The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  “Whatever I wish,” Hyde answered. He shrugged into his coat. “And now, I wish for luncheon.”

  Chapter Four

  September 10

  R. M. Hay Bookshop

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  You can imagine my delight in receiving your letter. I immediately procured a bench in the Air Station terminal and devoured its contents. I was pleased to hear the details of your days in Inverness, of your walks alongside the Loch. It was only too easy to imagine myself there, and the noises and din of the Station paled and faded as I was overcome with the idea of fresh Highland air and your good company.

  Your letter was a source of great enjoyment for my mind during the long hours spent in the Theatre. Time and again, while involved with some tedious procedure, my thoughts would return to your cheerful conversation. I am relieved that you enjoyed my letter as well, and anticipate your receipt of my second. All of my worries on conversational choice have been laid to rest, thanks to your kind words.

  You should be in possession of my second letter by now. I am fascinated to learn of the timetable involved with using air travel. It seems faster service than via the road routes. I have not had good luck with mail coaches. In my experience, they tend to lose more letters than they deliver. I hope that my second letter did arrive, and hopefully in better shape than it probably would have, if it had gone by land.

  I am happy that you spoke of yourself, and greatly enjoyed your ridiculous dislike of your given name. Eugenia is a very fine name, and I see no reason why you should believe otherwise. It is of no consequence to me that you prefer to be known as Anne. To me, I will always be writing the intriguing Miss Eugenia Campbell, not Miss Eugenia Anne Campbell, and there is very little you can do to change my opinion on that subject.

  I am smiling while reading over this, and I hope you are doing the same.

  I was pleased to hear that your father is doing well and that he is enjoying his retirement. I also greatly appreciate his offer of his medical books and instruments, and would be honored to accept them as mine own. If you do not mind sending them to me, at the Air Station address, then all postage costs will be assumed by my account. Please thank him for me, and assure him that I shall endeavor to use them with the same care he always exhibited.

  Your concern over my wellbeing was immensely pleasing, but I do not wish for you to be worried for me. Please be aware that I am managing quite well, and have acclimated myself a little better to Auld Toon. I still become lost on occasion, through the narrow, winding catacombs of the closes, but if I keep to my outlined paths to the Operating Theatre and such, then I succeed reasonably well. There is method to the madness of the closes, and I have developed quite the mental map.

  You asked for more details about my subterranean abode. There is really very little to describe. A very small room, with scarcely enough space for the little bits of furniture contained within. There is a narrow iron-framed bed and then a small vanity topped with a mirror. A stout, short cupboard, but due to the lack of available space I keep most of my belongings in trunks. There is a desk and chair. The floor is stone, and can be cold to the touch.

  There is no fireplace. No windows, of course, due to the below-the-streets locale.

  I do not wish for you to be concerned with the cramped living or think that it is in some way unsafe. There is a good sturdy lock upon the door, and the Mitchells do not seem particularly interested in rifling through my belongings. This room, this snug, is ideal for me, considering I spend very little time within the boarding house at all. I rest there. The remaining hours are spent either at the Operating Theatre or exploring what is proving to be a vastly interesting city.

  I have ventured out again tonight, and am currently sitting at Hay’s Bookshop, located just beyond my boarding house. This place is a wonderful respite after the long day working, and is a necessary break from the confines of my snug. I had a very robust dinner of soup and cold cuts at a coffeehouse close by, and have finally settled myself here, to both reread your letter and to write one in response.

  Hay’s Bookshop has become one of my favorite haunts. I find myself lost amid the various stacks and shelves. Such an offering! There are desks available in the far corner, with nice gas lamps and comfortable chairs. And most important, a fireplace!

  So tonight, I have packed parchment, quill, and ink into my carpetbag. There is no one disturbing me as I write you. I have selected a desk close to the fire and can feel its warmth. The proprietor does not mind that I have brought in coffee, and it is working wonders on the deep chill that I fear has permanently settled into my bones.

  I would be delighted to procure any novels you might desire. Yesterday, I purchased a copy of The Last of the Mohicans by Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. It is supposed to be an exciting accounting of America and the New World, and I can envision many nights spent lost amid its pages. America fascinates me, and it is my supreme wish to one day visit its shores. For now, Cooper’s novel will have to suffice, and I hope it does not disappoint. There is nothing I like less than a novel that disintegrates in both plot and structure. A flip through the pages assures me that this is not the case with Cooper, but I will not know until I truly invest.

  If you would, please, send me authors and titles that interest you. I will procure and send them promptly. I know that Inverness is in sore need of such a shop, and am unwilling for you to suffer from a lack of literature when I have resources so readily at my fingertips.

  There is a constant rain that falls upon this coal-streaked city, but it is providing a nice orchestra against the shop windowpanes. From where I am sitting, I can see out a window at the bricked street beyond. There are gas lampposts glowing, and they throw terrific shadows against the closely set walls. You would think that the rain and chill would cause a lessening in the traffic outside, but it seems that nothing halts these hardy citizens. Pedestrians crowd the pavement, and the carriage traffic is relentless.

