Amelia found her usual machine at the Metropol office and clacked out what she had devised in her head on the way. She could hardly write about the Metropol’s ingénue punching an elderly man, even if word of the event would spread quickly anyway through the dozens of eye witnesses.
A shouted greeting snagged her attention, and she turned to find McGoffery carrying a bundle. She winced, hoping it wasn’t the writer’s cuff. Still, best to address the issue immediately rather than wait for him to approach her. She squared her mind and knocked on her editor’s office doorjamb.
McGoffery’s many-armed lens apparatus was pushed up on his forehead, and he glared at Amelia with two normal-sized eyes that still managed to wring her gut.
“Good morning, sir,” Amelia said in her most awake and energetic voice. McGoffery put his bundle on the desk with a clunk and a clatter that made her wince again with recognition.
“Thought you would be home sleeping off your evening,” he said.
“Not until the job is done,” she replied too brightly. “I’m afraid we had a little mishap with the cuff last night.”
“That what this is?” he jutted his chin at the bundle.
“Gavin punched Mr. Mordrake, who pulled me down with him. A stroke of luck, though; I was able to interview Merriday.”
He glanced up at her from his desktop of papers. For a moment, he looked impressed. Then he pulled his lens apparatus over his eyes as dismissal.
The page in her machine had been empty, she was certain, when she left to speak to McGoffery, but someone had typed a single sentence in her brief absence.
Write about it as an ignorant socialite, because you are one. G
She ripped the page from the machine and crushed it in her fists.
Fatigue and frustration had sapped all of her considerable stores of composure by the time McGoffery approved her article. She spent the majority of her homeward journey in a fog, still nettled by Gavin's snide writing advice. She received more than a little unwanted attention in her evening dress, ink-and grease-stained gloves, and haggard appearance as she made her way to the Kettery. She tried to ignore the smirks and amused glances of her fellow passengers, especially when, lulled by the warmth of the trolley carriage, she slumped into a momentary doze, only to wake herself with a less-than-graceful snore. So it was with immense relief that she flumped onto her bed at the boarding house and fell into an instant deep sleep.
Daylight streamed through the window the next morning. A plate of small edibles sat on the desk beside her, along with newspaper clippings and a note from Miss Kelley.
Eager to hear of your evening as once you’re conscious.
The first clipping, composed of three columns, was of her article, Gala Launches Latest Argonaut Expedition. She gazed at her name in the byline for several moments, then set the clipping aside without reading the article, knowing she would only tear it to pieces in her mind. The second, smaller clipping erased all thought of her article. Mind whirling, she quickly dressed and went in search of her friend and sole female housemate. She found Miss Kelley in the solarium fussing over an orchid.
"Have I gone mad?" Amelia asked without prelude.
"I should think so,” Miss Kelley said. “I thought you had no intention of marrying each other."
"Our intentions have little to do with this fracas." She gave a quick description of Alexander's proposal. "I should have suspected something when my mother decided to cut me off. I asked Alexander to give me a day or two to consider, especially since we had long ago agreed not to actively pursue matrimony. He asked only that I make my decision quickly, before a week had passed at the latest."
"That was only two days ago," Miss Kelley said. "The announcement must have been submitted under the assumption that you would accept him."
"But I didn't accept him and I gave no indication that I would." Her legs felt unstable and she sat on a small nearby bench.
"Except you have, for several years, led your families to believe you would marry," Miss Kelley supplied. "Under the circumstances, it isn't difficult to imagine both families believing they only sped along proceedings that all believed inevitable and desirable. You can’t deny the majority of this situation is your own fault."
Amelia gaped at her friend’s betrayal. "Our fault? We had no choice! Even if we had told them from the start that we didn't want to marry, they would have pressed it, anyway. It's what they are doing to us now. We were only making the best of a situation over which we had no control."
Miss Kelley looked at her friend with a mix of resignation and reproach signaling the end of that discussion. Her friend had a knack for playing devil's advocate. Sometimes Amelia found her friend's bluntness refreshing, especially when aimed at Kurt. She felt less satisfaction when her own actions were scrutinized.
She was still in the solarium silently pondering the ramifications of the engagement announcement when her mother descended in state upon the boarding house. Mrs. Stodge appeared significantly less impressed with the establishment than she had the day Amelia moved in, and she had deemed it squalid then. Amelia introduced Miss Kelley, then invited her mother to the common room, mentally willing her housemates to stay away.
Mrs. Stodge didn't hide her disgust with the somewhat tattered appearance of the furniture and sat as close to the edge of the chair as possible, holding her posture erect with the help of her cane. Dark circles already began to form around her eyes. The strain of the trip taxed her already depleted stores of energy, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble for anything less than vital business.
"I trust you have seen the papers," her mother said, confirming her suspicions.
