Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (24 page)

Aldora was impeccably dressed for lawn tennis in her full-bodiced flannel skirt, its hem just above her ankles, matching sailor's hat perched on her head. She constantly rode the edge of fashion in an effortless sort of way, the same way that she navigated the whirls and eddies of London's social rapids with an instinctive grace. The fact that she came from one of the city's great families gave her a considerable advantage, but her ability to navigate it was pure Aldora.

"And I don't suppose I have a say in this?"

Bartleby tossed his ball up again, swinging his racket to the right in a soft slice serve. The ball arced towards the opposite corner of his fiancée's half of the court.

Aldora sidestepped and let the ball bounce before returning it with a forehand swing.

"If Mr. Wainwright can devise a womb for you to carry a child in--"

"No." James said.

In contrast to the expensive leisurewear that his companions wore, the inventor was dressed in utilitarian working-class attire. His cotton trousers were grass-stained, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows to spare it from the grease smeared along his hands and forearms.

"There's gossip enough on the length of our engagement as-is," Bartleby said, taking the few steps it took to knock the ball back. "I can only imagine the rumours if we don't produce suitable offspring."

A few brisk steps brought Aldora almost to the net, intercepting the volley. The ball shot to the ground and Bartleby made a lunge, but the bounce carried it well beyond the arc of his swing.

"That was the purpose of this long engagement." Aldora caught the ball as Bartleby threw it to her. "After the marriage we maintain that we're making the attempt for several years. When nothing comes of it, we simply say that we've become too aged to consider it a safe option."

She tossed the ball into the air, then smashed it overhand in a flat serve that skimmed the top of the net. "We'll get some pity for our childless state, but not an undue amount."

"Well." Bartleby returned the serve ably. "We've got Xin Yan. On paper, at least, she's your adoptive daughter."

"On paper," James repeated from the sidelines, snapping his wrist to close the racket he'd been working on.

Not quite a year ago Bartleby and James had been commissioned as consulting detectives to stop a monstrous killer haunting East London. James had discovered young Xin Yan at the site of one of the Scissorman's crime scenes, the sole survivor of the depredations that had taken her family. The engineer didn't take to most people, preferring the solitude of his workroom, but the Chinese girl had grown on him quickly. It wasn't proper that he, a bachelor, be given sole guardianship of a child, so on Bartleby's urging Aldora had taken the girl into her household.

"Let's leave it on paper." Aldora popped the ball back into the air. "Xin Yan is a sweet girl, but the lifestyle I've chosen is not compatible with childcare. Having her as our ward will satisfy our social obligations without the need for our own offspring."

The ball arced, almost skimming the net as it plummeted just on Bartleby's side of the court.

"You will hear no objections from me. Game point."

James took the racket from Bartleby's hand and replaced it with the one he'd been working on.

"What's this?" Bartleby asked.

"It's better."

"Better?" He gave it a practice swing.

"Elastic coils absorb the kinetic energy from the ball's initial impact and release it on the second contact."

"That hardly seems sporting," Bartleby said.

"I've no objection." Aldora tossed the ball up into the air and caught it again. "When you're ready?"

James walked back off the court, while Bartleby once again took up a defencive posture. "Ready."

Aldora lobbed an easy serve towards her fiancé.

Bartleby returned it confidently. "There's a slight hum..."

"It's supposed to do that," James said.

Aldora let the ball bounce, then returned it back towards Alton.

"Here goes--" Bartleby smashed his racket into the ball as it neared him, the strings making an audible twang. The racket's head seemed to blur for just a moment, and the ball shot off like a rocket, narrowly missing Aldora's head and punching a hole in the garden's topiary.

"Well done, Mr. Wainwright," Aldora said, clapping slowly.

"Should it not have done that?"

"No, James," Bartleby said. "It should not have done that."

***

"What's with the change of heart?" Bartleby asked, escorting Aldora back towards her house. "Regarding offspring, I mean. It wasn't an objection you'd raised before."

"It wasn't a matter we'd discussed before."

"No, but I assumed--"

"Disappointed I shan't be bearing your child, Alton?"

"No," he said. "It's just that we had a plan--"

"Plans change, but the core of our arrangement remains." Aldora glanced up at the sky. "A marriage of convenience that does not interfere with the lifestyles we've chosen."

"We should get around to setting a date, I suppose."

"I fancy a September wedding." Aldora closed her eyes, enjoying the breeze. "That gives us almost a year."

"That suits my needs." Alton pointed towards the house. "You've a visitor."

A carriage had parked in the drive, its coachman waiting idly in his seat.

"I do hope it's not a solicitor," Aldora said, "here on business because James' racket has lead to a decapitation."

"Be nice."

"I am perfectly civil."

The Fiske's butler met them at the door, posture stiff, shoulders back.

"A messenger awaits you in the hall, Miss," he bowed towards Aldora. "Bearing a certified letter."

"Thank you, Davidson," Aldora handed the man her tennis bonnet. "Inform him that I shall be along presently, after I've had the chance to freshen up."

"Yes, Miss Fiske."

"Go keep the man company, Alton."

"It would be my pleasure," Bartleby grinned. "We'll be in the parlour. Bring us a few drinks, eh, Davidson?"

"Very good, sir."

Aldora joined the men in the waiting parlour, having changed into a light cotton dress with a high-boned collar accenting her neckline, a silk sash around her waist. Alton and her visitor, dressed in full servant's livery, rose as she entered.

"Aldora, darling, I was just talking with Charles here--"

"I am acquainted with Charles," Aldora spoke quietly, an unwelcome lurch in her stomach at the sight of the footman. She spared the pleasantries and stepped to his side. "I was told you had a message. Is it from my parents?"