  A perfect evening to be sitting in front of a fire, surrounded by books, while writing the enigmatic Miss Eugenia Campbell.

  I should be more fatigued than I am, due to the immense amount of work I have conducted. But, as I have said, your letter provided me enough fuel to get through the day. It not only strengthened me but gave me a much-needed sense of humor and cheer.

  I scan your letter, assuring myself that I have answered your questions adequately. I must remind myself that you have just received my accounting of the Steambox. Forgive me my assumptions as to your responses. It is difficult, this letter writing, when what I should really like to do is come and sit before your father’s fire, and speak to the two of you about all the wonders I have seen thus far.

  But tonight, I only have the cheerful scratch of the quill against the page. It will have to do, for now.

  Hyde has yet to perform any such extravagance as what I witnessed with the Steambox. In fact, I have yet to glimpse the contraption again. He keeps it locked away in a cupboard in his office, and any time I mention it, he gives me a very blank expression that forbids any further questioning on the subject. The examining table has been returned to his office, but the brass tubes and such have been squirreled away. Save for the fastenings against the side of the table, I should think that I had imagined the entire matter.

  I am of half a mind that he concocted the experiment as some sort of bizarre welcome, but that idea implies an interest in me that Hyde does not currently exhibit. And so the Steambox and the suctioning of soulful power is relegated to yet another mystery I have been subjected to in my time here.

  I have undertaken my scientific duties alongside Hyde, although he is still of the opinion that he has no need for an assistant, particularly a butcher who hails from London. On my own, I hunted down his office, and made a place for myself. I commandeered a worktable, and have set up my medical tomes and instruments.

  I am anticip
ating the arrival of your father’s gifts, and have already spent an inordinate amount of time arranging them all to my liking on my table, in my mind. You must know that, thanks to his kindness, I will be the best-equipped assistant in residence.

  I have decided to ignore Hyde’s complaints with regard to my lingering presence in his office, and have instead assumed the tasks presented to me. Let me be abundantly clear. Hyde presented no tasks. But after quiet observation, I could deduce what projects he was working on, and I began my normal procedures as if I had been given proper instructions.

  Thus far, my days are forming a pattern of their own.

  I have acquainted myself with his schedule, and have arranged it so that I arrive at the office a half hour before he does. He likes coffee, so I always bring him a cup from my favorite stall. I noticed that he prefers the windows of the office open to the cold air, so I immediately arrange that. I gather the post and set it in the middle of his desk. I jot down reminders of looming calendar appointments. I place my carefully worded suggestions and notes on his current projects beside the mail, and I never mention them, once he arrives.

  I have, however, noticed that he reads them. He never comments, or adjusts his own research with regard to my suggestions. But his lack of response seems a sort of acceptance. He has yet to toss them out the window, which is what he did when I made the mistake of leaving a note from Dr. MacDougal on his desk.

  I am extremely good, Miss Campbell, with observation. I am dogged and persistent, and Hyde is proving to be a most interesting subject. My first day, working alongside him, I concentrated on staying out of his way. I watched. I listened. I observed. I learned his patterns, his requirements, merely by watching and remaining silent. Which seemed perfectly acceptable to Hyde, who chose to ignore me as if I did not exist at all.

  You must believe me mad, but truly, Miss Campbell, this has been one of the more enjoyable postings I have yet had. Save for Inverness, which was, by far, the most delightful placing possible, Edinburgh is quickly proving itself in an entirely different way. You already know that I read too much. I imagine too much. But what I also enjoy is the process of observation and then implementation. I delight in hardship and adversity. Edinburgh has given me that in spades.

  I am a very quick learner, and this has always proven to my advantage.

  So, for example, I now open all missives from MacDougal on my own. If I decide they are important, I scribble down the barest facts or instructions on Hyde’s calendar. I am careful to omit any mention of MacDougal’s name.

  No more furious reaction. No more unopened letters being tossed to the bricked street.

  I have also taken the liberty to arrive every morning with a bottle of spirits, which I leave as a peace offering on his worktable.

  By the time Hyde arrives in the morning, I am sure to be deeply involved in the projects. No greeting. I do not look up from my books when he strides in. I covertly watch him from my peripheral vision. I can see his displeasure at my continued presence. Hyde is anything but subtle, but his low grumblings remain ignored by me. He then notices that I am busy with my own tasks. He sees the whisky. The coffee. The notes and correspondence.

  There is cold air, billowing. I can hear the shouts of carriage drivers and merchants from the street below. But the office itself is quiet, the only sound the turning of pages, or my quill against the page as I write down notes. No conversation, not until he has a few sips of his whisky or coffee, and even then, conversation is sparse, at best.

  This seems to work well enough for Hyde. He has not commented on my work, on my daily pattern, but I have decided that is a good thing. I think that if something displeased him, he would not hesitate to say so.