Amelia took a calming breath and nodded. "Did you see my feature article? On Colonel Pell's gala?"
Her mother dismissed the questions with a wave of a gloved hand. "Mister Alexander Brinkley has agreed the ceremony should take place as soon as possible, within the month."
"But I haven't accepted him!" Amelia said. "Aren’t plans premature?”
Mrs. Stodge replied with a tight smile. "We understand his proposal was, perhaps, rather badly done. He is not what one would call romantic. But you are hardly unaware of his intention; I rather wonder why he waited this long."
"Perhaps because we don't want to marry," Amelia said, her chest tight from controlling her rising anger.
Her mother's sharp grey eyes held hers from an inscrutable face. "You will not refuse him."
"Why not? Because you say so? Because somehow it improves your chances of attending the Regent's Ball?"
"Because I refuse to die uncertain of my daughters' welfare." Her expression didn't change or falter when she spoke of her death, a topic Amelia knew she had learned to discuss with a level of detachment attained only with practice.
Amelia choked back her impertinent reply and drew a deep breath to compose herself. The conversation had reached a familiar juncture. She couldn’t argue with her mother’s dying wish. Even if the deathbed loomed on the horizon, it loomed large and immutable, and had done so for the past two years.
“But you accept death knowing that your daughter is in a marriage neither party desires?” Amelia asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs. Stodge replied. “You are not a child, allowed to chase fantasies and white rabbits. You and Mister Brinkley have played this charade to its end, and we have reached the limits of our indulgence. He understands his responsibilities, but you appear to have forgotten yours. He is the only eligible young man who will have you after this,” she indicated everything in general, “and now the folly is ending.”
“Mister Brinkley,” Amelia said, her words measured and deliberate, “has no interest in women.” She watched her mother’s expression, certain the information would pierce the alabaster mask.
Mrs. Stodge sighed. “We know.”
“And you still insist that we marry?” Amelia asked, dumbfounded.
“For the sake of your continued well-being and provision, yes. Proclivities notwithstanding, Mister Brinkley is still functional, and while the prospect might not meet your romantic sensibilities, you are still capable of bearing children. How the two of you fulfill your differing desires is up to you.”
“Mamma, you know as well as I do that this marriage will only bring misery for both of us. I would much rather take my chances with the newspaper than put Alexander through the torment he will inevitably face. You cannot know what you and his mother require of him.”
“We know precisely what we require. Obedience, whether he or you understand the intricacies of the situation or not. Your scholar revolutionary friends have painted a glorious image of squalor and toil, the majesty of the laborer. They are fools, too drunk on absinthe and philosophics to know what a life of labor really entails: pain, hunger, penury. Someday, your scholar revolutionary friends will come to their senses and realize there is no glory in labor. Only suffering. I will not allow my daughter to endure such a life.”
Mrs. Stodge trembled as she leaned more on her cane to hold herself up, her skin paler than only minutes earlier. Amelia had never before witnessed that depth of feeling in her mother. She rarely discussed her life before marriage, and had even gone so far as to declare that she had not lived prior to meeting Mr. Stodge. What others viewed as charming, if not melodramatic, marital devotion was, in fact, sincere gratitude and truth. He had saved her. And now she looked to her daughter’s marriage with the same amount of idolatry.
Amelia prepared a cup of tea for her mother, if only to give herself time to consider. She needed to speak to Alexander again, and decided to send him a message as soon as her mother left. What she really wanted was to get on the sky trolley car to the Kettery, stow away on an airship, and never return. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“I will speak with Alexander again,” she said at last. It provided a degree of latitude without promising any particular outcome. That small amount of promise satisfied Mrs. Stodge for the present, and mother and daughter drank tea in what might be construed as companionable silence.
A clamor in the hallway announced Kurt and his friends had returned, somewhat elevated from the sound of it, just as Mrs. Stodge rose to leave. Amelia tried to stop her mother from leaving the room, but too late. Mrs. Stodge and Kurt nearly collided in the narrow hallway.
Kurt made a low and obsequious bow. “Madame,” he said, then looked up at Mrs. Stodge with an impudent wink. Amelia held her breath and gave Kurt a look of murder which he ignored. Mrs. Stodge glowered at Kurt and his company with evident disgust.
“I understand that you are stalling,” Mrs. Stodge said to Amelia before boarding her carriage. “And I understand why. But none of us are in a position to be particular anymore.” She lay a gloved hand against her daughter’s face and smiled weakly. “You will be comfortable, and well looked-after. And loved, in a sense. That is the best anyone can hope for.”
Amelia watched the carriage clatter away, one of the few vehicles on the street with real horses, she noticed absently, confused by her mother’s rare and unexpected demonstration of affection.
