The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 9

  Hadley nodded quickly, knocking loose her cap and spilling her henna braid down her back. For a moment, she lingered with her head bowed. That was it. She botched it again, ruined George’s business for probably the final time.

  “Well, then you had better get dressed. Patrick will help you, but don’t bother with the pretenses this time.”

  The viscount disappeared into the hall only to be replaced by the white-haired butler. He quickly snapped the back of her corset closed before leaving her to finish getting dressed by herself. A nauseating wave of relief and disappoint passed over her as she stared down at her gun. I could have killed him, she thought before stuffing it into her pocket. When she came back into the parlor, her drop cloth had been laid out and a wooden chair stood in the middle of it.

  “I hope you don’t mind me setting up for you. I wanted to show you that I really do intend for you to stay and do the consultation.” He grasped the top button of his shirt. “Shall I?”

  She swallowed hard. “Sir, if you’re doing this to be polite, please don’t pretend to go through with it just for civility’s sake. I will leave.”

  “If I say it, I mean it. I don’t put on airs. While I don’t particularly like having a gun drawn on me, I do understand that I startled you, which caused you to act in self-defense.”

  “But— but I’m a woman. Does that not bother you?”

  “Not particularly,” Lord Sorrell replied as he unbuttoned his shirt with one hand and sat down. “I have been told to be something I’m not my whole life, so I’m not one to force others into molds they don’t belong. Are you doing measurements or the cast first?”

  “Measurements.”

  Hadley quickly collected herself, ignoring the viscount’s bare chest as she methodically measured his left arm from his fingers to his shoulder before taking the circumference every few inches. Moving to his other side, she eyed the rough, sinewy texture of his shortened arm but hesitated to touch it. The dark pink scars engulfed the entire stump and climbed across his chest to his septum until they gradually disappeared on his neck. Hacked off limbs from battle wounds or due to infections were commonplace, but burns were a rarity, especially when few were able to survive without debilitating results. She drew the measuring tape around it, feeling how oddly pliable his marred skin was. Touching the bottom of the stump, she confirmed his elbow had been neatly disarticulated. As Eilian Sorrell quietly cooperated with her shifting his arm and plastering him up to the shoulder, Hadley studied his face and recognized the unmistakable look of defeat in his grey eyes. The craftswoman never would have realized that the vivacious young adventurer her cousin and James Hawthorne always spoke about was the same somber gentleman she saw before her.

  “What made you want to get a more functional prosthesis, sir?” she asked as she stepped back from the hardening plaster with chalky, white hands.

  “I had bought a vanity prosthesis from your brother, but since I was sized for it, I think my arm has changed shape. I was at a dinner party last week and had a mishap where it fell off quite suddenly. It was also chafing my arm when I wore it for any length of time.”

  “I’m very sorry about that. How often do you wear it?”

  He sighed softly. “I thought I would wear it often, but it’s so uncomfortable that I have only worn it a handful of times. I do it more for my family than for me.”

  Hadley stepped back until they were looking each other in the eye. “I hope you do not think I’m overstepping my bounds by saying this, but if you’re doing this to please them, it’s not worth it. I make these for people who need something to function in place of the limb they have lost, but if you are getting on fine without it, then you don’t need one.”

  Nodding, he hesitantly replied, “There is another issue that is more pressing. Since I had the amputation, I have had hideous pains running from my shoulder down to where my palm would have been, and it has gotten progressively worse. I thought if I had a prosthesis I could flex, it would stop.”

  “Most of the claw prostheses I create don’t open and close in a natural fashion. They are all controlled by external springs and levers.” As she cut the plaster, his features darkened dispiritedly. She couldn’t stand to see him that way. “There— there is an experimental prosthesis you may be interested in. It’s rather radical as it involves surgery to insert an artificial bone into your arm and place gold rods into your nerves, but if it works, you will be able to open and close the hand as well as raise and lower your forearm. If it does not work, we will probably have to go back in and remove it.”

