The Falling Machine (25 page)

W
hen Jenny Foxbrush had arrived in the Stanton household she had only been nineteen, but already had the stern temperament of a woman in her forties. She could silence a man at ten paces with a single withering look—a useful skill for a girl who rarely actually spoke to anyone unless she was forced to.

Gossip had ran rampant among the household staff that she had spent her youth as a child of the streets, left homeless after her father was sent to jail for slaughtering her mother in front of her eyes.

Whether or not the story was completely true, Sarah did know that Jenny had lived with an aunt—a housemaid who had instilled in her niece the most amazing skills at cleaning clothes—for most of her teenage years. Jenny could find and remove almost any stain known to man. She also had the useful ability to recall the location of any object in the house, even if she had only glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye. This was a talent often put to use by the other members of the household staff, who used the girl to track down things that they had lost or misplaced, when they dared to speak to her.

But her plans to remain quietly hidden from the attention of the Stanton family had been undone when the four-year-old Sarah had decided she would follow the young maid everywhere she went. It was certainly not conversation she was after, and the young girl was quite content to sit quietly and watch the maid do her washing work for hours at a time. Considering that the young Sarah had gained a reputation for her epic tantrums, it was considered something of a miracle when a few stern words of reprimand from Miss Foxbrush had put a stop to her unpleasant displays once and for all. The two of them had maintained their odd friendship ever since.

But fifteen years later Jenny was no longer simply the quiet little housekeeper with a gift for laundry. She had filled out and turned into the head of the maid staff, managing to find her voice, as well as the time to also become the bride of Mr. Jonathon Farrows, the handsome footman from the house next door. And Sarah was now a young woman, older than Jenny was when they had first met.

The two of them were together in the kitchen of the Stanton house. Sarah leaned back on a stool, her neck resting against a towel on the edge of one of the large porcelain sinks, her ruined hair dangling over a pool of warm, soapy water.

Mrs. Farrows's fingers were shoved deep into the tangle of young Miss Stanton's locks. She scrubbed furiously, a large white bar of soap at her side, stopping only to pick out the occasional shard of glass. “Look at your
face!
You're supposed to be a young
lady
, not a hooligan! What were you thinking, getting into a fight?”

“I got into the middle of
someone else's
fight,” Sarah replied with a sniff. “Which is a very different thing.”

“Don't try and squirm out of it—there are six stitches in your forehead! And the doctor said that you were lucky not to have lost your foot to frostbite.”

“Dr. William thinks every cut and bruise is either fatal or can only be cured by having something sawn off.”

“Well, this is more than that.” The matron pulled her hand out of the mass of soapy hair, pulling a clump of long blonde strands with it. “I'm not sure if we're going to be able to save much. You may need to wear a wig for a while.”

“Maybe I'll just chop it all off and wear a hat.”

“Sarah, getting hurt may seem funny to you, but—”

The smile melted away from her face. “No, Jen, it isn't funny. I know that.”

“I was going to say,” she said with a stern note of anger in her voice, “that your father isn't going to see any humor in it.”

“I'm already sure of that.” And while there might be tears, there would certainly be no hugs.

“And they say the Darby mansion is gone—burned to the ground. And young master Winthorp was badly hurt.”

Sarah's eyes flared. “Badly hurt? Who said that? I saw Nathaniel when I left. His only real wounds were a raging hangover and a badly bruised ego.”

Jenny put one soap-covered hand on an ample hip and wagged the finger of the other hand at Sarah. “I
know
that you're not telling me that you don't care what happened to your stepbrother.”

Sarah jerked her head up, sending out a spray of soap and warm water. “You didn't see him, Jen! He was a self-righteous monster, accusing Tom of everything! It was
his
foolishness that caused me to get hurt!”

The maid frowned and lifted up a corner of her apron to wipe a foamy blob of soap from the corner of Sarah's eye. Then she gently pushed her back down toward the water. “Well, that's not what they're saying upstairs. The word is that the mechanical man attacked you.”

Sarah pursed her lips, and a wave of red spread across her face. “Of course that's what they're saying. People always seem to find a way to blame Tom for everything that's gone wrong since Sir Dennis was killed.”

Jenny pushed Sarah's head back into the water and resumed her work. “Young lady, you need to get ahold of yourself. Your father was extremely unhappy when he discovered you were involved in this mess.” Mrs. Farrows grabbed the tap and swung it wide, sending a fresh deluge of steaming water into the tub. “Greeting him with an attitude is only going to make it worse.”

“I'll try to keep my mouth closed, then.” Sarah let out a sigh. “But it's never going to work. How angry is he?”

“I don't really know.” She fanned out Sarah's hair, checking for any hidden pockets of soap or glass. “He locked himself in his study this afternoon.”

“That's not good.”

“No, it isn't. You don't remember what day it is, do you, Sarah?”

“Day? It's the sixth of February….”

Mrs. Farrows squeezed out what water she could, then helped Sarah up. “Maybe that explosion rattled your brains more than you realize. It's the seventh.”

Sarah's eyes widened. “Their anniversary…” Ever since her mother's death seven years ago, Alexander Stanton had honored the memory of his wife on the day of their marriage rather than the day of her death. He had explained to Sarah, “It is far more fitting that I celebrate our life together rather than the miserable existence I have had to endure without her.”

Sarah was pulled out of the sink and found herself smothered under a stiff white towel. A feeling of nostalgic calm settled over her as the maid used it to blot the water out of her hair.

Jenny wrapped the linen around her head, carefully avoiding the stitches, and then twisted it until it gripped Sarah's skull like a vise. “Seven years may seem like a long time, but to your father it's still a fresh wound.”

