“You know, Skoot,” she said as they left the kitchen. “You’re one gentleman whose attentions I don’t mind a’tall.” With Skoot she didn’t need to watch her speech. She could let the words run into each other, round and country. Not that hers was a particularly strong accent. She’d paid as close attention as she could to the gentry when they visited her village. But she’d never been taught to speak properly, just picked it up as she could.
Skoot couldn’t stay with her all the time, of course. He was a very valuable and beautiful dog, for all he was quite ridiculous. The vampires might not genuinely like the Papillon, but he was theirs and must be present for them to observe of an evening.
However it was daylight, so when Imogene took out Madame Lefoux’s tea, Skoot acted as her small, feathery, brown-and-white escort. Her bum smarted and her pride was nearly as sore. But Imogene was happier knowing she would see the inventor regularly.
It was all for naught. Madame Lefoux wasn’t there. The shed was locked. More to the point, it was silent.
One of the gardeners saw her and Skoot wandering about with the tray.
“Won’t do you any good, lass. Sometimes she’s like that. Gets all caught up late into the night, then sleeps the morning away. Take it back – she’ll ring if she wants it later.”
So, Imogene took it back. (Skoot stayed with the gardeners. One of them offered him a mutton bone to gnaw on. Skoot was easily distracted by mutton.) Henry was still there and pinched her again. In the same place.
Imogene wanted to shove her feather duster up his nose. And twirl.
* * *
She did see the inventor at luncheon. Imogene’s cheeks flushed in excitement, but Madame Lefoux was quite distracted and paid her little mind beyond common courtesy. When Imogene put down the tray, the inventor did look up and smile. Imogene gave her a wide grin back.
This seemed to cause Madame Lefoux some kind of pain, or perhaps it was the contraption she worked on, because she flinched and swore softly, adding under her breath, “Je suis dans le pétrin.”
Imogene quickly hid her own enthusiasm, embarrassed. She arranged everything as best she could. Lingering, hoping to be asked to help. But the full force of that intellect wasn’t turned on her, and she was not invited to stay.
Imogene was disappointed but not surprised. She’d known yesterday’s informality must be an aberration. That joy of attention and inquiry could not possibly be repeated between two women of such differing classes and education. This was good enough, Imogene reassured herself. I shall see her every day. Many did not get even that much.
“Thank you, dear,” Madame Lefoux said without looking up. “I am set for the rest of the afternoon. You may return to your duties.”
“Of course, Madame.” Imogene was grateful for the other woman’s absentmindedness; her own brain felt swollen and foolish.
“Miss Hale?”
“Yes, Madame?”
“When you come back for the empty tray, just let yourself in and take it away. I have a delicate experiment to conduct. I would rather not be disturbed.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
Imogene returned a few hours later, duties permitting, pleased to find Madame Lefoux had not been so distracted that she forgot to eat. Imogene suspected, given the inventor’s lean frame, that kind of thing happened all too often.
She paused to watch the woman work. The inventor was so graceful, performing some intricate and exotic dance with her machinery and tools. No sparks this time, simply the rhythmic clunk of an engine in motion, accompanied by occasional bursts of white steam. A twist here, an adjustment there, fast and sure, and then a long pause to shovel coal, every movement practiced and elegant.
Wait. She’s feeding the boilers herself? Surely the hive can afford to hire her a sootie. To relieve some of the hard labor. Then again, perhaps Madame Lefoux enjoyed back-breaking work. She certainly had the muscles for it. Or perhaps a precise amount of coal was required to maintain a specific temperature and she dared not trust anyone else.
Imogene watched for as long as she felt was polite. Her gaze was drawn to the nape of the inventor’s neck. It was exposed when she bent her head. Imogene itched to touch. Something was on her skin just there – between her aggressively short hair and the top of her collar, mostly hidden behind the fabric.
A birthmark, perhaps? A bite? Imogene felt her heart sink all the way to her stomach. Please, not a bite mark.