  His eyes instantly brightened. “If you are willing, I would be happy to try it. I really have nothing to lose. The only thing is, I’m planning a trip in a few months, and I would need to be at least fairly healed by then.”

  “I can have the apparatus done within a fortnight. There is one small complication, Lord Sorrell. You will need to stay in London once the piece is ready because Dr. Hawthorne will need to procure a specific item needed to anchor the arm, and the day he finds it will have to be the day of the surgery. Unfortunately, the date of the operation would be completely unpredictable, and you would have to be ready at a moment’s notice.”

  Eilian knew he could lose the rest of his arm to infections if he agreed. Even if the surgery was a success, the prosthesis still might not function. He risked infection and disappointment, but he would be under the care of a doctor he trusted with his life.

  “I will do it, Miss Fenice. Please send a messenger when you finish the arm, and I will be in London by nightfall.”

  Chapter Twelve:

  Ingenious Mechanical Devices

  Patrick Sinclair loaded the silver tray with Turkish coffee, vegetable curry, and bread before heading down the long hall that led to his master’s study. For the past few hours, Lord Sorrell had been pecking at the keys of his writing ball in hopes of finally finishing the book he had gathered material for on the fateful trip that nearly ended his life. The butler smiled. It was comforting to see his boss so content and productive again. Since the red-haired woman had paid him a visit, the spark that had dimmed while they were in London had reignited, but the same news which brought Eilian so much hope brought Patrick only dread and distress. For the past week, Patrick had waited with bated breath each day for the post to come to see if his master needed to be rushed off to London to be operated on. The butler fretted over the statistics he read in newspapers about how many patients still died in hospitals after surgery from infections or had to have the limb later removed from gangrene. He could not bear to think of his master losing the rest of his arm or dying over an experimental procedure when he was getting along quite well without his arm. Despite his reservations, he refused to undermine his friend’s decision. Patrick noiselessly opened the door of the study, careful not to break Lord Sorrell’s concentration, and placed the tray on the edge of the desk. Reaching for the coffee, the young adventurer glanced up at him with a smile and thanked him before going back to transcribing the chapter on Etruscan temple designs.

  As Patrick headed back toward the servants’ hall, the chiming doorbell sounded in the foyer. Opening the door, a faceless messenger presented him an envelope and disappeared back down the driveway in a hired steamer. It was the note he had been dreading for over a week with his master’s name written in efficient yet feminine handwriting across the front. He hesitated outside the study, wishing he could stuff it into the nearest crevice or toss it in the fire to keep him from having to give it to him. There was no way around it. Lord Sorrell deserved to be happy even if it scared him. When he finally came in, Eilian barely glanced up from his plate as he scooped up the remaining curry with a slice of bread.

  “Who was at the door, Pat?” he asked between bites. When he didn’t get an answer, Eilian looked up to see an envelope only a few inches from his nose. As he dropped his crust of bread and grasped the note, he caught his friend’s upturned white brows and downcast eyes. “Patrick, there is no need to worry about me
so much. James would not agree to do anything that could possibly kill me. You know how modern he is. He’s not some butcher, who walks around with a smock of blood and an unwashed saw, so what about it is bothering you so much?”

  “I just have not gotten over the first time you were in a precarious state, sir.”

  “Well, I guess I never have to worry about whether or not you care about my well-being,” he replied with a grin as he eagerly, but with some difficulty, ripped open the envelope. His grey eyes intently scanned the note, lingering on the sender’s name and then on the particulars. “Please get my things together, Pat. Miss Fenice says my new arm is ready. We will be staying with Eliza and James while we wait for him to procure what he needs to perform the surgery.”

  “I took the liberty of packing your trunk yesterday. Shall I inform your mother that you’ll be in London?”

  “No!” Eilian cried before he cleared his throat and reread the address on the front of the letter. “No, one person worrying about me is enough, Pat.”