  We have begun a rather pleasant routine of quiet, deep research, followed by an equally quiet luncheon, usually at a smallish restaurant adjacent to the Theatre. He is still openly suspicious about me, and my alleged allegiance to whatever factions are within the Doctoral Council, but I think that even Hyde has been unable to ignore the chilly reception I receive from those around me. It is difficult to be a spy when one is openly and truly disliked. And when asked, I am extremely candid about the fact that I am not beloved by anyone, faction or not.

  Again, I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Campbell, with any rudeness on behalf of my employer. I am absolutely untroubled by it, and my good humor is in no way affected by the surliness of my fellow man. The work that I am conducting is truly fascinating, and there is so much of it that I care little for the subtle nuances of the social game.

  Currently, we are engrossed in searching out a better way to treat consumption, and I have taken it upon myself (since I believe this is what Hyde would wish me to do, should he be a normal employer who verbalized my task list) to outline and document known procedures from various sources. Hyde is of a very firm belief that it is treatable, and that the cure is just beyond our grasp. I am inclined to agree, and have thrown myself wholeheartedly into a deep and seemingly bottomless pit of research.

  Time and time again, I return my thoughts to the Steambox, but Hyde is silent on the matter. At night, my thoughts are consumed with thoughts of the soul, and in my sparse amount of spare time, I have begun to research everything I can on that topic. I have looked extensively at the Bible, making notes of any mention of the soul. I have delved into the world of academia, and am particularly fascinated by history’s take on its existence.

  I find myself wondering what Hyde has in mind with the Steambox. What does he wish to do with such power? As I said in my previous letter, the possibilities are endless. Is he political? Is he working on a war machine? Is that why he possesses unlimited freedom from the Crown?

  These are the thoughts that keep me awake at night. These are the questions I ponder.

  And as I have said, I am very good at observation. I have every faith that I will find my answers. Give me time, Miss Eugenia, and I will.

  You also asked details of my fellow boarders. I suppose I should start with those whose quarters are closest to mine. It seems the Mitchells have chosen to bury the bachelors. All of the six rooms on my subterranean floor are occupied by unmarried men. The upper floors comprise the larger rooms, allegedly, and they are commandeered by families and suchlike. I must admit that I am extremely pleased to not be housed near them, since I can hear the caterwaul of continually colicky children every time I step foot into the dining hall.

  I made an attempt to offer my services as a physician’s assistant, offering to aid the ill children. My suggestion was met with harsh rebuke that I should return below stairs where I belonged. Charming family, the MacIntoshes.

  And so, I obey. I return below stairs.

  Mr. Stuart works in a nearby tavern, so his hours are the opposite of mine own. He seems nice enough when we pass in the hall, but I have yet to visit his place of employment, although he has invited me on several occasions.

  Mr. Banbury is a fellow Englishman who has come north in search of work. He is employed at one of the steam mills. He is dour and unpleasant, which makes me match Hyde’s opinion that there is very little I like about the English.

  I am smiling again, as I turn my attention to the remaining three on my floor. It is impossible to not write of them in the same breath. They are always together, and even when I am sitting in my room, with the door firmly shut, I can hear them bellowing and laughing among themselves as they return from a night in Auld Toon.

  Mr. MacKay. Mr. Wallace. And Mr. Beatie.

  They are a friendly bunch, far more pleasant than Banbury, although none of them possess Hyde’s mastery over whisky. They are usually inebriated, no matter what time I happen upon them, either in the early morning when I leave for the Theatre, or late at night when I return. At least they are cheerful. Mrs. Mitchell warned me that they have been forbidden to use candles in their rooms, lest they burn down their quarters again. I assume she is
speaking only in jest, but I have been infinitely grateful that the three only use their rooms to sleep off another excessive evening. Their over-whiskied nature requires a collapse into a darkened room, which negates my worries over their misuse of fire.

  The bookshop is settling down for the evening, so I must pack away my things and return home. I am intending to post this letter now, to have it possibly catch the late transport ship. I have brought several books home with me tonight, with the greatest of intentions to return to my search for the soul, but I am also eyeing Cooper’s novel. I fear I shall probably escape into the New World for a bit, at least for as long as my eyes will remain open.

  But before I leave, let me tell you one good thing. Today was my sixth day working with Hyde, if you count the Sabbath, which I do. I have outlasted even the best of his previous assistants.

  Not bad for an unintelligent butcher from London.

  Regards.

  Chapter Five

  September 13

  Mitchell Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  I have had, quite possibly, the most extraordinary evening I have yet to experience. I am simply too agitated to retire tonight, although the hour is late, and I have a very early morning at the Theatre. Rest would be a good idea, and I know I will be fatigued tomorrow, but I simply cannot wait to tell you the details of what occurred.

  This morning began with a rich dread. I noticed on Hyde’s calendar, during my daily routine of preparation for his arrival, that there was to be a Doctoral dinner this evening. I assumed it was for the physicians only. I hoped! But I was quickly proved incorrect. One of MacDougal’s assistants (and again, I am horrific with names) informed me that I was to attend. All workers involved in the Doctoral Council were to be there, and he also instructed that I was under strict instructions to see to it that Hyde got himself there as well.