She didn’t know why the idea was so horrible. We are all of us here, even Madame Lefoux, in the hive’s thrall. Why should she be exempt come snack time? But until that moment, Imogene had thought of the inventor as somehow apart from all that. Unsullied. Or even, just possibly, cursed by the same affliction as she. She’d hoped that they shared something which made them both unwanted by vampires for bed or breakfast.
Imogene turned away (avoiding the possibility of a bite), her eye falling on the large slate hanging next to the desk.
Her brain did what it always did when fretful. It sank into the safety of the numbers scribbled there. She didn’t entirely understand the details of those complex… What did Madame Lefoux call them? Equations? But some of the sums were simple enough. Division, multiplication, addition, and subtraction – those she knew, those she understood.
It had been niggling at her – one column to the far right side, near the bottom of the slate.
It must be a mistake. There was no way (not that she knew of) that the world allowed that particular string of numbers to result in the final solution written beneath. A factor of ten had been miscarried.
She glanced over, wondering if she should say something. But the inventor had said explicitly that she did not wish to be disturbed.
So, because she couldn’t help herself – The numbers are wrong! – Imogene picked up a small stick of chalk, wiped out the error with her sleeve, and made the fix. There.
It looked right. The world was in order once more. Her nerves were calmed.
Then, guilty, she placed the chalk exactly where it had been and, whisking up the empty tray, scuttled from the shed. She closed the door carefully behind her.
* * *
Little did she know the consequences of that tiny adjustment with a piece of chalk. In fact, she’d quite forgotten about it by the time it returned to haunt her.
Madame Lefoux remained focused and occupied the rest of that week. She was gracious to Imogene when she entered, but she was also stiff, even a little cool.
Imogene berated herself. I smiled too big. I showed too much. She senses my warped nature. The things I hide. She’s disgusted by me. But she made a fuss insisting that I serve her and now she can’t get out of it.
Imogene tried not to pine overmuch. Well, she pined a little. She couldn’t help it; Madame Lefoux was so exactly perfect. And sometimes, although this was surely wishful thinking, she thought she caught a look, a quick glance, of such hunger. It was as though the inventor were starving and Imogene the meal, only a meal Madame Lefoux could barely allow herself to look at, let alone taste.
So, Imogene kept her smiles to herself, kept her hands from trembling, and tried to quiet the excited beating of her heart, as if Madame Lefoux were some werewolf to hear the catches in her breath. Instead, she was all efficiency, making sure the inventor ate, as much as she could without being intrusive. She wanted very badly to take care of her. She adored the times when she was summoned to help, to pass over tools, or to assist with lifting some heavy piece of machinery. She would gladly have done more. Her work as parlourmaid was lighter and certainly cleaner than anything in the potting shed. But the laboratory was so interesting. She began to see some of the patterns that drove the inventor. To understand, in a limited way, why something might fit together and work and something else might not.
* * *
On Sunday, Imogene had the day off to visit her family. She’d little interest in the obligation, but someone needed to deliver her earnings, and she
’d nothing else to do.
She found her mother abed and the littles running ragged through the village, but everyone was looking better then they had in a long while. There’d even been a little meat that week.
“Due to your contribution, dear,” Ma explained.
Imogene bustled about the house, cleaning as she could, preparing a meal. Ma was disposed to nervous spells, had been ever since Imogene was old enough to do most of the heavy lifting.
“Is it horrible there, dear?” Ma asked as if she half hoped it were.
“No, it’s passable.”
Ma didn’t look convinced. “May I see?” She made a finger motion to her own neck.
Imogene went over, bent down, and pulled aside the ruffle about her throat. It was her Sunday best. Not that she could attend church anymore now that she worked for vampires, but it was her best. A pretty chintz, perhaps a tad frayed and tight, but she thought she looked well in it. And maybe she’d walked away from the big house past Madame Lefoux’s shed… just in case.
“No bites. You are a lucky girl.”
“They don’t seem to want me.” Imogene didn’t try to explain.