  ***

  The echoing thumping on the front door continued as Hadley burst from her work room. Running down the hall, she lurched forward, tripping over an unseen box of clockwork parts in her haste to reach the door.

  “I will be right there!” she called when she was halfway to the front door.

  Standing behind the door, Hadley steadied her huffing breaths. As she caught her reflection in the mirror, she brushed the sawdust and grey powder from her smock and trousers. The inventor opened the door expecting to see Adam without his key or Eliza, but instead, she found herself looking up into the handsomely blithe yet damp face of Eilian Sorrell.

  “Viscount— I mean, Lord Sorrell, please come in. Let me take your umbrella.”

  “I have it.” He pressed the handle of the dripping umbrella into his chest before inching his hand toward the mechanism that closed its canopy. Twirling the collapsed umbrella into the stand, he began, “By the by, Miss Fenice, there is no need to worry about titles. Please call me Eilian or Mr. Sorrell. My father is the earl, viscount, and lord, not me.”

  She nodded. Her cheeks pinkened at the prospect of using his Christian name. As she lead him into the parlor, she was acutely aware of how disheveled she must have looked. Her reflection had been one of working untidiness with sweat-matted hair surrounding her forehead and streaks of mud across her face and hands.

  “What brings you here, Lor— Mr. Sorrell? If you came to see the prosthesis, I already brought it to Eliza for sterilization this morning.”

  “I know.” He smiled softly, hoping to put her at ease. “I saw it when I arrived today and was quite impressed with the craftsmanship. Your cousin said I had just missed you.”

  Hadley tried to once again squelch the burning in her freckled cheeks, but the heat rose to the surface.

  “I hope I’m not imposing, but I was wondering if I could possibly see your studio. Eliza and James told me you create not only prosthetic limbs but automata that are sold all over England in toy shops. I would have sent you a letter asking when I could stop by, but I was afraid you would not receive it before the operation.”

  Meeting his smoky grey eyes, she expected to see suspicion or mockery as she would have seen in a man who desired to view her shop to inspect her work, but his strong features were open and earnest. “Of course you may. It’s rather small and a little messy though.”

  He beamed as he stood up to follow her. “I wouldn’t trust an inventor who didn’t have a messy studio.”

  Entering the cluttered space at the end of the hall, his eyes ran over every surface, taking in each doll part and mechanism with keen interest. The nobleman walked over to the workbench where she had laid out the Wild West diorama she had yet to ship. He squatted beside it, eyes wide with wonder as he observed every minute detail. The cowboys with their rugged hide and denim costumes and the saloon girl in her tiny corset and feathered headdress filled him with child-like awe. Silently coming behind the viscount, Hadley pressed the lever that shifted the scene into action, sending the men into their ten pace march to begin their duel to the death. She couldn’t help but smile as his face lit up with the kind of pleasure so rarely seen even on the faces of the jaded, rich children she usually built automata for. When the scene had finished and he was about to stand up, she flipped the switch again to send the automata into their second version of the scene.

  “This is amazing, absolutely amazing, Miss Fenice! How did you learn to make something so delightfully complex?”

  “My father was a pioneer in the field of prosthetics, but to supplement his income, he made and fixed watches. My older brother, George, decided to learn about the more complex mechanisms found in large clocks, and from there, he began to make his own automatons. He taught me, and I helped him with the artistic side of the business.”

  Eilian’s gaze travelled over the miniature faces peeking out from every shelf and nook of the workroom. “Could I possibly see one of the mechanisms?”

  “I’m not sure if I have anything lying around that I could show you.” Hadley smiled to herself. Lord Sorrell would probably have no idea what he was looking at even if she was able to easily remove the decorative outer workings. She searched the boxes nearby for half-made pieces but came up empty handed, so instead, she placed her portfolio of blueprints on the empty desk before him and flipped to a familiar layout. “This is the schematic for the western town.”