“I loved her, too!”

“Of course you did, but you're old enough now to understand the difference between the bond shared by a mother and her children, and that of a husband and wife.”

Sarah realized that she understood the idea of that
kind
relationship, although the practicality of it still escaped her for the most part. Still, it was clearly the wrong time to explore philosophical questions of love with her housemaid, no matter how close of a confidante she might be.

After a bit more twisting, Jennifer unwound the towel and let Sarah's hair fall in a damp, stringy mess all around her head.

Sarah looked up with a hopeful smile. “How is it? Do I still need to get out the clippers and a hat?”

Mrs. Farrows tilted her head and clucked her tongue. “It looks like someone has set fire to a rat's nest, and then left it in the street.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small handful of hairpins. “But perhaps you won't need a wig.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Jenny pulled and pinned her wet locks.

At first Sarah tried to relax, but in the quiet, thoughts swirled around in her head. When she spoke again the words seemed to almost burst out of her. “What would you do if you found out that someone you loved wasn't actually the person you thought they were at all?”

The maid stopped her work and pulled out the remaining pins she had been holding in her mouth. “Whatever do you mean?”

“If it turned out that your entire life had been a lie, and that someone you thought had been honorable was actually despicable—what would you do?”

“Oh, Sarah, such melodrama,” Mrs. Farrows said, stepping in front of her former charge and looking her straight in the eye. “I know you're a forward-thinking girl, but up until now you've lived in a world of privilege and wealth that's kept you apart from a lot of the cra…bad things in this world.” She put her hand up to Sarah's face in a compassionate gesture. “I've told you this before, but you need to know that life can be dangerous no matter what your station, especially for a pretty young girl like yourself. And you can only be as willful as the people around you are willing to put up with, especially if you're a woman.”

“What about right and wrong?”

“Nice luxuries when you can afford them.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You're saying I should apologize to my father.”

“I'm saying that despite any misgivings you have about Master Stanton, he has given everyone in this house a very good life. Perhaps not always an easy one, but no one who lives under his roof, no matter
who
they are, should take him for granted.”

“He'd never throw me out.”

Jenny lifted up some hair hanging in front of Sarah's face, pulled it outward, and then pinned it back roughly. “Never say ‘never,’ girl. Nathaniel was once a second son to that man, and he hasn't been allowed to set foot in this house for the last two years.”

“Allowed? Nathaniel chose to move out.”

“So everyone told you.” She held out her hand and helped Sarah up from the stool. “But what you
don't
know can fill volumes.”

Before Sarah could ask another question there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Jenny said, looking up. “She's ready.”

The kitchen door swung in to reveal the house butler, O'Rourke. He always spoke in a metered and deliberate tone, as if he were announcing a funeral. “If the mistress would come with me…”

“We'll talk more later,” Mrs. Farrows said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “And just remember that he's still your father no matter what.”

“Thank you, Jenny.”

She followed behind the old Irishman as he trundled down the woodpaneled corridor, the gas lamps doing their usual futile job of effectively lighting anything but the ceiling. Sarah thought back to the marvelous electric lights from Darby's laboratory and imagined how much less ominous everything would appear in their full and friendly glow.

Her father's office was at the end of the hall, behind a massive oaken door. It seemed like a different place now. No longer a room full of forbidden secrets, but a cave with a terrible monster at its core.

The hinges gave an ominous creak as O'Rourke pulled it open. “The butler's bones,” she thought to herself. It was a childhood joke that she and Nathaniel had shared, and the smile it brought to her lips quickly faded.

The room beyond was mostly dark. The curtains were drawn, and the light inside came from an oil lamp sitting on her father's massive wooden desk, and from a roaring fire on the side wall, its crackling flames sending out a glow that seemed to dance around the room.

“Come in, Sarah.” The voice was cool and even.

“Will that be all, sir?” said O'Rourke.

Her father lifted his arm and waved his hand as a response.

The butler didn't say a word this time. He simply nodded and melted back into the darkened hall with practiced grace. The door shut behind her, and the room became darker, and quite possibly colder.

Sarah didn't wait to be ordered in before she stepped forward. “Father, I—”

He cut her off. “Don't bother to try and give me one of your ‘explanations,’ Sarah. I've heard all I need to know.” She recognized the timbre of his voice immediately—the familiar note of disappointment she'd been hearing from him almost constantly for the last few years. This was a different man than she had seen the other day, and she would need to be careful.

She took a few steps forward, trying to stop at the edge of the carpet. Instead she tripped slightly, her foot coming down onto the wooden floor with a sharp snap. “All you need to know without actually bothering to speak with me, you mean.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I've indulged you too much. I'm realizing now that that may have been the cause of all this.”

He looked up at her. There was a tense quivering around his eyes that made her feel a deep sense of unease. “But I'm sure you have something to say for yourself.”

“I don't know what Nathaniel told you happened out there, but it—”

“Did you know that they've had to amputate Bill Hughes's legs?” He moved his lips as if he were chewing on an invisible cigar. “The poor man could barely stand by himself anyway, and now his damn legs are gone.”

“Father, I—”

“Your precious machine man did that.” His voice was still low, but somehow he made it sound like a shout.

“Tom? That's not—” Sarah tottered back a step, feeling the force of her father's anger. “I—”

“I've tried with you, Sarah. I have. And you've always had a tender heart.” He looked away from her. “You're very like your mother in that regard. It's a good trait in and of itself, but in your case it's become one of far too many weaknesses.”