“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.
The front door opened, and two men in their forties emerged, donning high hats and smoothing their jackets like second skins. Their movements were brisk and businesslike as they strode down the short flight of steps to the street and turned to leave. Alice watched them go, trying to figure out what their presence meant, and failing. Unease made her shift in her seat. An Ad Hoc lady might enter a bachelor’s home unchaperoned and eat a meal there, but Alice came from a traditional family. Were other men besides Norbert still in the house? People might think Alice had come to-well, who knew what they would think? Alice sat in the carriage, uncertain about what to do.
An automaton followed the men out and approached the carriage. It was dressed in gold footman’s livery, and its face had been painted with human features that didn’t move. It looked eerie.
“Miss Michaels,” it said, extending a hand. “The master and his other lady visitor are expecting you. May I help you down?”
The mention of the other visitor flooded Alice with relief. She shook off her initial reaction to the automaton and accepted its hand down from the carriage. Talking automatons were nothing new-the many improvements made to the Babbage and Lovelace analytical engines over the years saw to that-but they were extremely expensive. Using one as a mere footman showed even more wealth than Alice had imagined. She felt more and more intimidated in her outdated dress and aging hat.
Stop it, she admonished herself sternly. You are the daughter of a baron, no matter how poor, and he is a commoner, no matter how wealthy. He’s asking for your hand in- She stopped that line of thought, not wanting to bring a jinx. He’s begging you to grace his home with your presence, so act like a proper woman of your position.
The footman led Alice up the steps and held the door open for her; she swept past as if it didn’t exist. Here she halted again. The house’s interior was stunning. High ceilings, marble floors, electric lighting, a grand staircase that swept upward from the entry foyer. Then Alice regained her composure long enough to let the footman take her coat and gloves and lead her through the house. They passed a number of large rooms-a ballroom, a conservatory, a library, a dining hall-all of them spotlessly kept, with up-to-the-moment furnishings. What tugged at Alice’s attention was the army of automatons. They were breathtaking, even thrilling, in their numbers. Machines of all shapes and sizes scampered, flittered, and crawled everywhere. They waxed floors, dusted shelves, and folded linens. A few were human-shaped, mostly feminine and dressed in a variety of maid uniforms, which Alice found odd-most people required their servants to dress alike. One of the maids wore a scandalously low- and high-cut dress that Alice imagined was meant to be French. Well, once she was mistress of this house, that would-
No, no. Best not to get her hopes too high.
The footman brought her to a sitting room where Norbert Williamson was waiting at a small table laid with linen, crystal, and china for two. He rose when she entered.
“Miss Michaels,” he said, bowing over her hand with exaggerated formality. “I hope your journey here was pleasant.”
“It was, Mr. Williamson.” Alice found her heart beating a little more quickly as he moved suavely to seat her. Did that mean she felt what she thought she was feeling? How did one know one was in love? Perhaps it was possible to only think one was in love without truly being in love. More importantly, did it matter?