  Just as Adam had always done, she expected him to glance at it and hand it back to her, but Eilian pored over the drawings. His eyes darted from the paper to the diorama as he traced his finger through the mechanisms. With each discovery, he made an exclamation of comprehension before going back to the beginning of the mechanism to more fully grasp the design.

  “It was quite ingenious to hide the larger mechanisms within the saloon in order to keep the base fairly flat. I noticed you didn’t have to wind anything in order to start the scene, and I was going to ask how, but,” he paused as he found the spot on the blueprint he was looking for, “this spring rewinds the mechanism at the end. One day I wonder if you would be willing to help me replicate one of Al-Jazari’s creations.”

  She furrowed her carmine brows. How could a nobleman know as much as she did about mechanics? “Who?”

  “He was a Turkish inventor from the Middle Ages who created all sorts of complex automata. He wrote a book called the Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices which I think you may find interesting. Al-Jazari was more focused on hydraulics than steam or self-propulsion, but his automatons, like yours, were not only beautiful but functional. He made devices that would serve tea or wash people’s hands, but one of his most spectacular pieces was a band that floated around in a boat and played music during parties.”

  “I never realized they made automatons that long ago. I went to France once with my father and saw a few a collector owned. They were only a hundred years old, but from the way everyone marveled at them, I assumed they were the first or at least the first successful ones.” Tidying the clothes of the automatons, Hadley smiled. “Would you like to tell me more about the history of automatons over a cup of tea?"

  “I would love to.” Eilian followed her into the kitchen and sat at the well-worn wooden table, watching her as she filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove with the same efficient flare he had only glimpsed in his earlier meeting with her. “I’m surprised you wanted to hear more. Usually when I want to go into the history of something, the other person finds an excuse to leave or change the subject. Patrick listens, but he is my butler. Maybe he is just being polite.”

  Hadley whipped around, startled by his voice behind her. She hadn’t expected Lord Sorrell to follow her into an area that was typically unseen by visitors. “Would you prefer to sit in the parlor, Mr. Sorrell?”

  “Truth be told, I would much prefer to take my tea at a table. With this,” he explained, holding up his tweed-clad stump, “I have a hard time holding a saucer and cup, a
nd without a table, I need to try to balance it on my knees.”

  As Hadley glanced over her shoulder between gathering the sugar bowl and the pitcher for the cream, the inventor was surprised to find that the viscount didn’t look out of place in her modest kitchen. While his clothes were of a fine quality and impeccably pressed and tailored, his demure yet sprightly nature put her at ease. The kettle whistled, and she carefully poured the water into each bone china cup over the egg-shaped tea infusers.

  “Mr. Sorrell, how do you know so much about automatons?” she asked curiously as she placed the cup before him. How could a member of the gentry have any interest in artisan crafts apart from collecting them?

  “I have been studying mechano-archaeology for several years now. When I was in Greece, I found complex mechanisms inside temples that would be set into motion by a worshipper stepping into the sanctuary. As I began to sketch the gears, I realized how similar the mechanisms were to our modern automata. My research has shown that they were actually quite common in the ancient world as spectacle pieces. Even in their mythology, Hephaestus was portrayed as an artificer since he created Talos and Pandora. It really is quite fascinating once you get into it, especially in the field.”

  “It sounds like it is. You work in the field of…?”

  His body shook with silent laughter as he tried to sip his tea. “The dirt, Miss Fenice. I work in the dirt, digging up artifacts. Try not to look so surprised. You know, not all noblemen wile away their lives at clubs or hunting on safari. I would rather be digging in the earth until the end of time than set foot in a club or the House of Lords.”

  “Is that why you need the prosthesis so soon? You are going away to return to digging in the earth?”

  “Yes, I’m going to an archaeology dig in the Negev Desert in autumn.” At the chime of the grandfather clock, he broke from the young woman’s freckled features. “I hate to leave so suddenly, but I promised Eliza I would have dinner with them tonight.”