The Transference Engine (32 page)

Dancing in Cinders

March 1835

I
THOUGHT ABOUT LIGHT and glass frequently that . . . interesting . . . year. Watery spring sunlight drifted through the rain-spotted windows of
Café du Paris
on Charing Cross Road in London. The shaft of yellow light from a beleaguered sun through thick mullioned glass windows turned my
café au lait
to shimmers of gold that enticed me to look deeper into its depths, find truth in the whirlpool I made with my spoon.

Not now. I couldn't afford the time or distraction of getting lost in the swirls and patterns of my coffee. Deliberately, I put down the spoon and sipped. The coffee master had to be French or Italian. One of the few things the owners had done right was to hire him. I didn't trust any Englishman to serve a decent cup of anything but tea. Or maybe beer, though the Bavarians did that better.

And I didn't trust the ruggedly handsome fur trader sitting at the center table, all by himself, yet he'd placed his tall top hat—excellent beaver fur dyed coal black to match his frock coat—by one place beside him, and his caped cloak—lined with a Hudson's Bay trade blanket for extra warmth—on the other, as if reserving those places for people he expected to join him. He'd been there an hour and he never looked up at new patrons entering with anything like expectation. Instead, he looked wary and keenly observant, shifting his attention from newspaper to patrons and back again. The weathered lines around his jaw and eyes, and the permanently sun-darkened skin told of a hard life. I needed to see him walk to know more. To know if he'd been hired by my lady's enemies to kidnap her.

He hadn't the look of the romantic glory-seeking followers of Lord Byron.

In the meantime I could imagine the intensity of the fur trader. While not beautiful, as so many dandies were in London these days, he was attractive in a raw sort of way.

And he appeared taller than me; his long legs stretched beneath the chair opposite him, and the tabletop brushed his first rib. Few men topped me in height. That made him more attractive by the minute.

Not today. For either of us.

This lean and hard man, practical and decisive, was obviously on home leave and hadn't been in London long enough for the coal-smoke filled air to soil his fresh-from-the-tailor linen and waistcoat.

Occasionally his fingers flexed as if they itched with emptiness, and he reached for the pocket of his cloak as he reassured himself that his weapon was loaded and close to hand. Smart man.

My hands felt the same way. I'd spent too many years protecting my young charge to be comfortable without a pistol in my pocket, a stiletto disguised as a decorative hatpin, and a
sgian dubh
tucked into the top of my boot.

Another time I might be interested in this man. I allowed my assessing gaze to linger a little too long on his thin-lipped grimace. He looked up just then and returned my stare with equal assessment and a regretful smile.

I sat with my back to a corner, as I did most afternoons at this time, the multipaned window to my left and a bookshelf filled with newspapers and magazines from Paris, Berlin, and Marseilles on my right. Those papers sadly needed updating; the news was a month old.

Another figure walked between me and the suspicious fur trader. I'd noted her when she arrived a few moments before and dismissed her the moment she ordered tea and marzipan for herself and a young maid loaded with shopping parcels. The girl's country seamstress might be skilled, but she hadn't visited London in over a year, probably three. Her pleated skirt didn't flare wide enough, and knotwork, in a vaguely Celtic pattern, adorned the area between knee and hem. That trim hadn't been in fashion for quite some time. The ribbon on her hand-decorated bonnet was clumsily finished and the rooster feathers adorning the crown might be colorful and attractive, but they were not proper ostrich or peacock.

“Madame Magdala?” the country girl asked shyly. Her hands shook slightly with nervousness so that the teacup rattled in its saucer. She'd recognized me as my alter-ego, in spite of my proper black dress. A sharp girl. The maid took a chair at an empty table three places to my right, toward the back of the café.

“Yes?” I drawled affecting the east European accent of my alternate personality.

“I . . . I was wondering what you charge for a reading?”

She didn't look as if she could afford my usual fees. I was a novelty for friendly and casual looks into the future for the nobs and their courtesans who attended salons on the fringe of high society. Those fees padded my bank account quite nicely.

