Steven Harper - The Doomsday Vault

“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Louisa brushed the whirling machine aside. “So this is how you got ready for the ball without the help of a maid. They’re so well designed, darling. The work of a genius.”

“You said that.” Alice stepped out of her shoes and carriage dress, and Louisa set to work on the stubborn crinolines. “They make Father uncomfortable. That’s why I usually keep them up here.”

“A shame. Lift your arms, darling. Why have I never heard of this aunt Edwina?”

“She lives like a hermit on a small estate on the edge of London.”

“Did she make these automatons so you could put them together? Is she a… clockworker?”

“Louisa! Certainly not! She’s been sending me automatons since my teenage years. If she had contracted the clockwork plague back then, she would have died years ago.”

“True, darling, true. I didn’t mean to offend. What was she like? I’m dying to know.”

“I barely knew her, to tell the truth, though in some ways I feel I know her very well.” And she found herself telling Louisa the entire story, including the death of her brother, mother, and fiance, even though Louisa doubtless knew most of it.

“I’m so sorry,” Louisa said when she finished. “It’s unfair.”

“It is. ” Alice pulled the last crinoline layer off and tossed it aside with a vehemence that surprised even herself. “Sometimes I think the worst of it isn’t that everyone died-I’ve learned to cope with that-but that, though I’m good with machines, as a woman of quality, I can’t do anything with my talent. My only hope for a decent life is to persuade Norbert Williamson to propose marriage, and I don’t even like him very much.”

“Oh dear. So the lovebirds rumor…?”

Alice dropped onto the bed. “I should love him, Louisa. He’s rich. He’s intelligent. He’s not bad-looking. He seems utterly smitten with me-or with the family title; I’m not sure which. But I feel nothing. Nothing at all.”

“You hardly need to,” Louisa pointed out. “You said you can’t look for work, but it sounds as though you’re interviewing for the position of rich man’s wife.”

“You make it sound so mercenary.”

“I’m not judging you, darling. But let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me what this is.” She picked up a bit of pasteboard from the workbench. “Miss Glenda Teasdale, Third Ward , and the square root of two. What on earth?”

“Oh, er…” Alice flushed again. Louisa had an absolute genius for ferreting out awkwardness. “On the way home from the ball, I had an unfortunate encounter with a plague zombie or two. Miss Teasdale and… and some friends of hers rescued me.”

“What?” Louisa’s squawk sent the automatons skittering about the room. “Now listen here-I pride myself on knowing everything of interest that goes on in London. Heaven knows I have nothing else to do. But in one afternoon I learn you have a brilliant aunt who managed to escape my notice, and we add to that a zombie attack? Alice!”

“It’s all right,” Alice said, rushing to reassure her. “I wasn’t hurt.” She found herself telling yet another story while Louisa sat rapt on the bed. It felt oddly palliative to relate even these scandalous events out loud.

“What a fascinating adventure! Shouldn’t you write this Teasdale woman?” Louisa asked when Alice finished.

It was such an unexpected question, though Alice realized she should be used to them from Louisa by now. “It’s not a proper thing for a lady. I’m only glad no one found out about the entire sordid affair. Mr. Williamson would no doubt drop his suit immediately.”

“There are worse things,” Louisa sniffed.

A dreadful thought struck Alice. “Louisa, you must promise you won’t tell anyone. This is all in strictest confidence. It would ruin me.”

“Not a word, I promise,” Louisa said, raising her right hand. “Besides, who would believe that an up-and-coming baroness single-handedly defeated a clockworker and a horde of zombies?”

“Stop that! I did no such thing.”

“That’s not the way I would tell it,” she said, then added hastily, “If you let me. But I won’t. Well, darling, I really should go. Visiting you delivers a number of shocks to the system, and I find myself in need of a lie-down.” She smiled. “I have to say I find it quite refreshing. Quite Ad Hoc. Call. On. Me.”

And she left.

Nearly a fortnight later, Alice was bringing morning tea into her father’s study, where he was reading a letter.

“I was just going to call you in,” he said. “We’ve something to discuss.”

“Tea first, Father,” she said, setting the tray next to him. “The doctor said you’ve been losing weight. I want you to eat everything on this tray.”

“Yes, my dear.” He set the letter on the desk with a spidery hand and reached for bread and butter. Alice, who knew his every gesture, noted how slow and heavy the simple movement had become, however much she didn’t want to admit it. How much longer did he have? The thought of his absence made her throat thick, and she forced herself to look elsewhere. A bit of paper on the desk caught her eye-a business letter across which someone had scrawled Final Notice in red ink. Alice bit the inside of her cheek. Tonight she would slip down to the study and see which bills were the worst. Tomorrow she would take two or three of the little automatons into town and sell them to stave off the creditors for a few more weeks.

And when those weeks were over?

“I’m worried, Alice,” Arthur said, echoing her own thoughts.

She sank onto a low stool next to his wheelchair. “About what, Father?”

“You. I need to know you’re taken care of before I pass away, my dear.”

“Father.” She took his light, thin hand. “You’ll bury us all.”

“I don’t want to,” he said almost peevishly. “I’m tired, Alice. I’m tired of worrying about money and about this dreadful little house and about your future. I can’t… go until I know someone will be able to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she said.

“There’s care and there’s care,” Arthur replied with a small smile. He sipped his tea and continued. “I just received an important letter. Our Mr. Williamson has expressed a deepening interest in you, and he has invited you to his town house for luncheon today. He’s sending his carriage for you.”

“Luncheon?” Alice asked. “Unchaperoned?”

“Oh no,” Arthur said. “Norbert-Mr. Williamson-said there will be a chaperone, and I believe him. He and I have exchanged several letters and held numerous conversations about you, and I believe his intentions honorable.” His face remained expressionless, but Alice caught the tremor in his hands. “You might change your dress.”

“Oh?” Alice said, then realized what he meant. “Oh!”

Sometime later, the ostentatious automatic horse and carriage pulled up to Norbert Williamson’s London town house on Hill Street not far from Berkeley Square. Alice, seated alone within the machine, looked at the four-storied brick structure and tried to hide her awe. She had never visited this place. Even being here now made her uncomfortable, and she glanced up and down the wide, busy street to see if anyone was taking notice of her. The mechanical horse halted neatly at the front door, responding to a command it must have been given previously, and for a moment Alice was distracted by an inappropriate urge-not her first one-to take the horse and carriage apart to peer inside. The machine was so sleek and fine, hiding its secret workings and machinations beneath a coating of bronze and copper.