A folded telegram page was tucked into her bedroom door jamb when she returned.
AS We must meet. Electo Park. AB
A shouted greeting snagged her attention, and she turned to find McGoffery carrying a bundle. She winced, hoping it wasn’t the writer’s cuff. Still, best to address the issue immediately rather than wait for him to approach her. She squared her mind and knocked on her editor’s office doorjamb.
McGoffery’s many-armed lens apparatus was pushed up on his forehead, and he glared at Amelia with two normal-sized eyes that still managed to wring her gut.
“Good morning, sir,” Amelia said in her most awake and energetic voice. McGoffery put his bundle on the desk with a clunk and a clatter that made her wince again with recognition.
“Thought you would be home sleeping off your evening,” he said.
“Not until the job is done,” she replied too brightly. “I’m afraid we had a little mishap with the cuff last night.”
“That what this is?” he jutted his chin at the bundle.
“Gavin punched Mr. Mordrake, who pulled me down with him. A stroke of luck, though; I was able to interview Merriday.”
He glanced up at her from his desktop of papers. For a moment, he looked impressed. Then he pulled his lens apparatus over his eyes as dismissal.
The page in her machine had been empty, she was certain, when she left to speak to McGoffery, but someone had typed a single sentence in her brief absence.
Write about it as an ignorant socialite, because you are one. G
She ripped the page from the machine and crushed it in her fists.
Fatigue and frustration had sapped all of her considerable stores of composure by the time McGoffery approved her article. She spent the majority of her homeward journey in a fog, still nettled by Gavin's snide writing advice. She received more than a little unwanted attention in her evening dress, ink-and grease-stained gloves, and haggard appearance as she made her way to the Kettery. She tried to ignore the smirks and amused glances of her fellow passengers, especially when, lulled by the warmth of the trolley carriage, she slumped into a momentary doze, only to wake herself with a less-than-graceful snore. So it was with immense relief that she flumped onto her bed at the boarding house and fell into an instant deep sleep.
Daylight streamed through the window the next morning. A plate of small edibles sat on the desk beside her, along with newspaper clippings and a note from Miss Kelley.
Eager to hear of your evening as once you’re conscious.
The first clipping, composed of three columns, was of her article, Gala Launches Latest Argonaut Expedition. She gazed at her name in the byline for several moments, then set the clipping aside without reading the article, knowing she would only tear it to pieces in her mind. The second, smaller clipping erased all thought of her article. Mind whirling, she quickly dressed and went in search of her friend and sole female housemate. She found Miss Kelley in the solarium fussing over an orchid.
"Have I gone mad?" Amelia asked without prelude.
"I should think so,” Miss Kelley said. “I thought you had no intention of marrying each other."
"Our intentions have little to do with this fracas." She gave a quick description of Alexander's proposal. "I should have suspected something when my mother decided to cut me off. I asked Alexander to give me a day or two to consider, especially since we had long ago agreed not to actively pursue matrimony. He asked only that I make my decision quickly, before a week had passed at the latest."
"That was only two days ago," Miss Kelley said. "The announcement must have been submitted under the assumption that you would accept him."
"But I didn't accept him and I gave no indication that I would." Her legs felt unstable and she sat on a small nearby bench.
"Except you have, for several years, led your families to believe you would marry," Miss Kelley supplied. "Under the circumstances, it isn't difficult to imagine both families believing they only sped along proceedings that all believed inevitable and desirable. You can’t deny the majority of this situation is your own fault."
Amelia gaped at her friend’s betrayal. "Our fault? We had no choice! Even if we had told them from the start that we didn't want to marry, they would have pressed it, anyway. It's what they are doing to us now. We were only making the best of a situation over which we had no control."
Miss Kelley looked at her friend with a mix of resignation and reproach signaling the end of that discussion. Her friend had a knack for playing devil's advocate. Sometimes Amelia found her friend's bluntness refreshing, especially when aimed at Kurt. She felt less satisfaction when her own actions were scrutinized.
She was still in the solarium silently pondering the ramifications of the engagement announcement when her mother descended in state upon the boarding house. Mrs. Stodge appeared significantly less impressed with the establishment than she had the day Amelia moved in, and she had deemed it squalid then. Amelia introduced Miss Kelley, then invited her mother to the common room, mentally willing her housemates to stay away.
Mrs. Stodge didn't hide her disgust with the somewhat tattered appearance of the furniture and sat as close to the edge of the chair as possible, holding her posture erect with the help of her cane. Dark circles already began to form around her eyes. The strain of the trip taxed her already depleted stores of energy, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble for anything less than vital business.
"I trust you have seen the papers," her mother said, confirming her suspicions.
Amelia took a calming breath and nodded. "Did you see my feature article? On Colonel Pell's gala?"