The money I earned as Madame Magdala was a necessity for me if I were to secure a safe future for me and Miss Augusta Ada Byron.

This country girl, though, looked as if she truly needed advice from me, Miss Elise the governess, and not some Gypsy fakery. Was she the reason the swirls in the coffee nearly compelled me?

“For you, my dear, nothing. Sit. Join me.” I gestured expansively. The polite murmurings around the busy café stilled as all turned to gape at me. Madame Magdala was flamboyant and always the center of attention. Miss Elise, (I hated the honorary Mrs. Title granted to high-placed servants) governess to Miss Byron, was meek and invisible. Well, maybe not meek. I could defend my charge vigorously when I needed to.

“Vhat do you need, my child?” I asked the country girl.

“Aemelie Griffin, Madame.” She held her gloved hand across the table in greeting.

I brushed her palm with my fingertips, polite but distant, not inviting intimacy.

“I . . . am in London with my cousin. For the Season. But I . . . I have no interest in the dandies my cousin thinks are appropriate for me and my station.” She kept her eyes lowered and her words quiet.

“Ah,” I sighed with appropriate romantic depth. “Another has caught your eye. Perhaps someone above your station?” I guessed she came from landed gentry—her muslin gown might be outdated but it was of good quality. If there was a title involved, it was minor or distant in her family tree.

“Lord William, Baron King,” she said even more quietly.

My attention riveted upon her, forgetting those around me. Dangerous. But I had other plans for the eighth Baron King than this country mouse. The future I had witnessed had grand plans for Lord William.

“How did you meet Lord William?” I picked up my spoon without thinking and stirred my coffee into a deep whirlpool. I engaged every bit of my formidable willpower to keep from looking into the swirls just yet.

“He's our neighbor back home.” She looked up, hope sparkling in her eyes and a half smile on her lips. “I've known him all of my life. But of late he spends more time in London than at the estate. He's making a name for himself in politics.”

“I see. At home you are one of a very few pretty girls of the right class to attract his attention at assemblies and private gatherings. Here in London you are an insignificant shadow among many beautiful women bent upon marriage to the most eligible bachelor of the Season.” In early March, the Season had not officially begun, but ladies flocked to the city with their debutantes in tow, scrambling for access to the best modistes, and lining up invitations to the balls, musicales, and garden parties. All to find husbands for the girls. Becoming the wife of a man wealthy enough to support her, was the
only
respectable occupation for a young lady, unless she waited too long and had to settle for the position of governess or paid lady's companion.

I had chosen my place primarily to protect those endangered by Lord Byron's depravity. Over the years I decided to avoid marriage. I'd not let any man gain control over me—by law or by love.

Miss Griffin's blushes drew my attention away from the spinning coffee and my own musings. Lord William was already much in demand.

“Yes.” She heaved a tremendous sigh that lifted her bosom dramatically. “My father is the rector of the parish. His grandfather is the Earl of Bloomington.” Ah, a younger son with little allowance but good connections.

The fur trader took notice of her quivering bosom.

Hmm. Perhaps he was no enemy, merely a man on home leave in search of a city wife. Did he have a country wife—perhaps a Red Indian country wife—he'd left in the wilderness until his return? Many traders did.

This girl deserved better. But I also needed her to open her eyes and seek a husband closer to her station in life. Sir William was not fated to love her. I knew that. A vision in my coffee had told me.

The time had come to look away from the tiny window lights that badly needed replacing with newer, thinner, clearer, and larger panes, and into the still whirling coffee. I might find truth there. I might find only coffee. I never knew. My clients always presumed I found, and spoke, a true vision. I made certain of that.

Keen observation told me more than my vague and symbolic visions.

My eyes tracked the circular motion of the golden liquid. My perception closed inward; darkness dominated the periphery. The patterns danced within the circles. Dancers waltzing the patterns of life.

The girl, Aemelie Griffin, danced around the edges with a tall and lean man full of intensity. A man strong enough to protect and love her in an uncertain world. Their steps took on a different cadence from the waltz, more a stomping country-dance, exuberant and joyful.

