Romancing the Inventor

by Gail Carriger

  It was wonderful.

  And it was utter torture.

  Imogene liked the learning. In the space of only a few months, she’d mastered the basics of reading and writing. She couldn’t spell worth crackling, but she didn’t need that for equations.

  And the equations were glorious! Nothing was more fun than solving for x. It was like the most perfect of quests. Imogene felt herself to be a white knight, and the x her dragon to find and slay.

  Although, to be honest, Imogene did believe there was something more fun, something involving Genevieve and Genevieve’s dimples and Genevieve’s other bits, but for now she must settle for slaying the x.

  * * *

  Summer wended into fall, and Imogene managed to keep to the potting shed and gardens except for the evening meal. Skoot made his way to her at least half the time. The white of his fur took on a grey dusting of soot and he was prone to sneezing, but he seemed to very much enjoy the laboratory’s range of sounds, smells, and activity. Madame Lefoux didn’t object to his presence. Once or twice, Imogene even caught her chatting to the little dog in French.

  “He is a Papillon, so he must understand his native tongue, no?” the inventor explained at Imogene’s grin.

  “Naturally.”

  Genevieve looked away quickly at that, as if hurt by Imogene’s enthusiasm.

  The lunch tray began to include a bit of chopped liver in a little saucer.

  Lacking any other options, Imogene continued to eat supper with the household. She wasn’t staff anymore. As an indenture, she ranked higher, not quite a drone but no longer a servant. But the drones never invited her to join them, and she didn’t know how to ask. It was all rather awkward.

  She felt it too petty a matter to mention to Genevieve. The inventor had other concerns.

  Madame Lefoux was required to present herself to the hive for the sunset repast (their breakfast, her supper) and report on her latest endeavors. Imogene was mildly afraid that if she said anything about her awkward mealtimes, she’d be forced to join the vampires at table. The inventor had odd ideas about equality and believed Imogene’s standing almost on par with her own. Imogene would suffer the butler’s disregard, Henry’s hostility, and the staff’s animosity if it meant no vampires. Perhaps they would forget about her. Perhaps everyone would forget about her.

  They did not.

  * * *

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Miss Hale.”

  Imogene blinked up from her current set of calculations. Her breath caught and her stomach clenched, but she tried not to let it show. “Oh. Will you, Madame? Not for too long, I hope?”

  “Ah, sweet choupinette. Only a week or so. I am off to meet my son in London. He needs new clothes again. Boys will keep growing. He’s coming over on the trans-Channel dirigible so we can visit Bond Street. I thought I’d present that paper the Royal Society has been prodding me about. You know, the one on the counterstate aetheric conductor? I would ask you along, but those catchment reductions must be monitored. I do not trust anyone else while I am away.”

  Imogene smiled. Wasn’t it just like Genevieve to even consider inviting her? She’d never been to London; it seemed a terrifying place. “And who would keep an eye on Skoot? Regardless, I wouldn’t want to impose on your time with your son. I know you miss him.” Plus, she was honored the inventor trusted her with the laboratory while she was away.

  Madame Lefoux moved close to her then.

  Imogene’s breathing stuttered. Usually Genevieve was fastidious in her avoidance of all contact between them.

  Elegant callused hands touched her cheek, trembling and tentative. “Please stay safe while I’m gone? Be careful.”

  Imogene tried not to breathe, afraid she might startle the inventor as one would a wild creature. “I will,” she whispered.

  And the hand was gone, as was Genevieve. Withdrawing again. Withdrawing like always! Imogene suppressed a growl of frustration.

  And Imogene was left alone in the hive house.

  She was as careful as promised, but some patterns had been set into place that put her at risk. Henry, for example, was back to bringing out the trays for meals. Also, Cook expressed her displeasure at Imogene’s new status by limiting those meals to stewed tea, weak and without milk, and a chunk of stale bread. Similarly, her luncheon devolved to servant’s stew or porridge – not that Imogene was inclined to complain, but it was a statement.

