an unusual behaviour for the normally fearless engineer. "It's an honour to meet you, sir. I remember reading your paper on electromagnetic induction through a hydrostatic medium while I was in the Academy."

  "The Academy? Oh, you're a guild-member, then?"

  "James is an inventor. I finance him." Alton walked back to his partner and slapped James on the back proudly, speaking a bit too loudly. "I finance his inventions and he makes patents."

  "Yes, sir. As I've said, it's an honour to meet you. I'd love to compare notes on your research into wireless telegraphy -- I've so many questions."

  Fiske chuckled and patted the large man on the shoulder in an almost paternal way. "Perhaps when we've the wedding behind us, young man. As you can imagine, there's much to do at the moment."

  "I look forward to it, sir."

  Alton's amusement with James's sycophancy was quickly turning to boredom. He'd privately hoped that the hero worship James had been exhibiting would lead to something more interesting. He noticed his hand drifting towards the inside pocket of his waistcoat and the flask within and, with supreme willpower, forced it to stop.

  Fiske turned to his footman. "Charles, will you show Mr. Bartleby and Mr. Wainwright to their rooms?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And could I trouble you for a drink?" Alton asked before he'd realised it.

  "We'll have brandy and cigars in the drawing room once more guests have arrived," Fiske said.

  "I will be delighted to join you once they do, but if I could get a drink in the meantime--"

  The smile didn't quite leave Lucian Fiske's face, but it did sort of freeze there. "Charles, after you've shown Mr. Bartleby to his quarters, would you bring him something to drink?"

  "It is greatly appreciated," Bartleby said. Now Charles, that was a footman's footman. He could be counted upon.

  ***

  The footman led them from the drawing room towards the stairs.

  "I say, Bartleby, you're drinking a good deal more than is typical," James said.

  "Why so I am. How astute of you to notice."

  "I'd say that the escapism is typical." The bride-to-be, Aldora Fiske, stood at the top of the stairs like a statue of white granite in her wedding gown, a cold and severe expression on her face, gazing down without passion at the men below her. "Whatever could you be hiding from, Alton?"

  "Aldora, dear." Bartleby straightened up and ran fingers through his blond hair. "It's ill fortune to see the bride before the ceremony."

  "It's worse luck yet to have the groom fall ill and vomit on the vicar."

  "I've never gotten sick from drink." Bartleby held up a finger. "Not once!"

  "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." White lace armlets framed Aldora's fingers as they slid along the banister. "Father may have not said anything, but he did notice. And he will remember."

  "I can assure you that such mild intoxication shan't impair my ability to function in the slightest," Bartleby said.

  "I'm sure you'll be as useful as ever. In fact, I've a task for you."

  "Wonderful." Bartleby leaned against the wall. "Just what I need after a four-hour train trip to refresh myself before my wedding."

  "After you've unpacked... and honestly, Alton, do freshen up a tad... I need you to go out to the grounds and greet the guests as they arrive."

  "What?" Bartleby said. "Your servants will be out in force. Have Charles here do it."

  "It's important, Alton. I've been trying to get you to go over the guest lists and seating arrangements for weeks, but you've been far too busy of late. Now, on the very day of our wedding, I'll need you to guide our guests to where they need to be and introduce them to whom they need to know."

  "Won't your mother be--"

  "You're the only one who can, Alton. Even half in the bottle, you've an instinctive grasp of people and their connections beyond any I've ever seen. You know how important this wedding is. It sets the tone for our partnership among our peers, and if we can manage to impress here we can largely ignore society and get on with the business of living our lives."

  She paused, casting a glance away from the men, down the hall. "And mother is... unwell."

  "Yes," Bartleby said quietly. "You're right, of course."

  "And do stop drinking. You smell like a vintner."

  "Yes, dear."

  "There's a good lad." She tilted her head towards his partner. "James."

  "Aldora. Is Xin Yan free? I'd like to say hello."

  "Yes. She's with Penny in the playroom. Charles can show you the way once you're settled."

  "Thank you."

  Aldora stood and watched as Charles led her fiancée and his partner up the stairs, towards the guest rooms. She placed a hand on Bartleby's shoulder, stopping him as they passed.

  "I can trust you to handle this, Alton? Please?"

  Bartleby hesitated, looking into Aldora's eyes. Her expression hadn't changed, but something in it gave him pause, and the retort he'd prepared died on his lips. He gave a brief silent nod in its place.

  "Thank you, Alton." She turned and walked away down the hall, her skirt's train making it seem like she was gliding.

