Carriages and hansom cabs were arriving and departing in a constant stream, depositing guests on the gravelled driveway at the foot of a large flight of stone steps. Visitors dressed in their best finery flowed up these steps, disappearing into the grand entrance way as if it were the maw of some ancient, famished beast. Inside, silhouettes chattered to one another behind brightly lit windows, and the hubbub of voices was spilling out into the night, an undulating cacophony of pleasantries, compliments, vitriolic sleights and whispered asides. Butlers stood in the open doorway, greeting the guests and taking their coats as they made their way through to the party inside.
The house was magnificent. Built about a hundred years before, it had all the wonderful proportions of Georgian architecture that she had come to adore, the same that had inspired her to take the lodgings she now kept in Kensington; tall sash windows, a glorious front porch, a squat, rectangular shape. It lacked the ostentation of the more recent buildings that had been springing up all over London, and she approved wholeheartedly. She couldn't wait to see inside. Years ago, her parents had introduced her to London society and she had visited a great many of the grand houses in the city, but with the news of Amelia's illness they had spent the last year in solitude, retreating from the social scene, and the effect had been to leave Veronica without a means to engage with it herself. She was grateful to Newbury for the opportunity to join him this evening, and for giving her the chance to wear something other than the functional attire she often found herself donning for the office. Worse, her recent activities in the field-clambering through the wreckage of burnt-out airships or visiting manufactories on the other side of the river-had left her feeling less than ladylike. Tonight, she'd decided, as she looked herself over in the cheval glass at her apartment, she would redress that balance. She turned to Newbury, who was standing alongside her. "Thank you for bringing me here."
He smiled warmly. "You're welcome, my dear." He was wearing a smart, black evening suit; formal, but with a forgiving cut. Around his throat he wore a perfectly knotted bow tie, and a top hat balanced precariously on one side of his head. He looked the perfect picture of a gentleman. He turned to look Veronica up and down, now that he had an opportunity to regard her properly in the light of the street lamps. She was dressed in an immaculate, flowing gown of yellow silk. It had a low neck line, exposing the soft, pink flesh of her throat and chest. The bodice was fitted, with skirts that flowed all the way to the floor and skimmed the ground as she walked. The ensemble was finished with a single string of opalescent pearls and a pair of matching earrings. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate coiffure.
"Miss Hobbes, I must add that you look wonderful this evening." Newbury, attempting to hide his embarrassment, offered his arm, and together they climbed the steps towards the bustle of the house.
Inside, it was immediately clear to Veronica that the party was very much the zenith of London society that evening. I very where she looked, she saw faces she recognised, as well as ten others she did not. The place was bustling with ambassadors, politicians and gentlemen, not to mention their multitudes of wives and daughters. She stood for a moment on the threshold of a large room, arm-in-arm with Newbury, and together they surveyed the scene. Brass automatons weaved through the press of people, elegantly sidestepping the little conversational clusters t hat had formed, bearing trays full of drinks and food. Veronica watched as one made a lap of the room, its glassy, spinning ryes shimmering in the reflected light of the gas lamps, the porthole in its chest revealing the crackling blue of the electrical charge generated by its winding mechanism. For all the stories she'd heard that day about the unit that had malfunctioned at Morgan's art gallery, she was still impressed by the machines and the smooth manner in which they seemed to integrate with the party and its revellers. She watched people snatching drinks from the trays as the automatons brushed past them, hardly pausing in their conversations to consider the miraculous nature of the devices that were wandering amongst them, pandering to their every need. There were at least ten of the devices waiting on the guests, and Veronica couldn't help wondering at the expense the Hanbury-Whites must have gone to in having them there. She had seen the price of an individual unit that morning and could only suppose that the automatons were there on loan, and did not actually belong to the household itself-that would surely be too much.
She leaned in towards Newbury, keeping her voice low. His hair smelled faintly of lavender. "I admit to feeling a little nervous in the presence of so many automatons. After hearing the stories this morning at the gallery, I mean."
Newbury nodded, acknowledging her concern, but it was clear he was feeling playful. "My dear Miss Hobbes, it's not the automatons you should be worried about. They may be dressed in their best finery, but I assure you, half of the men in this room are more dangerous than those devices could ever be." He smiled. "Come on, keep your wits about you and we'll do a lap."
He led her in a circuit of the room, nodding politely at the other guests as they passed each one in turn. Newbury was clearly an established figure amongst the society crowd, and was greeted innumerable times by men that Veronica did not recognise: men wearing ancient, wispy beards; men dressed in immaculate military attire; men who gave the impression of being nothing but ridiculous fops. In turn Newbury was polite, but did not allow himself to be drawn into conversation, having just the right air about him of a man who needed to be somewhere else and could not stop to pass time in idle chitchat. After making a circuit of about half of the large room, they paused momentarily by the fireplace and were approached by one of the automatons. Newbury claimed two flutes of champagne from the proffered tray, passing one to Veronica. The automaton paused, cocking its head to regard them. For a moment it remained there, eerily still. The moment stretched. Veronica thought she could hear the sound of its mechanisms whirring away inside, but then it turned away and moved on, drifting towards another small gathering of guests who looked as if they were in need of more refreshment. Veronica shivered, and took a long draw from her glass.
After passing a few words with a man named Dr. Russ, who had seemed rather engaging and had complimented Veronica enthusiastically on her dress, patting Newbury on the shoulder like an old friend, the two of them exited the room through a second door, winding their way further into the enormous house. They walked along a short hallway filled with the billowing smoke of cigarettes, dodging the crowd which had spilled out from the other rooms, and coming to a set of double doors, behind which more chattering voices could be heard.
"I believe this should be worth seeing, Miss Hobbes." Newbury, grinning, pushed on the doors and they swung open, revealing a large chamber filled with row-upon-row of wooden chairs, arranged to accommodate a large piano and two stools in the corner of the room. Music stands had been set up, and sheets of notation had already been placed in situ. Many of the seats in the room had already been taken, but there were a few empty rows near the very front of the chamber. The guests were mostly engaged in talking amongst themselves, but a number of t hem looked up as the newcomers entered the room.
Newbury cleared his throat. "Come on, let's find somewhere to sit. I'm told the performance will be a real eye opener."
Smiling, Veronica allowed herself to be led.