“Thank the stars,” breathed her mother. She recovered some color in her cheeks.
“Now,” said Imogene, “can you manage a little broth?” Considering Ma’s affliction was more likely imagined than reality, Imogene hoped it might be cured by the application of sustenance. People always seemed emotionally fortified when they sipped warm liquids.
They’d settled into a pattern on Sundays. Imogene did what she could around the house. Showed her mother proof that no vampires were feeding on her, told the littles a story, then wended her way back.
She’d yet to mention Madame Lefoux. Imogene didn’t want to share her, not even by proxy. More important, she wasn’t certain she could hide her interest. What was there to tell, anyway? Nothing of consequence. The inventor had shown no true favor beyond requesting her service, had given Imogene no more marked attention. She was a naturally amiable woman. Any casual affection must be considered the result of her being French. Imogene tried to keep herself from wanting more than that.
But she found herself wanting quite a bit more. No doubt Ma would sense this wistfulness if she spoke of the inventor at all. Mothers were tricky like that. Best to keep Madame Lefoux a secret alongside everything else.
When Imogene returned to the big house that evening, there was a spring in her step. Her family was as well as she could make them, and tomorrow she would get to see Madame Lefoux again.
Unfortunately, the hive was in an uproar.
* * *
Imogene hurried to change into her pinafore and assume Greta’s duties. The evening parlourmaid was off to visit a sick aunt, or ailing uncle, or malnourished goldfish, or some such excuse. In fact, she was walking out with one of the under-gardeners. No one was supposed to know, but the entirety of belowstairs was very well aware. Imagine, outside help pairing with inside staff? Shocking.
Imogene shuddered to think what they would say if they ever knew her fantasies. An upstairs maid with one of the quality? Both of them girls! She tortured herself with the idea of cool hands and engineered calluses.
When she emerged from the servants’ wing, it was to find the household in chaos.
Madame Lefoux was striding about, ranting at the top of her lungs. “I want him found! Tout de suite! Whoever it was, I want him located this instant!” She was in a fury about something. Imogene had never seen her like this. Her green eyes fairly flashed, and her accent had gone quite strong.
“Bring me all the musicians currently in residence. It is always musicians. Cannot keep themselves to themselves and tend to be better at mathematics than anyone else. Well! Well! Where are they?”
What was she on about? Imogene was splendid at sums and couldn’t carry a tune to save her life. She inched closer, duster twirling innocently.
The butler attempted to calm the inventor. “Please, Madame Lefoux, try to contain yourself. The sun is nearly set. We cannot possibly have the vampires awakening to this sort of carrying on. If you would consider the conservatory?”
“The conservatory? The conservatory! Why should I consider that?”
“If you would adjourn there? I will have the footmen round up all the musicians currently in residence and send them to you.”
“This minute?”
“Yes, Madame. Right this very minute. Except Mr Wetherston-Ponsford. He is performing this evening.”
“Is he indeed? Do you happen to know if Mr Wetherston-Ponsford has a penchant for arithmetic?”
The butler took serious offense to such an accusation being leveled at the absent (and thus unable to mount a defense) Mr Wetherston-Ponsfords of the world. “Now, Madame, do you think you should go around casting aspersions on perfectly decent pianists like that?”
Madame Lefoux gave the man a disgusted, very French-seeming wave of the hand and then stomped off, presumably to the conservatory. Imogene thought that a stomping Madame Lefoux was the most fiercely adorable thing she’d ever seen.
The butler looked harried.
Imogene presented herself for inspection. “Sir?”
“Where’s Greta?”
“She’s off this evening, sir. Visiting someone sick, I believe.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Well, come along, then. There’s dusting to do.”
“Sir, what’s wrong with Madame Lefoux?”
“Someone tinkered with one of her precious equations. She is on a rampage trying to discover whom. Hence the musicians. Apparently, they’re supposed to be good with numbers. Although, if you ask me, a lady ought to be careful hurling accusations of mathematics around all willy-nilly like that. I blame the French.”