Her mother dismissed the questions with a wave of a gloved hand. "Mister Alexander Brinkley has agreed the ceremony should take place as soon as possible, within the month."
"But I haven't accepted him!" Amelia said. "Aren’t plans premature?”
Mrs. Stodge replied with a tight smile. "We understand his proposal was, perhaps, rather badly done. He is not what one would call romantic. But you are hardly unaware of his intention; I rather wonder why he waited this long."
"Perhaps because we don't want to marry," Amelia said, her chest tight from controlling her rising anger.
Her mother's sharp grey eyes held hers from an inscrutable face. "You will not refuse him."
"Why not? Because you say so? Because somehow it improves your chances of attending the Regent's Ball?"
"Because I refuse to die uncertain of my daughters' welfare." Her expression didn't change or falter when she spoke of her death, a topic Amelia knew she had learned to discuss with a level of detachment attained only with practice.
Amelia choked back her impertinent reply and drew a deep breath to compose herself. The conversation had reached a familiar juncture. She couldn’t argue with her mother’s dying wish. Even if the deathbed loomed on the horizon, it loomed large and immutable, and had done so for the past two years.
“But you accept death knowing that your daughter is in a marriage neither party desires?” Amelia asked.
“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs. Stodge replied. “You are not a child, allowed to chase fantasies and white rabbits. You and Mister Brinkley have played this charade to its end, and we have reached the limits of our indulgence. He understands his responsibilities, but you appear to have forgotten yours. He is the only eligible young man who will have you after this,” she indicated everything in general, “and now the folly is ending.”
“Mister Brinkley,” Amelia said, her words measured and deliberate, “has no interest in women.” She watched her mother’s expression, certain the information would pierce the alabaster mask.
Mrs. Stodge sighed. “We know.”
“And you still insist that we marry?” Amelia asked, dumbfounded.
“For the sake of your continued well-being and provision, yes. Proclivities notwithstanding, Mister Brinkley is still functional, and while the prospect might not meet your romantic sensibilities, you are still capable of bearing children. How the two of you fulfill your differing desires is up to you.”
“Mamma, you know as well as I do that this marriage will only bring misery for both of us. I would much rather take my chances with the newspaper than put Alexander through the torment he will inevitably face. You cannot know what you and his mother require of him.”
“We know precisely what we require. Obedience, whether he or you understand the intricacies of the situation or not. Your scholar revolutionary friends have painted a glorious image of squalor and toil, the majesty of the laborer. They are fools, too drunk on absinthe and philosophics to know what a life of labor really entails: pain, hunger, penury. Someday, your scholar revolutionary friends will come to their senses and realize there is no glory in labor. Only suffering. I will not allow my daughter to endure such a life.”
Mrs. Stodge trembled as she leaned more on her cane to hold herself up, her skin paler than only minutes earlier. Amelia had never before witnessed that depth of feeling in her mother. She rarely discussed her life before marriage, and had even gone so far as to declare that she had not lived prior to meeting Mr. Stodge. What others viewed as charming, if not melodramatic, marital devotion was, in fact, sincere gratitude and truth. He had saved her. And now she looked to her daughter’s marriage with the same amount of idolatry.
Amelia prepared a cup of tea for her mother, if only to give herself time to consider. She needed to speak to Alexander again, and decided to send him a message as soon as her mother left. What she really wanted was to get on the sky trolley car to the Kettery, stow away on an airship, and never return. But she knew she wouldn’t.
“I will speak with Alexander again,” she said at last. It provided a degree of latitude without promising any particular outcome. That small amount of promise satisfied Mrs. Stodge for the present, and mother and daughter drank tea in what might be construed as companionable silence.
A clamor in the hallway announced Kurt and his friends had returned, somewhat elevated from the sound of it, just as Mrs. Stodge rose to leave. Amelia tried to stop her mother from leaving the room, but too late. Mrs. Stodge and Kurt nearly collided in the narrow hallway.
Kurt made a low and obsequious bow. “Madame,” he said, then looked up at Mrs. Stodge with an impudent wink. Amelia held her breath and gave Kurt a look of murder which he ignored. Mrs. Stodge glowered at Kurt and his company with evident disgust.
“I understand that you are stalling,” Mrs. Stodge said to Amelia before boarding her carriage. “And I understand why. But none of us are in a position to be particular anymore.” She lay a gloved hand against her daughter’s face and smiled weakly. “You will be comfortable, and well looked-after. And loved, in a sense. That is the best anyone can hope for.”
Amelia watched the carriage clatter away, one of the few vehicles on the street with real horses, she noticed absently, confused by her mother’s rare and unexpected demonstration of affection.
A folded telegram page was tucked into her bedroom door jamb when she returned.
AS We must meet. Electo Park. AB
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