"Your parents?" Bartleby asked.

"No, Miss Aldora," the ageing footman responded. A gloved hand extended, envelope in hand. "A certified letter arrived for you at your father's home this morning."

Aldora took the envelope with a slight hesitation, eyes scanning the simple scrawling of her name, alone on its back. There was no return address, but the stamp used was international post. "Was this matter brought to my parents' attention?"

"No, Miss," the footman said. "I believed it prudent to avoid burdening them with its arrival."

"Thank you, Charles."

"If I may take my leave--"

"As you would."

The footman bowed once to Bartleby and accompanied the Butler out of the parlour.

Aldora examined the envelope carefully, one finger tracing its edges while Bartleby fidgeted with his hat.

He spoke slowly. "Aldora, your parents--"

"Most of my correspondents possess my current address." Aldora's thoughts were miles away and years in the past. "But those I've not been in contact with recently may mistakenly send missives to my parents' household."

"I see."

"If you would not be terribly insulted, Alton, I am not feeling overly social at the moment."

"Of course, dear," he said, taking his surcoat from the butler. "I will be at the club should you require anything."

"Have a good evening, Alton."

Aldora stood by the parlour window, watching as her fiancé hailed a hansom cab. She stayed there for several minutes, thinking of the man whose signature she'd recognised, before carefully slicing open the top of the envelope with her pen-knife.

***

"Gentlemen, the call of adventure is upon us."

A chorus of approving harrumphes cascaded through the Gentlemen Explorer's Club's den. While the exclusive club did have a conference room, complete with a long table and chairs, its members were men of Action who did not much stand on the formality of procedure. Instead they stood reading broadsheets or sat with glasses of brandy near the den's cosy fireplace, servants on hand to freshen drinks or snip cigar tips as needed. Many of them, including the club's secretary (currently addressing the collective), were military men.

Colonel Isley had been retired almost a decade, but still dressed in uniform on a day to day basis. He'd returned from India to London several years ago, founding the club with a few other servicemen. It had since expanded to include men of all backgrounds who had a hunger that could only be satiated by adventure, and had managed to fund several such expeditions annually. "What we have before us is a rescue mission to the depths of Mexico's Lacandon Jungles in search of a missing motion picture company."

"Motion picture?" Donaldson, the eldest member of the club leaned forward on his cane, eyes squinted and mouth puckered.

"Cinema. You of course remember the outing in May? We saw the feature on naval shipyards."

"Oh, yes," Donaldson said. "I dare say these cinema men are daft, then, looking for British ships in the jungles of New Spain. No wonder they're in need of rescue."

"They were filming a biographical piece on the life of engineer Charles Babbage. Apparently he'd made a trip to the jungles some five decades ago, and they deemed it prudent to film along the trail he'd left." Colonel Isley turned to the mirror above the mantle with a snort, smoothing the tips of his imperial moustache. "They were a month overdue for their expected return, and it is feared that they met with a tragic end."

"Is this... Lacandon Jungle... a dangerous place, then?" Donaldson asked the question with a ghoulish grin.

"Dangers abound," the Colonel reported with a smile. "Several species of large cat prowl the area -- puma, jaguar, ocelot. And let us not forget the region's volatile politics... Diaz has modernised his nation, but many of his subjects see his policies as needlessly harsh, and the countryside is rife with highwaymen."

"Sounds a right time. Were I a younger man, I would go myself, but these days all my pleasures are vicarious."

The Colonel stirred his drink. "There is a bit of a complication."

"Complication?"

"Our patron, the financier of the proposed expedition, insists upon accompanying us."

"Oh, civilians," Donaldson said. "Money always has its price. As long as he minds us and stays out from underfoot, I've no objection."

"It's a bit more complicated," the Colonel said. "Our patron is one Miss Aldora Fiske."

Silence filled the den, all eyes turning towards the colonel, papers lowered, cigars drooping from hanging jaws.

"And yes. Of those Fiskes."

"A... a woman?" One of the more conservative members folded his broadsheet, placing it on the bar.

"Miss Fiske has repeatedly assured me that she is quite well travelled."

"What does her husband have to say?" Donaldson asked.

"Miss Fiske is engaged to be married to one Alton Bartleby. He has presented no objection."

The silence returned.

"I served with an Alton Bartleby," one of the junior members said. "He was a capable officer."

"Well, if this Bartleby takes responsibility--" the Colonel began.

Donaldson folded his hands. "The Fiskes are a respectable family--"

"If she minds her place--" another member said.

"I feel I should mention that this is perhaps our last opportunity for an expedition this year." The Colonel rolled himself a new cigar. "And we've not the budget to finance anything on our own."

"Let's put a vote to it," a member suggested. "All in favour, say 'Aye?'"

A cascade of members voiced their approval.

"Opposed?"

A scattered handful, Donaldson among them, disagreed.

"Motion is carried. I'll have word sent to Miss Fiske. If you are interested in taking part, report to Mr. Foster so that he knows what measure of provisions to order."

"No good comes of a woman on expedition," Donaldson said. "Bad for morale."

The colonel sipped his tea.

***

The club treasurer Foster and the military-minded Colonel Isley conducted the expedition's preparations in a brisk and businesslike fashion. Bags of beans and hard-tack, a pound of dried tea-leaves, tents, haversacks, canteens, mosquito netting, malaria pills, extra boots, rifles for the men, and various camp-tools were all gathered. Miss Fiske was content to leave the details to the men, signing bills-of-sale and handing over cheques as required with little question or comment.