I couldn't help but smile at the truth of that image. For at the center of the dance, still following a graceful and romantic waltz, glided my girl, Miss Ada, with her own strong man with hints of gold in his hair—like a coronet. An earl's coronet.

But the coronet turned to flames encircling them, burning all in its path to cinders. The flames reached dangerously close to Miss Ada's glowing skirts.

“I have it on good authority that Lord William will attend Lady Hasselwhythe's salon tonight.” I pitched my words so the fur trader could hear them clearly. Lady Hasselwhythe and I had an understanding. I vowed never to reveal her string of young lovers to her husband, and she issued me an open invitation to her salon. Any evening, with whatever company I chose. “My card. Present it to the footman at the door. He will give you entrance.”

“Oh, thank you, Madame. Bless you,” the girl gushed. She clutched my hand tightly as she rose. I pressed the card on her as an invitation for her to leave. She practically danced out the door. Her maid followed tiredly.

I scooped up the ignored marzipan and ate it, letting the delicacy of sugar and almond paste restore some of my depleted humours. A vision always left me limp and listless for a time.

Then I held out a second card toward the fur trader.

“And will Lord William truly attend the salon?” he asked in a deep gravelly voice, as if he'd swallowed too many dusty winds.

“At some time in the evening, perhaps later than expected. But the young baron's first destination is a private musicale evening. You have Miss Aemelie Griffin to yourself for several hours. Convince her quickly that she is in love with you.”

And then Miss Byron proceeded into the café and ordered hot
chocolat
before she even looked for me. She knew I'd be here. I usually was. I would never disappoint her. Her maid stepped behind our lady, also burdened with parcels. She flopped into a chair at the same table Miss Griffin's servant had just departed.

The fur trader gathered his hat and cloak, and left, dragging his right leg slightly. In that moment I doubted he'd return to his wilderness. If he did, he'd take a wife with him to a staid job in one of the fur factories rather than exploring the wilderness in search of beaver and otter. Either way, I suspected Miss Aemelie Griffin would be satisfied.

I almost envied her his long hard body and his keen focus.

“Tell me of your day, Miss Ada,” I said in my normal accent, once again the modest governess.

“Miss Elise, I have had the most wonderful inspiration. I discovered five errors in Mr. Babbage's calculations and corrected them. I believe he can now proceed with the building of his Difference Engine without hindrance.” She produced a thick notebook, loosely bound, and opened it to a page filled with arcane symbols and numbers. They could have been Romany scribblings for all I knew. Except I could read and speak a little Romany. Mathematical equations were more exotic and less understandable.

“That is good. Mr. Charles Babbage needs to succeed in building his calculation machine to satisfy his investors,” I added.

“Yes, I know.” Ada dismissed my concerns. “Can you imagine the huge advances in mathematics we can achieve when we have accurate logarithmic tables?”

“Did you attend your fitting for your evening gown for the musicale tonight?” I had more pressing needs for the girl.

“Um . . .”

“You forgot.” I sighed in disappointment.

“No. I had the fitting, but I found the fabric very ornate and stiff. I'd prefer something lighter in silk chiffon and a more sober color . . .”

Daisy, the maid, nodded to confirm they had indeed visited the modiste.

“You sound like your mother.”

Miss Ada closed her mouth with a snap.

“You helped me with the design of the fabric, Miss,” I admonished her. “The protection it will grant you is necessary.”

“I don't believe there are any followers of my father still alive.” She pouted.

I maintained a firm silence rather than comment. We'd foiled too many plots against her after Lord Byron “died” in Greece ten years ago. I had experienced firsthand his depravity, his twisted philosophy, and his obsession with immortality. I knew the length his followers would go to in order to bring him back to life.

“Can you redesign the soul transference machine?” I asked her.

“Not without your help. You destroyed the original back in '16.” The year without a summer. Lake Geneva. A house party at Villa Diodati. She didn't have to remind me. “You know how the machine all went together.”