  It began the very first day. Henry slapped down the tray with no concern for Imogene’s calculations, spilling all over the most recent set. Imogene had more care to her papers than Madame Lefoux, and he’d ruined in one fell swoop all of yesterday’s work.

  He leaned over, his mouth fetid as old fish, pressing against her in the guise of looking over her work. As if he understood any of it.

  “Thank you, Henry,” she said, “You may go.”

  “So high and mighty now you’ve slept your way upstairs.” He made a rude gesture with his tongue, leaning even closer.

  Imogene could feel his hot breath on her neck.

  “Lots of work, is it, sweetheart? Lots of nighttime duties, keeping her satisfied?”

  I wish, thought Imogene.

  Then Henry licked her neck, one long swoop of clammy tongue.

  Imogene crashed her chair back into him as she stood up, shoving herself away from the desk.

  “Careful,” said Henry, “Wouldn’t want to spill anything further. Mess up more of these important scribbles of yours.”

  Imogene poured the hot tea over his head.

  Henry screamed. Two of the under-gardeners and Skoot came to see what was going on.

  Skoot went into yapping, bouncing hysterics.

  “She’s loony,” Henry accused, pointing a finger. “Just dumped scalding tea all over me!” By which statement he neatly prevented himself from staying any longer.

  The under-gardeners made no comment, leaving Imogene alone and shaking. Except for Skoot, of course. The act of calming him down helped Imogene. His little pink tongue on her cheek licked away the salt there.

  She went into the house for luncheon and made it known to the cook that she’d prefer only one meal a day brought out, and please would she send someone other than Henry?

  The cook was smug, thinking her introduction of weak tea responsible for a now-diminished workload. But she wouldn’t concede that anyone other than Henry should play delivery boy. “None of my staff can be spared. It’s his duty. Stop trying to meddle.”

  Later that day, Imogene noticed the inductive coupler was missing. She thought she’d placed it right there, next to the desk, but a search everywhere yielded no coupler.

  “Where has it gone to?” she asked the wicker chicken.

  The wicker chicken only loomed at her, menacing. It wasn’t like Skoot to steal something. He wasn’t that kind of dog.

  Imogene had instituted, hesitantly, some level of organization to the potting shed. Madame Lefoux didn’t object once she discovered that this meant her tools could be found more easily (surprise, surprise) and Imogene could respond more quickly to her requests. Imogene, now that she knew her letters, rather wished to alphabetize everything, but that was going too far.

  And she wasn’t allowed to move the wicker chicken.

  “He has sentimental value,” explained Madame Lefoux.

  When Skoot was elsewhere, the chicken was company of a kind, Imogene supposed.

  But the missing coupler worried her. It was made of pure copper, an expensive bit of kit, which made her suspicious.

  The next day, when Henry brought her luncheon, he thrust her up against an engine pillion hard enough to bruise. Imogene screamed this time. Skoot bit Henry’s ankle, and when the gardeners came to check on the fuss, Henry let her go.

  A sheaf of Madame Lefoux’s notes went missing.

  The coupler might have been an aberration. It could be sold for scrap at a nice rate, so one might forgive its disappearance as
opportunistic avarice. But notes were a different thing. Notes meant industrial espionage. Imogene knew that Genevieve had intellectual enemies. She was a brilliant inventor, and the hive would hold her patents. Many others wanted to profit from them instead – wanted it very badly indeed.

  Imogene began leaving the laboratory at noon, locking it behind her, and waiting for her tray outside. This also put her in full view of the gardeners, who were reasonable chaps and beginning to suspect the nature of her and Henry’s relationship. They wouldn’t interfere, not really; the business of inside staff was to left to inside staff. Just as downstairs didn’t involve themselves with upstairs. But Henry couldn’t steal anything this way.

  This technique worked for a few meals. Henry shoved the tray at her with nothing more than a curse, turned, and walked off. Imogene ate outside, and returned the tray to the kitchen herself.