Imogene felt as if she might faint. But I fixed it days ago. She only now noticed? She wondered if she should go confess straight away, collect her dismissal, and have done with it. Clearly, she’d botched up everything.
But she was a coward.
Nevertheless, Imogene found that her parlourmaid’s duties that night took her more and more frequently into the vicinity of the conservatory, where Madame Lefoux was running an inquisition in a startlingly Spanish manner for a Frenchwoman.
Imogene wouldn’t have thought a mere indenture outranked the household’s true drones. But Madame Lefoux certainly acted as though she had ultimate authority. The drones seemed frightened enough by her wrath to do as requested. There were two pianists, one harpist, one violinist, and a tuba player residing at the hive currently. (Imogene had heard the tuba player practicing and thought it sounded remarkably like flatulence, but apparently, this was highly regarded in some circles.) With one of the pianists already gone, Madame Lefoux could only terrorize the remaining four musicians. She put them to a round of questioning and then set them some sums.
Everyone ended up frustrated by the impromptu examinations.
“Are you positive it was not any of you?” The inventor stood, hands on hips.
She’d changed for supper. Imogene had never before seen her out of work clothes. She looked very well, scrubbed clean and wearing a suit of moss green, with an emerald waistcoat, and a silver cravat. The hands on hips pinched in her clothing, emphasizing her tiny waist. She was so lean, Imogene sometimes wondered if there were curves there at all. What she wouldn’t give to find out.
The musician drones were nowhere near as terrified as Imogene would have been in their place, seeming instead mostly annoyed.
In the end, Madame Lefoux had to let them go.
“Flighty as opera dancers,” was her rude remark to their departing backs.
Imogene found her way to dusting the potted plants in one corner of the room.
Madame Lefoux tilted her head back and stared at the glass ceiling in exasperation.
“Perhaps,” she said, apparently to herself, “it was one of the keepers? But why come into my laboratory and do nothing more than change a sum?
Do I have a technology spy on my hands? Professor Swern is pursuing the same line of inquiry. He would give a gold-dusted diamond-roodle to see my notes. But even so, why reveal himself by tinkering with an equation?”
Imogene piped up. “Did it mess everything up horribly, then?”
Madame Lefoux whirled. Seeing who it was, she smiled. Her whole demeanor altered, those impossibly green eyes narrowed, focusing entirely on Imogene. “A very good evening to you, Miss Hale. I did not see you for tea today. Or luncheon, for that matter.”
“It’s my day off, Madame.”
“Then why are you here… dusting?”
“The other parlourmaid has the evening off.”
“Indeed? Do you ever actually get an entire day of liberty?”
Imogene frowned. What an odd notion. “No, Madame. Of course not. I’m in service.”
The inventor shook her head, looking sad. “Naturally. How silly of me. Now, what did you ask?”
“I asked if it was very wrong, what was done to your equation.”
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips. “No, no, in fact, quite the opposite. It was very right. I completed the prototype as a result. I had a factor off and it was throwing everything into chaos. At some point, someone fixed it, and I proceeded without realizing. This resulted in a working counterstate aetheric conductor at last. Well, theoretically working, I’ll need to take it floating to test it properly.”
“Then why do you wish to punish the, uh, equation bandit?”
“Punish? Punish! What a preposterous idea. I thought to recruit. Once in a while, you understand, I require help with calculations. Mathematics are not my strongest suit.” Madame Lefoux was beginning to regard Imogene with a crafty expression.
Imogene knew she was blushing hotly.
She screwed her courage to the sticking point. It wasn’t that she thought she might actually be any good. She didn’t, after all, understand the equations themselves, couldn’t even read them. But the inventor deserved to know the truth.
“It was me.”
Madame Lefoux grinned in delight. Slaying Imogene with those deadly dimples. “I was hoping you were working yourself up to that. And now I recall your asking about the equation that first day we met. Did you spot the error, even then?”
Romancing the Inventor Page 4