  Bartleby turned to his partner with a drunken smile, spreading his hands wide. "See? Bad luck."

  ***

  Dearest Aldora,

  You cannot imagine my pleasure at this invitation to your wedding. It has been many years since we have spoken, and it is always such a thrill to hear from one of my old girlhood schoolm
ates. I am overjoyed that you and your Mr. Bartleby have finally set the date -- an engagement of such long duration is unseemly.

  You will perhaps forgive me if I take this opportunity to express my dismay that you have not attended any of the social events to which I have been inviting you. Kensington is not yet so far from St. John's Woods, is it? I daresay that if you can holiday in the Americas and the Orient, you can brave crossing London to call on an old friend now and again.

  I will be most pleased to attend you,

  Regina Worth

  Chapter 2

  Mary Fiske stood, one hand on her bed's headboard, the other at her waist, while her maid did her best to lace up her corset. Aldora's mother had always been a small women, slight of frame even before the wasting disease had weakened her. The sight of the knobs of her mother's spine above the corset lacing sent a very primal and particular dread through Aldora as she entered.

  "Mother--"

  Aldora's mother glanced back over her shoulder, smiling with too much teeth and not enough gum. "Oh, hello dear. You needn't fret. I'll be down anon."

  The maid pulled the underskirt over the elder woman's head, the matron lifting both arms to accommodate her. It was painful for Aldora to see how the once tight garment hung loosely on her mother's frail frame.

  "Alton has offered to handle the guests," Aldora said. "You needn't bother yourself."

  "Oh, your young man has arrived? How splendid. I simply cannot wait to meet him."

  "You'll have the opportunity after the ceremony," Aldora said. "But, for now, you need your rest. Won't you take it easy?"

  The maid slipped Mary's out of fashion hooped over-skirt on over her head. When she'd straightened it, Aldora's mother spoke quietly. "Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to give us some privacy?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't go far."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Mother--" Aldora started.

  "Aldora Lillian Fiske." Mary turned towards her daughter, a rare fire in her eyes. "I have been waiting since your sixteenth birthday to see you married. For six years, six long years, I had feared that you would end up like my sister Emily, a spinster to her dying day. When I heard that you had become engaged to a young man in London I felt a tremendous relief, only to be faced with an engagement that dragged on for another six long, long years. I despaired, thinking that you had been taken by a cad, until came the sudden announcement only months ago."

  "It was a mutual--"

  "Aldora. Dear. My darling." Her mother leaned against the bed, hand to her brow. "You are my one and only daughter. Your brother -- God alone knows where Grayson is or what he's doing--"

  Aldora remained stone-faced.

  "--but in all likelihood yours is the only wedding I will have the pleasure of hosting. This morning, this very morning, I thanked my lucky stars that I have lived long enough to wake to see you wed."

  "Mother." A deep sense of shame and hopelessness filled Aldora, coupled with love for her mother. She let none of this come to the surface.

  "I could die immediately after and be fulfilled, Aldora, but I will not lie here, in this room, and miss my daughter's day."

  For a moment the strength that Aldora remembered from her childhood returned to her mother's voice, that quiet reserve of power and prim stubbornness required of a woman marrying into the Fiske name. Then, like a wilting daisy, it was gone, and Mary Fiske's shoulders slumped.

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Would you be so kind as to send Elizabeth back in here? I've much to prepare before I make my appearance."

  "Yes, Mother," Aldora said, for there was nothing else to be done about it.

  ***

  "You've chosen quite the fiancée, dear."

  "He's dependable enough," Aldora said.

  Her father was standing on the balcony overlooking the expansive lawn. An unlit cigar jutted out of his mouth at an askew angle, a sharp contrast to Lucian Fiske's otherwise perfectly set and arranged demeanour.

  His lack of a response prompted Aldora to continue, even as she knew that he frequently employed a tactic of silence to get others to reveal what they might otherwise otherwise have not. "That is to say, he is not habitually a drunkard."

  "I would hope not. However, he does have a substantial reputation of sorts around London."

  She hesitated. "Alton is not--"

  "I would imagine you have your own reasons for this arrangement." He took the cigar from his mouth. "His reputation is well constructed, though I'm curious as to why he has been so diligent in downplaying his naval record. From what my sources have been able to discern--"

  "You investigated my fiancée?" Aldora asked.

  "You are my only daughter," her father said. "It shall be my eternal task to watch out for your best interests, even if you're less than inclined to permit me."

  Colour briefly flared in Aldora's cheeks. "This is exactly why I moved to London. I don't need you meddling in my affairs."