  Then, on the fifth day, she became distracted with a particularly delectable equation. She missed the arc of the sun and Henry had his excuse once more.

  She took the hit to confirm her suspicions. The hit being her neck licked again and one crude grope in the vicinity of her left breast. She tossed her head back into his teeth. Which cut her head, but bloodied his lip – which was most satisfying.

  He swore at her.

  “I’ll scream again,” she warned.

  “Eventually, they’ll realize it happens every time I visit, and stop coming. Then where will your protectors be?”

  He left then. Imogene was relatively certain she saw a roll of papers tucked under his vest.

  Lacking any other option, Imogene took her concerns to the butler.

  “He’s stealing notes from the lab,” she insisted, getting straight to the point.

  “That’s a serious accusation, young lady.”

  Imogene was militant. “Also a rather valuable tool. Copper, about so big, slightly squiggly.”

  “And what do you expect me to do about it?” The butler looked down his nose at her.

  “Have his room searched, of course.”

  The butler twisted his mouth. “How do I know you aren’t casting doubt on poor Henry because you can’t handle the tasks Drone Lefoux left you to complete? You lose a tool, blame Henry. Not smart enough to finish your work, blame Henry. He makes for an excellent scapegoat for your incompetence. Don’t think I haven’t noticed there’s bad blood between you.”

  “But he did it! All you have to do is search and find out. Unless he’s already disposed of the evidence. If he’s an industrial spy and you don’t catch him, there’ll be hell to pay from Madame Lefoux when she returns.”

  The butler only sniffed. “I think not. Henry is such a nice boy. Everyone likes him. I feel it more likely you’re using him than that he’s engaged in espionage. He came to us with excellent references and he’s been with us much longer than you.”

  And that was that, so far as the butler was concerned.

  Except that he must have mentioned something to Henry, because the first footman went out of his way to corner Imogene after supper.

  He was very angry this time. No pretense at touching or even insults. It was the work of moments for him to slap her so hard across the face her cheek went numb.

  Skoot was with his vampire masters, so she didn’t even have her tiny fluffy knight.

  Imogene tried to defend herself, but he slapped her again even harder, this time catching her eye with his fingernail.

  Then one of the chambermaids walked in and Imogene fled to Genevieve’s room.

  * * *

  Imogene was at a loss.

  The problem of Henry and his abuse was one thing; she’d only a few more days to survive that, and then he would have to resort to more subtle meanness. Genevieve could be absent-minded when she was absorbed in her work, but she was an excellent guardian in her way. She was always aware of Imogene and watching out for her. Imogene caught her staring often, or casting little glances up at her while they worked. Henry would find it hard to touch her without the inventor noticing once said inventor returned.

  But the stolen notes were a serious problem. Genevieve was very protective of her work, and Imogene was nothing if not loyal. In her own small way, she’d contributed to those notes on new gadgets, and papers on burgeoning aetherographic theory, and schematics for unusual devices. The very idea that they might be given to a competitor or sold on the open market to some lesser inventor was horrifying.

  Where Imogene might not have had the courage to protest on behalf of her own safety, she felt compelled to take action when Genevieve’s livelihood and reputation were at risk.

  With no other option, she decided she must go over the butler’s head and tell the hive of Henry’s nefarious deeds. After all, this was their concern, their patents, and their responsibility to protect Genevieve’s interests.

  It being just after dark, and the shift changing from day to night, Imogene knew the vampires would be at breakfast. Countess Nadasdy always took hers in her room. Imogene couldn’t think of anything else to do but go straight to the queen with her suspicions. The queen clearly saw some value in her, if only as a meal. Perhaps she would listen.

  Despite the bad blood between her and Countess Nadasdy, or lack of blood as the case may be, the male vampires seemed a worse option. Dr Caedes was too sinister, always licking his lips when she passed him in the hallway. The Duke was too arrogant; he would dismiss her out of hand simply on the basis of her age, sex, and station. And Henry was a favorite with Lord Ambrose. That really only left her with the countess.

  Imogene dressed in her Sunday best, still her nicest gown. Plus, it had a very high collar. She let her hair down, an extra barrier about her neck, and taking a deep breath, approached the queen’s quarters.

  Countess Nadasdy was already breakfasting when Imogene let herself in. The vampire queen was sitting up in bed, wearing a beautiful burgundy velvet dressing gown, with a pink damask tablecloth draped over her lap. On top of the cloth, one of the male drones was draped and arranged artfully. He was naked.

  Imogene instantly turned to leave.

  “Stay.” Countess Nadasdy had seen her.

  Of course she had. All the hive queen’s senses were supernatural and advanced; it was impossible to sneak into the room of a vampire.

  “I’m almost finished here.” She bent her head back down and resumed a noisy sucking, after rotating the drone to a better angle, as if he were a pig on a spit.

  Imogene tried not to look at the blood oozing from the first bite. She also tried not to look any further down the drone’s body, as most of what he had was now facing her.

  Imogene was a country-lass so she understood the mechanics of sex, most particularly the breeding of livestock. But she’d never had occasion to see a grown man without clothing before. Her younger brothers, of course, but this was different.

  It’s not a’tall nice-looking, she decided. And, in this instance, appeared recently well used. She wondered if the queen demanded other things from her drones before she ate.

  Finally, the slurping stopped. Countess Nadasdy had finished her repast.

  She patted her drone absently on his head and later, as he crawled off the big bed, patted him on his bottom. Then she ignored him entirely.

  “Come here, child.”

  Imogene came, stopping next to the bed but well out of grabbing distance.

  “What has happened to your eye?” The queen’s hair was a cascade of honey-brown curls about her face. They were awfully fluffy for a woman who was basically dead.

  Imogene’s face still smarted from Henry’s attentions; she suspected the eye would be black and blue by morning. It must be an angry red at the moment.

  “Henry, ma’am, the first footman.”

  The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you should inform your patron. It’s her responsibility to protect you. You’re her indenture, after all.” It had never occurred to Imogene that an indenture incurred obligations
of care on Lady Maccon’s side. How on earth would she get a message to Lady Maccon? And over such a minor thing? The muhjah was such an important woman. No, Imogene refused to disturb her with her own trivial well-being. Still, it was nice to know she’d an alternative where she might report the spying, if the queen didn’t cooperate.

  “It’s actually Henry I wished to discuss with you, ma’am.”

  The queen went stiff. “As I just said, it is not for me to interfere anymore. Remember, girl, you rejected me.”

  Imogene lowered her eyes, “I very much regret the incident.” (Not a lie.) She jerked her chin up. “Although the results seem positive. I believe I’m a good fit for the work, and I’m very much enjoying my new position.”

  “Oh, indeed? All the positions?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’d be delighted to show you, pretty child. Feeding always makes me hungry for other, more carnal things.”

  A moan from the side of the room caused both human and vampire to remember that the male drone was still present. “And Beaumont here would love to join us. Wouldn’t you, darling? Yes, I can see that you would.”

  Beaumont was still naked, so his interest was evident. Just like with livestock.

  Imogene looked hurriedly away. “About Henry.”

  “Who is this Henry?”

  “The first footman on the day shift, ma’am.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure he looks the part, what else is there to consider?”

  “I believe he’s been stealing notes from the laboratory.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Why would the daytime first footman want your notes?”

  “Not my notes, ma’am, Madame Lefoux’s.”

  “Pah! I’m certain he was properly vetted. And it’s Drone Lefoux”

  “But they’ve gone missing and he’s the only one with access to the potting shed, apart from me.”

  “You’ve likely misplaced them, then. Humans are so absent-minded. Or that tricky little inventor has. She will show you where they are when she returns.”

  “But I saw…”