  "I haven't been meddling. You were very clear that you did not desire my assistance, and I have respected your wishes."

  "Investigating my fiancée is meddling."

  "It's nothing more than a father's concern for his daughter."

  "Coming to Istanbul and arranging--"

  "Paternal concern. And a good thing, too. Or would you have preferred I let you remain kidnapped?"

  "I can do quite well without your concern, father. Stay out of my life."

  Aldora turned to go. Her father's hand moved with a sudden speed that belied his sixty years and clamped around her wrist with an unexpected strength.

  "You're hurting me," she said, simply and without inflection.

  "I have given you considerable latitude to live your own life, perhaps far more than is right or proper," Lucian said, his blue eyes cold as they shifted to her own. "And for this I ask little in return. Your life is your own to live. But do not forget, Aldora, that you are a Fiske, and while I draw breath my responsibility is to safeguard the Fiske name."

  "Let go of my wrist."

  "You are a Fiske. Even should you take on your husband's surname, you remain a Fiske, and thus, my business, my concern, and my responsibility. Are we clear on this matter?"

  Aldora remained silent.

  "Are we clear, girl?"

  "Yes, Father."

  He released her wrist. Though it stung, she didn't rub it. Not in front of him.

  "How is your mother this morning?" He rolled the cigar between his fingers.

  "Stubborn. She insists upon being there to greet the guests, though I've assured her that Alton will be handling it."

  "You've her fire when you need it," her father said. "Though of late you seem to prefer my ice."

  Aldora was suddenly aware of how her posture mirrored that of her father's. She shifted her weight.

  "Hardly unsurprising, given what you've been through."

  "I hate it when you discuss me as if I'm not right in front of you."

  "You hate a great many things." Her father turned, hands in his trouser pockets, and began to stroll back towards the house. "Hold on to that. It will serve you well, my daughter."

  She did not turn to watch him go, fingers tightening on the balcony's rail.

  ***

  "Aldora, darling!" The shrill voice sent a jag down Aldora's spine.

  A woman several years her junior swept along the hall, ribbons in her hair trailing behind, a toothsome smile on her face, unsubtle glee in her eyes.

  "Regina, dear." Aldora managed a small upturning of the lips, though the smile did not extend far beyond. "How pleasant that you could make it."

  "I made sure to make the trip," Regina Worth said, taking Aldora's hands in her own. Her dress was not as elaborate nor as fine as the bride's, but what it lacked in elegance it made up for in ostentatiousness. "I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world."

  "You humble me with your enthusiasm," Aldora said.

  "It's quite the relief that your nuptials have come to fruiti
on." Regina let go of Aldora's hands. "You would not believe how some were beginning to whisper that Miss Aldora Fiske was destined to end an old maid."

  "The tongues of gossips will wag," Aldora said, perfectly aware that said rumours had almost certainly originated in the person of the woman standing before her.

  "Alice was just telling me the other week -- you remember Alice, mousy thing, used to follow us around the green?"

  "I remember her."

  "She was just telling me a few months ago that it seemed as if you were never to find a husband. Can you imagine?"

  "I can imagine."

  Regina hooked her arm through Aldora's and began leading the way down the hall. "Well, I said to her, I reminded her you that you were engaged to a perfectly fine young man, your Mr. Bartleby. And you'll never guess what she said!"

  "I cannot begin to speculate."

  "She said that she would not be terribly surprised if your Bartleby were to leave you at the altar. Can you imagine the nerve? Not that I can't understand, with your Bartleby's reputation and all."

  Aldora slipped her arm free. "Then she will be relieved to know that Mr. Bartleby does not quite measure up to the cad he is purported to be. He is here, it is our wedding day, and it's all terribly exciting, I can assure you."

  "Of course." Regina turned to face her. "Let me look at you. I have been ever so concerned about your welfare, after the unpleasantries you've weathered abroad."

  "Your concern is welcome but entirely unfounded," Aldora said.

  Regina studied her old classmate. "I should say your complexion has weathered the stress fairly well; you don't look a day over thirty."

  Aldora's eyes narrowed slightly.

  "And your hair... what sort of dye are you using? I daresay I don't see any grey at all."

  "You are too generous with your compliments," Aldora said. "But I am afraid you must excuse me, Regina. There's ever so much to do."

  The other woman frowned slightly, then nodded. "As you say, Aldora. Congratulations again."

  Aldora turned and walked slowly back up the hall. "Thank you. Enjoy the garden party."